#hope you like it Pine! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

quickandsilvers · 16 days

Text

The Spy Who Loved Me

Peter Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: Getting stuck in an elevator with a world-renowned Xman wasn’t on your 1984 bingo card. Guess you’ll just have to watch the hours tick by on Peter Maximoff’s ‘aces as fuck’ scooby doo watch. Ruh roh.

Warnings: a few sexual innuendos, awkward Peter (what’s new?), pining and flirting blah blah blah

Word Count: 6604

Taglist: @kaismanwich @evpeters87 @pretzel-bunnie @icannot3 @bluerthanvelvet444

——————————————————————————

Autumn, 1983. 9:32 PM.

As the amber glow of the sun casted its final rays upon the skyscrapers of New York, nightlife was in its full swing. With bustling crowds congregating inside bars and nightclubs, the thunderous bass of pulsating music infiltrated the streets, cranked up to a volume that would cause most to go prematurely deaf. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming.

And yet here you were in one of New York’s many Federal Bureau’s, swamped up in piles upon piles of paperwork, empty coffee cups and inkless biros.

The irony was not lost on you; your version of nightlife was much less enthralling than the lively congregation outside. The vibrant atmosphere was in sharp contrast to the monotony offices of the government building, where the only sounds that accompanied your sleepless nights were the tapping of keyboard keys and the rustle of pages turning as you pored over the endless stream of reports assigned to your person. It involved much more papercuts and sleep-deprived hours of endless jotting down and thinking galore.

Oh, so much thinking. Why couldn’t criminals make your life easier and be a bit dumber, huh?

Your limbs felt leaden with fatigue as you stepped onto the elevator on your floor, clutching papers in your hands tightly. The day had been painstakingly drawn-out, and yet you still had more grueling hours of paperwork waiting to be completed. Shifting awkwardly, you bundle the stack of paper in your hands into one arm, using the other to strain forward and press your floor number. Stepping back with a relieved sigh, you rest against the cool elevator wall for a few moments of much-needed peace.

The lift in your precinct was relatively new, a far cry from the ancient clunkers that polluted much of New York. It was constructed with a considerable amount of precautions and safety features after the Pentagon debacle back in 1973.

News broke out about a group of mutants slipping past security and breaking out the most dangerous mutant extremist known to man: Erik Lensherr. Aka Magneto. Aka totally-terrifying-and-would-definitely-make-you-barf-out-if-you-ever-saw-him-in-person.

Since the television broadcast of that day had instilled copious amounts of fear and paranoia for government safety and security, all federal structures had been fortified beyond necessity.

You’d argue that it was rather pointless though, considering the fact that the main culprit of the offense was now a bigshot, crime-fighting, golden retriever-esque Xman, who spent his days teaching total babes how to play Mrs. Pacman in the arcade. His felon days were over, exclusive of the frequent petty theft misdemeanors you found yourself documenting more times than you could count.

That’s right, you. Of all people, you were assigned the job to file all reported items Peter Maximoff had got his speedy hands on. From road signs to whole arcade machines, you were left documenting his shenanigans night and day, feeling as though you were one binder away from being put in a straight jacket.

You would be lying if you said you expected this task, working for a major federal agency, no less. Petty theft crimes were most often dealt with by the numerous police precincts in the city, however the government decided that the renowned speedster was a different story and needed to be dealt with “efficiently.”

Hah. Efficiently, your ass.

You mourned the times you could’ve simply been doing nothing at home instead of sending out forms for the speedster to sign for his pardoning. After all, it wasn’t like you could take any further action against someone who frequently saved the world from total destruction. The forms were only a mere slap on the wrist to the Xman, and moral condemnation had no effect on someone who had the freedom to act as he saw fit.

But that wasn’t your problem. Atleast, not for the next 48 hours. If you really cracked down, you could knock these forms out in a few hours, having the rest of your weekend dedicated to rotting on your couch, trying to get through as many seinfeld seasons as possible until your dreaded return back to work. A night in with sitcoms and unhealthy, borderline radioactive takeaways was all you needed right now.

You patiently wait for the doors to move, sealing your work week to a close in its mechanical grasp. Just as they begin to whirr shut, a blurred hand sticks through the gap, waving up and down rapidly for the sensors to detect its presence. They begin to open once again, and your eyes laid upon a broken-legged man. He possessed a bizarre pair of crutches adorned in stickers, and not to mention a peculiar taste in fashion. In fact, he practically blended in with the elevator walls, somewhat like a chameleon.

Peter Maximoff. Quicksilver. Hero to all. A royal pain in your ass. You were probably holding several of his reports in your hands right now.

Was he trying to haunt you wherever you go? If so, he’s doing a damn good job at it.

You gawk as he hobbles in, seemingly unaware of your existence as he leans up against the back wall, leaving his crutches standing up beside him. With a motorola dynatac in his hand, Peter’s eyes crinkle in amusement as he grins into his cellphone.

“Look Scotty, pick a side, dude. Yer get mad when i use Charles’ card at kohl’s…yes use.. I don’t fuckin’ leech off of it!..., but yer also get mad when I try cookin’ fer myself fer once!” He waits impatiently for a second, shifting the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he balances back onto his crutches.

Peter sighs after a long pause, “I know I left the stove on, but what can my impaired self do in that situation? What else do yer want me to say?” Peter rolled his eyes, albeit grinning. “..C’mon, It wasn't that bad, it was just a lil’ flare up! Ororo handled the blaze, and it was nothin’ compared to jeans disaster in the danger room.”

Something about the way Peter spoke was so casually amusing. He always seemed unfazed by his life's predicaments - never really taking anything all that seriously. He was unapologetically himself and had this carefree attitude that you envied more than you'd like to admit.

Absent-mindedly sifting through your papers, you contemplate the situation, wondering what Peter could’ve possibly done to anger Cyclops to that extent. He seemed to have read your mind though, as he pfftbs, lolling his head back lazily onto the elevator wall.

“The cabinets aren’t that fucked up! Just because yer lead training sessions now doesn’t mean ya can boss me arou-“

CRASH!

The loud sound resonates around the small space as you jump, a few papers going awol and falling to your feet. You reach down immediately, scrambling to pick them up.

Peter flinched as his ear was pressed into the speaker; as a result, his phone began to slide down from his shoulder. He caught it with the side of his face, wide-eyed and neck craned in a way you can’t imagine is comfortable.

“...What was that?”

“The cabinets.” A gruff, new voice sounded from Peter’s phone, unimpressed and beyond fed up with his bullshit. Peter, throwing his head back, barked out something between a wheeze and a snort, clearly thriving off his buddies’ misery.

Reaching out, you stetch to grasp a rogue file that had fallen by the speedsters feet. Hearing his giggles subside, you look up to see a wide-eyed Peter. He leans against the wall to use a free hand, grabbing his phone as he glances at your position with cheeks dusted pink, perplexed.

Just then, you realise that you are face-level with his crotch. Zoinks.

You both remain in deadly silent prolonged eye contact at the altercation, and you can only assume that your complexion is equivalent to that of a tomato, only further adding to your humiliation. Squeaking a small ‘sorry’, you immediately turn away and stand up, returning to your claimed spot of the elevator with askew papers bundled in your arms. The speedster’s scent followed you as you retreated, almost enticing you closer as the aroma of sweet cinnamon and natural leather seized your senses, lingering around the room.

Peter took advantage of your avoidant gaze to sneak a glance at the hella cute girl he had been totally unaware of. He takes a mega quick glance at his super cool green and blue Scooby Doo watch. A nice pop of colour to his metallic ensemble. The time read 9:47.

Four minutes. Four long, long minutes that he had been ranting like a lunatic down his phone, without the knowledge that an ultra-hot babe was standing next to him, probably confused and now completely put-off by his antics.

Why was she lookin’ at his junk, anyways? Did he forget to zip his fly? His head whips down. Nope. Wait. Was he hard? His head whips down again. Nope. Not yet, atleast.

Huh. Guess some groupees are just hella intense.

Peter’s mind reeled back to a few minutes prior. He didn’t do anythin’ embarrassing, did he? You probably thought he was a mess.

Oh fuck, did he look like a mess?

A blurred hand moves to fix his untamed mane, but only messes it up further as he moves it out of his eyes and in opposing directions. An angered muffle sounds through the speaker and Peter brings it up to his mouth with a stutter.

“I- I gotta go, Wolvie!” He panics, watching your fingers as they attentively sift through your stack of papers. The voice on the other end protests immediately, making explicit threats to the speedster. The sound of creaking hinges and snapping wood made him wince. But hey, there wasn’t much that he could do now, other than get his ass handed to him upon his arrival at the mansion.

Peter cuffs his hand over the phone speaker and makes a muffled sound, feigning losing connection.

“My service must be cuttin’ out dude! Talk time is runnin’ out too!” Peter paused to make more sounds, really selling his story. “Sorry man, nothin’ I can do ‘bout that! Tell Charlie Brown I'm mega sorry and I'm comin’ as quick as a one-legged man can go!” He makes kissy noises down the phone, only further angering the shouting man on the other side.

You definitely thought he was a mess.

Peter hung up abruptly and swallowed, looking towards you with a sheepish grin and gesturing his Motorola towards you. “That guy, huh?” He scoffs awkwardly, somehow stuffing the brick of a phone halfway into his pocket before running a hand through his hair once more.

It’s funny, really. Despite the amount of groupees wanting him to sign every limb on their bodies, Peter never gets any better at this. The talking-to-women thing, that is. Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Peter considers himself a master of scribbling on polyester brassiere. It was always the same thing; the initials ‘QS’ with the tail shaped like a lightning bolt, and a first-class smiley face on the side.

You let out a breathy laugh, about to ask what exactly he had done to assault the communal kitchen in such a way, before you stop yourself. Despite the loud conversation, you weren’t sure if you should bring up a private phone call. Instead, you respond with a curt nod.

Peter liked your laugh. It was a breath of fresh air within the cramped elevator, and certainly sounded better than the obnoxious honks Scott emitted, sounding somewhat like a vehicle. He guessed that Scott’s laugh simply replicated his engineerical profession. If that was true, Peter thinks you must work alongside angels sent from heaven itself. Hell, he’d volunteer to be your magical harp in an instant. Would let you play with him anytime. Hah.

As Peter opened his mouth to speak, an abrupt jolt sent you wobbling back into the wall before he could get a word in. He lets out an involuntary ‘eh?’ in confusion as the phone in his pocket tumbles to the floor, the antenna snapping off. Another lurch of the elevator and it came to a halt, cutting out with an ear-splitting creak.

The elevator had not yet reached a point beyond the metal walls outside, where you could see out the large window panes. Panic surged through you as the confined space seemed to shrink further. The silence in the elevator was deafening, and the uncertainty of the situation only heightened your anxiety. You couldn't muster the courage to look up at the speedster, fearing his reaction to the predicament.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, its calmness providing perhaps a glimmer of reassurance.

“Huh. The elevator stopped.” He hums in a matter-of-factly tone. Okay, maybe not. What do you have on you to salvage? Maybe a scrunched up, expired airhead in the depths of your pockets? Would that get you through the night?

Using a sticker-adorned crutch to reach the panel, Peter abused the call button before pressing the ground floor, both controls ceasing to function.

“Yer gotta be shittin’ me, it's stuck!” He groans, a little more panicked now “Wolvie’s not gonna believe me! Fuck!”

You attempt to swallow your nerves, yet fail as you stare at your feet. Peter, however, seemed more worried about the reaction of his superior than the fact he was trapped in a confined space by heavily reinforced elevator doors. Doors that could keep you locked in here for the foreseeable future. Would that be so bad? You weren’t a die-hard Quicksilver fangirl to say the least, but the man certainly wasn’t half bad to look at. Oh, but you’d kill to be binging seinfeld right now.

Trailing your gaze back up, your eyebrows furrow as you bear witness to said man attempting to pry the elevator doors open. You watch on as Peter anchors his good foot onto the side of the door for leverage, all whilst reciting murmurs of self-motivational idioms. He releases a choked-off groan. You chalk it up to either his effort into opening the door or his injured leg supporting the rest of his body. Either way, the speedsters' attempts were fruitless.

For what seems like an eternity, you open and close your mouth much like a fish out of water, completely baffled at the sight before you. And maybe even more so baffled as you intently ogle the bulge of the speedster’s biceps through his jacket, contracting and straining from his efforts.

Okay, wow. Keep it profesh, dude. Don’t you hate this guy?

You clear your throat, preparing to pose a question. Peter immediately whips his head around to face you, remaining in the same awkward position as he relaxed into a lazy smirk, despite his red cheeks and heaving chest. He tilts his head to the side, kindly signaling you to say something.

“Are you sure it's broken?" You ask softly, your voice perhaps quieter than you expected it to be, "Have you tried the fire alarm or stop button?”

Silence followed for a moment, and you felt yourself tense up.

“ ‘course babe,” Peter answers, relaxing his hand for a second to rest it against the door. “But have no fear. Who needs a stupid fire alarm when you have me?” He graced you with an award-winning grin, jutting out a thumb to eagerly point to himself. You ease up a little, humming as a flash of light reflecting off his watch catches your eye. A grinning Scooby Doo stares back at you and you resist the urge to laugh, comparing the speedster more to Scooby’s miniature counterpart; Scrappy.

Another agonizing minute passes, and you continue to exchange glances as Peter occasionally looks over his shoulder towards you for reassurance. A smile lingered on his lips, it was warm, and you were tempted. Oh, so very tempted. Silence permeated the air as you stood there idly, and you couldn’t help but feel the need to inquire again.

With one final heave and the door moving not an inch, Peter stumbles back into the wall, a sigh of alleviation exiting his mouth as he relieves the pressure on his mending leg. With crimson cheeks he began to shrug off his metallic jacket, letting it drop to the floor next to him.

Peter’s gaze flickers up towards you guiltily, knowing that you were on edge in such a confined space and wanting to get out ASAP. You felt your heartstrings being tugged as he presses himself back into the wall, giving you as much space as possible in the cramped elevator. Somehow, you found that was the last thing you wanted.

Silence ensued again for a few moments too long. You felt a warmth in your face and looked away immediately, finding yourself swayed by a peculiar boyish charm.

You looked up as he blinked, silver eyelashes flickering in the overhead lights. Your heart leapt. Peter Maximoff had the charisma that many girls found hard to resist, and perhaps you were no different from any other groupee than you had thought.

“How long do you think we’ll be in here?” You manage to get out as his stare remains fixated on you.

“Until maintenance decides to do their job, I s’pose,” He responds with a chuckle, resting on the handrail behind him.

“Oh, okay,” You reply shortly, averting your eyes again as you copy his movements on your own handrail.

“I hope i'm not that terrible company, toots.” Peter strives to make a joke. It fell flat on its face however, as you only respond with a half-assed huff of laughter, running your hand through your hair worriedly.

“N-no, it’s not like that,” You assure, feeling slightly red. You see the corner of his eyes crinkle in your peripherals, a visible smile forming on his face.

“I’m sorry, I just feel a little claustrophobic right now,” You explain anxiously, watching the ceiling as if it were about to fall and seal your fate.

Peter’s smile faltered at your mental panic. “Hey, uh- it's okay, it's just a maintenance issue. The elevator’s not gonna fall er anythin’. There's like a.. bajillion failsafes, ya know?” He huffed another laugh, readjusting his crutches under his armpits. Your tension slightly eased as he acknowledged the tense circumstances, but you still couldn't shake off the nerves entirely. The sound of his voice brought an odd comfort, making you feel slightly less alone in this confined space.

“Hank was tellin’ me all about their mechanics on this long-ass drive to the Pentagon. Yer know the-'' You nod in confirmation, very familiar with the building “-yeah. We were there fer.. somethin’ totes legal and business related.” He swallows, grinning. You crack a knowing smile, showing the speedster that you knew exactly what he was talking about.

Peter focuses his attention towards his discarded silver jacket on the floor. Balancing on his crutches, he uses his good leg to splay the jacket out next to the back wall. He looks back up at you almost expectantly, grinning as you raise an eyebrow quizzically.

“D ’ya wanna sit? I don’t want yer hobbling around like me if we’re gonna be here fer a while.” He offers, gesturing his casted leg towards you with a playful scoff.

You accept, thanking him as he placed one of his crutches in the corner, using his free large hand to splay across the small of your back. He hobbled slightly as you shuffle backwards to slide down the wall. Gripping your shoulders for support, he shakily sits down next to you, legs splayed out as he rests his other crutch across his right thigh.

You flush at the newfound closeness, copying his stance as you stretch your legs out. In the process your foot kicks something solid, and you look back to see the motorola on the sleek metal floor, broken beyond repair. You feel almost guilty, despite doing nothing wrong.

“Sorry about your phone.” You say softly, giving the speedster a remorseful smile.

Peter returns with a genuine grin “It’s a-okay babe, don’t worry ‘bout it. I'll get Xavier ter buy me a new one” he waves you off nonchalantly “-a work-issued phone ‘er somethin’.”

“Shouldn't you be spending the professor’s money on something more worthwhile? A new kitchen, perhaps?” You tease, nudging the Xman’s shoulder with your own.

“Hand on heart, babe. Wasn't my fault!” Peter’s hand flies to the very right side of his body, the opposite end of where his vital organ actually was. “I was cookin’ fer the kiddos since they didn’t want ter go through with Hank’s taco tuesday night, bless ‘em, but it turns out i’m pretty inferior too.”

“Is it really that bad?” You ask, surprised “A man with six PhD’s can’t cook?”

Peter shudders, screwing his face up into a look of disgust as he lays a hand on top of your own, squeezing it as though he had undergone something traumatic. “His food is a mix of something bad and something.. even worse, babe. Hank’s too experimentative, ‘n that shit should stay in the lab. The man added eggplants to our enchiladas. Eggplants. How crazy is that?!”

You snort, throwing your head back in comfortable laughter as he giggled with you. “I mean, i’m a man that’ll eat anythin’ yer put in front of me. But that pairin’? C’mon!”

Snickering further, the thought of impending doom eased gradually out of your mind as you found yourself relaxing. Peter’s fingers drum against the back of your hand, instilling a calming flow as you focus on the rhythmic taps.

He clears his throat. “So uh- yer work here?” The speedster gestures to the ID hanging off your neck, your photo and FBI logo showing.

“Just your average desk jockey at the moment, but I'm training to be an espionage agent.” You nod after a brief pause “...hopefully.”

Peter caught your eye with a confused blink, tilting his head with a puzzled smile. You catch onto his perplexity, dumbing the definition down to much simpler terms. “A spy.”

He blinked again, this time in realisation. “That’s totally rad! Yer don’t look like one, though, so I was pretty confused. Thought yer were talkin’ ‘bout that snail food...”

“That’s escargot, Mr. Maximoff.” You snicker “And I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but we ‘spies’ aren't all wearing stilettos and gun holsters on our person.”

Peter grinned as his hand left yours to ruffle his hair, something you found him doing often. “Suit yerself. But if I was the bad guy and yer were in that getup, I’d let ya capture me in an instant.” The words rolled off his tongue so smoothly that you found yourself falling further into the figurative arms of his speedy grasp. “ ‘n scrap the ‘Mr. Maximoff’, babe. ‘M just Peter.”

A bright blush crept upon your face once more. You waved the speedster off dismissively, not used to having comments like that directed towards you, let alone by a man who belonged on the front cover of a People’s Sexiest Man Alive magazine.

“So, Peter,” You test out his name, enjoying the way it sounded as it left your mouth. He grinned dopily, liking it too. “Why are you here?”

Peter looks around to check the coast is clear before coercing you closer with two fingers, making a quick ‘c’mere’ motion. You oblige, his lips now inches from your ear and soft silvery hair brushing against your temple. “I could tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya.” The soft whisper sent currents down your spine, and the speedster didn’t miss your shiver as he pulled back, winking.

Peter seemed to have sensed your flustered state, swiftly moving onto another topic. “Like actually though, yer an undercover spy. That’s sick!” Peter hyped you up.

You shrug dismissively “I-it’s not exactly like the films. I’m more of an investigator than what you’re thinking.. and I’m not out on the field much, if at all.”

“Damn, yer still gotta be a total whizz though, right? Ter work for a federal agency?” Peter questioned with a genuine intrigue in your profession, a dopey grin adorned on his lips.

You brush it off once more with a simple shrug and a giddy smile, albeit with a newfound warmth and pride in your heart at his interest. A pause prolongs throughout the cramped room as you lean your head back onto the wall, staring at the uncomfortable bright lights until your retinas are screaming for you to avert your gaze.

Peter put his hands behind his head, staring at his feet in thought. He cocked his head as he saw that his silver shoelaces had unraveled. Maybe he should've asked you to tie them whilst you were down there earlier, nuzzling and befriending his junk. He grinned, savoring the memory in his mind and preserving it in a metaphorical polythene sleeve, just like his beloved original mint-condition records at home.

Woah! Slow down there, Don Juan! This chick barely knows you!

A comfortable silence lingered in the air for a few moments more, before Peter gently nudged you with his shoulder, looking over at you whilst his head stood resting against the elevator wall.

“I could be yer Tiffany Case.”

You furrow your brows. What?

“Yunno, Diamonds are forever, ‘56? Sean Connery, Jill St. John? I could totally be yer main bond girl!” Peter reiterated, gesturing his hands in his hair like the bouffant style the woman was infamous for wearing.

You snort a true laugh at the thought, turning your head to face him. He was already looking at you, grinning at your reaction to his buffoonery.

“Shouldn’t it be the other way round?” You query. Peter shakes his head adamantly. “Nuh uh, Ms. Double agent. Besides, I'd totally rock it in a showy little corset dress, don’t cha think? The choker an’ all?” He quipped, seeming happily expectant for your answer.

You snort further and he gasped at you in mock offense, nudging you slightly with a half-hearted ‘hey!’, to which you shrug and state that you would be rather under-qualified for the job. Jumping out of moving cars and escaping the clutches of hungry alligators weren’t exactly your areas of expertise.

“Yer think? Ya more of a Velma, huh? It’s a-okay, ‘m flexible. I could be yer shaggy too, y’know?” Peter nudged you again, each contact of clothed skin sending bolts of electricity down your arm. You sensed that he was hinting at something, although very subtly, as he couldn’t flee if you shot him down. Like you ever would, that is.

“Oh please, you’d be scooby.. no, scrappy! The watch says it all.” You gesture. Peter raises his eyebrows, a flicker of astonishment in his eyes, surprised that you took the time to notice that little detail. Your remark wasn’t even a compliment, in fact it was meant to be taken as slander, but he paused for a moment as his heart thumped faster than usual, a little dazed.

The overhead elevator bulb flickered as Peter gazed at your face. He swore then he could see you in an entirely new light, in a way that had his hands going clammy and stomach leaping in a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Peter watched, transfixed as your tongue glided across your lower lip, moisturizing them as your hands fiddled with the ID badge hanging around your neck. He wanted to hear you speak again.

“I’m callin’ bullshit, babe. In every spy movie the powerful female lead always carries her gun in a thigh holster. That’s just how it goes!” He shrugs “I mean, the only exception was this chick I met in ‘83. But I didn’t check if she had one, scout’s honour! She’s Charles’ girl.”

He carelessly flung three fingers in the air, knocking off the goggles that were once cushioned on his head in the process. He guessed they were slung somewhere across the elevator as your eyes trailed their path, but Peter paid them no mind. He cleared his throat awkwardly to grasp your attention.

You pfft, “Maybe you need to lay off the 007 films for now, no one wears anything like that.”

Peter squints his eyes, as if checking your own for signs of lying. “Whaddaya say yer let me check sometime? Ya sure yer got no secret compartments anywhere? Can't be too safe as an Xman, huh?”

“I Wouldn't be a very good bond if I was conspiring against my main girl, would I?” You tease, matching his expression. You gesture to his t-shirt, “And I’d never harm an Earth, Wind and Fire supporter.”

Peter’s eyes lit up as he sat further upright now, grasping your hand tightly. “Yer like Earth, Wind and Fire?!” You grin at his giddiness, “Hell yeah! I saw them back in ‘79.”

He squeezed your hand in his, sighing contently as he ruffled his hair with the other. “I like ya taste, and yer currently holding the hand of an incredibly handsome and painfully humble man, so yer taste in this department ain't half bad either, babe.” He shot you a grin.

You hit him slightly in the chest at his unbridled cockiness, but still not wanting to let go of his hand, and neither did he. His grip stayed intertwined with yours in a stalemate, both of you unwilling to relinquish. His gaze was just as unwilling, staring you down much like a fox.

All Peter wanted to do was make you smile again. To see you laugh again. It hurled him into the midst of a typhoon, with a zero percent chance of survival. He was right in the epicenter, the eye of the storm.

In true Scorpions fashion? You were rockin’ his emotions around like a hurricane, sending him into a love-struck frenzy. I mean, come on! It’s the 21st night of September, cupid! Little early sending those arrows, ain’t it bud?

In his daze, Peter barely registered the sudden clunk of the elevator. Not until you yelped and sunk your nails into the skin of his hand did he register the movement of the steel floor, and he gripped onto you even tighter. Tight enough that it surely hurt, but you didn’t protest as you shifted yourself onto your knees, using the handrail above to lift yourself up. With the aid of your hands, Peter eased out of his seated position, careful to not put any unnecessary pressure on his leg.

The lights on the buttons flicker on as you watch gleefully, the floor number beginning to move from seven to five, getting closer to your stop at the third floor. Your claustrophobic nightmare had come to an abrupt halt. Peter felt a strange sinking feeling in his stomach, though. As glad as he was to get back to the mansion, he wanted to stay with you. To get to know you.

He needed to see you again.

With a silent curse, Peter cleared his throat, “Hey, uh, babe?” You turn around expectantly. No backing out now, casanova. “Feel free ter totally hurl me down this elevator shaft or whip out your concealed gun if I'm wrong but- and yer never know when ya might need an elevator buddy again… so…” Nervousness clearly oozed from every fibre of his being, shown by his clammy hands and averted gaze, every unanswered second feeling like an hour.

Your clear confusion sent him into a malfunctioning frenzy. He just wanted this over with, yet he couldn’t find the words.

“Ijustwantedtoknowificouldpossiblyyyyyyygetyournumbermaybeandwecouldgooutttonadatee?” A jumbled string of words flies out of his mouth like word vomit. That wasn’t very Peter Franks of him.

His question completely flew over your head, and Peter mistook your taken-aback stature as rejection and his heart plummeted into a sad, mushy mess. As a wise Roos Tarpals once said: ‘Yousa in big doo-doo dis time.’

Peter immediately back-tracked himself, trying to ease the gauche tension that was gradually becoming more prominent. “Whaaaat?! Whosa spaked dat?!” Yeah, that oughta do it. Nice one, jar jar binks.

“Woah! Slow down, Motormouth! Not everyone is a Gungan. Tell me again.” You exclaimed, bewildered. The silence was permeable as you were waiting expectantly. His mouth went dry. Ooh mooie mooie, was it too quick to say that he might be in love with you? You understood his references. You were perfect, and now the pressure to not mess up was inordinate.

Peter hadn't felt this anxious before. Not when he fought Apocalypse on his own. Not when his матушка had walked in on him watching something totally not PG13. Not even when he asked Crystal Amaquelin out in 8th grade, via note, only for her to laugh and share the heartfelt message around with her rather intimidating gaggle of giggling friends.

The entire school knew about it in less than an hour, even Peter’s Civics teacher, Mr. Rivera, of whom then placed the younger speedster next to his unrequited crush for the remainder of the year. Gee, doesn’t he owe him for that one.

Peter had grown since then. He had completely put it past him soon after he had once removed all traces of putty from the windows in Mr. Rivera’s classroom, only for every pane to fall one by one as his favourite teacher slammed the door behind him. It was golden, and Crystal laughed too. Psscht, not like Peter cared anyway…

Was the yelling and exclusion worth it? Absolutely. Peter still felt a little bad about the fine mama Maximoff was given, though.

But truly, he had grown. A real glow up, infact. He bet that Crystal Amaquelin would now jump at the chance to go out with him, with the soft silver hair all his groupees fawned over and those fuckass reading glasses he had now gleefully parted from. And not to mention the severe hayfever that had plagued his summers as a child, where he would spend his days walking down the school corridor with his red, watery eyes and running nose.

Awh hell, why was he torturing himself with the thoughts of his younger, dorkier past? You were in front of him, waiting, absentmindedly chewing the inside of your cheek. Or perhaps it was a nervous tic? Either way, he’s got a good chance of blowing this with you. Slim to none odds of coming out of this with an in-tact ego.

Peter repeats his words. Atleast, he thinks he does. It was like the muscles in his jaw seemed to be doing all the talking involuntarily. Pfft. Even his body was sick of him. So why was he trying his dregs of luck with you? It seemed like you have a good life ahead of you, without the speedster whizzing past and leaving a whirlwind of destruction in his wake.

Whatever he said, Peter hopes it was coherent this time. And by judging the look in your face… well.. actually, no. He has no idea what's going on in that pretty little head of yours, and to put it frankly, it’s killing him. Cause of death? Interaction with a female. Peter would’ve been sure of his untimely demise if it weren’t for the pounding sound of blood pumping through his head.

Mere seconds go by. To Peter, it’s hours. He needs to check you’re still functioning. Embarrassed, the speedster rubs the back of his head, awkwardly grinning at you. A few silent moments to many, he finally breaks the tension by maturely asking:

“You aiiight?”

Upon hearing no response from you and seeing your flushed cheeks, his grin grew even wider as he snickered.“Whew- So, I guess that means I’m still good lookin’ enough ter make the ladies blush, huh?"

Peter’s deflecting. He knows it, and so do you. The sense of rejection is crashing down on him like an array of polished oak cabinets. And he’s just about to conjure all the strength he had left to pry open those pesky mechanical doors open when-

“You got a pen?” At long last, a response. Granted, it wasn’t exactly the yes or no Peter was expecting, but a response nonetheless.

Patiently, you watch as Peter scrambles for the blue felt tip marker in his trouser pocket, the one he used to colour in the dope skateboard one of the kiddos drew on his cast. He sighed in relief as he found it, thrusting it towards you with an award-winning, yet uneasy smile.

You thank him as you flick the lid off, scrawling your number in the corner of one of your documents. It was hard to remember your digits as Peter’s gaze burned into you, along with the sound of his shallow breathing. Amidst the tension, you couldn’t help but detect a tingling, giddy feeling in your stomach, transporting you back to your days as a teenager. Mustering a shy grin, you hand both the marker and paper back to him. Peter took it like it was priceless, immediately memorizing your number in his head in fear that it would somehow disappear off the page.

Peter knew that his dreamlike half-hour had come to an end when the elevator pinged at the third floor, gliding open effortlessly as if those very same doors weren’t sending Peter into an early retirement from trying to force them open. You hum cordially as you break away from the claustrophobic room, stepping into the monotony office that you’ve never been so elated to see again. You turn around, watching the speedster press the ground floor number with the end of his crutch. “Not your stop?”

Peter grimaces, sighing exuberantly “Nah, still got another couple floors with the mystery machine.” He pats the wall as if it were an old friend. It reverberates with a loud echo, making him wince. Just then, the doors begin to shut before you interfere, wedging your foot in between them so they detect your presence. They open back up again.

“You’ll call me, won’t you? If you have time?”

“Fer you? Anything. That’s a promise.” Oh boy, Peter’s turning into a lovefool already.

You grin “Don’t go breaking any more cabinets, Shaggy.” Your foot slides away from the elevator.

“Who, lil’ ol’ me?” Peter gasps in mock offense “Like, sorry Velms, but that's a promise I can't keep, man.” You giggle and he grins triumphantly, watching as the doors begin to close and you wave goodbye, hollering one last thing to the speedster.

“I hope mystery incorporated doesn’t give you much trouble!” Clunk.

Once again, Peter is left alone with his thoughts, accompanied only by the sounds of the conveyance machinery whirring down to the ground floor. He uses this time to fumble for his walkman on his belt, trapping his hair underneath his over-ear headphones. With a click he presses the play button, just in time as the elevator doors ping open once more.

Readjusting his grip on his crutches, Peter hobbles out of the building, the sounds of Aerosmith’s ‘Love In An Elevator’ blaring at full volume. He glances down with a smirk at the piece of paper you gave to him, documented with his name and recent items he had swiped from a local record store; and jackpot! Your number, clear as day, scrawled onto it. Finally.

Peter knew his plan would work someday. He sorta had a knack for this spy thing. In truth, stopping that elevator was the best thing he’d done in a long while.

Shame about his phone though, that was the only thing that happened on accident. Ruh roh.

#the end was supposed to suggest that Peter has been pining after the reader for a while but it turned out kinda stalkerish #whoops #anywho i hope you guys like #peter maximoff #evan peters #quicksilver #xmen #peter maximoff x reader #evan peters masterlist #peter maximoff fluff #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff smut #evan peters x reader

157 notes · View notes

chronicowboy · 1 month

Text

every part of you (simple as that) | 2.8k

"Do you ever think about having kids?" The words fall from Buck's lips the moment Tommy returns from the bar with their beers. He flounders a little, mouth opening and closing like he can suck the words back in. To his credit, Tommy only blinks in surprise and takes a second too long to unwrap his fingers from the neck of the bottle when Buck reaches for it.

"Uh, no, not really," he says carefully, evenly. And Buck's only the tiniest bit disappointed that it doesn't fluster the man more. Tommy just joins him in leaning against the railing of the gazebo, hip and shoulder solid points of contact that Buck relishes in. The warm, strong weight of Tommy against him soothing the pacing dog in his chest. "I mean, I used to. When I still thought I was straight." He huffs a little laugh at himself, and Buck shares in it. A new feeling, wistful amusement. The years lost to a question you never thought to ask, or one you couldn't find the courage to answer. "It's what you do, you know? You find a nice woman, you get married, you have kids."

"Mm," Buck hums ins agreement, taking a sip of his own beer. It's a thought he's had countless times, a thought he continues to have, but now it's not always a woman standing up there at the altar with him. "You don't think about it now?"

"I never really considered it. Not with the job and everything." Tommy sighs, deep and heavy, before turning to face Buck head on. Something raw and vulnerable creeps into his eyes, and Buck finds himself standing a little steadier ready to catch whatever fragile thing Tommy is about to hand him. "The army, firefighting, Harbour. My mortality has never been a sticking point for me. I was always thinking: well, if I die, I die."

Buck sucks in a sharp breath, the words slicing through his skin like shards of a mirror long since shattered, settling in his gut like a stone of dread. How many times had he thought the exact same? How many times will he have to pay for his own carelessness by caring for someone he could lose so easily?

"I've made sure to live a life that would leave very little behind," Tommy continues. "Or I had. Until recently."

"Oh, yeah?" Buck raises an eyebrow, heart skipping once then twice. "What changed?"

"I think..." Tommy's voice is low as he sways into Buck's space. "I think I found something to stick around for."

(OR: buck comes out to chris at the wedding)

161 notes · View notes

heynhay · 11 months

Photo

so part of my klance renaissance has obviously included haunting ao3 and can i just say this one by @thespacenico was especially lovely. drew a lil somethin.

#them and hiuythn #are at the top of my list rn as far as writers go. just some spectacular work happening over there #klance #voltron #vld #art #my art #there were so many impactful moments but for some reason i chose the one where keith is like 'im in love with you' (mic drop)#because thats like. 90% of my art #nico be honest did you read my mind and find out that dramatic pining keith is my fav #god i hope i got the like. environment right. and i couldnt remember whether they had their helmets on in this part but i was 90% sure #that they did so i put them on for safety #im putting this on twitter tomorrow if i remember so watch your back bitches

712 notes · View notes

faragonart · 3 months

Text

"It sure is, isn't it..."

(A little continuation from this...)

Ridel had always wanted to see the Steppe... and Vatii always wanted to show him.

(ft. @pali-himbo 's Vatii)

146 notes · View notes

chirpsythismorning · 6 months

Text

What they're saying is s5 is going to have Hawkins High School as one of the locations for the plot. What I'm hearing is jealous Mike opportunities...

#byler #st5 speculation #will is seen as wanted by 3+ girls (1 being imaginary in mike's mind)#bc the protagonist (mike) is pining after him #how many movies/shows have you seen where the protagonist is in love with someone that everyone else wants?#it makes the person feel extra unattainable bc they could have anyone they want #which makes them getting together with the protagonist at the end feel all the more impactful #but after 4 seasons of girls hitting on will #i'm gonna need the final boss...#aka a boy #and mike witnessing it...#or another girl and mike witnessing it idc #will is just hilarious whenever it happens too bc he's like ummm i'm just a silly guy idk what's going on #but if it was a boy... that might be interesting #as much as i'm hoping for jealous mike #i think it's a lot more likely we're getting the party being hunted down #and will/mike being targeted in the case anyone catches wind of their queerness...#so...#let me imagine it's more lighthearted than that while i still can

322 notes · View notes

silentsamlikesham · 7 months

Text

I was surprised there wasn't more fics like this for the fandom. Macho boys need to be soft sometimes....

Zoro x Sanji

..................................

Sanji’s shoes click rhythmically off the cobblestone pavement as he stalks towards the ship. His eyes watch the cracks in the ground and the uneven bumps in the stones until they fall away to crooked lines etched into the wood of the dock.

He doesn’t lift his head as seagulls circle him, their sharp eyes catching the few bags Sanji has dangling from his wrists. He doesn’t take in the sight of sailors throwing barrels onto ships or jostling past him in a hurry to grab more rope, and food and booze from the carts that sit on the edge of the ships.

He doesn’t flinch when the seaside breeze cuts through his hair, plastering it across the wrong side of his face as he climbs onto the Merry. Not even the splash of sea water from below, that soils the cuffs of his pants, can rip him from the haze of his foul mood.

The first time Sanji glances up from the floor, is to watch behind him as Zoro reaches the bottom of the rope ladder. He takes a brief hiatus from his gloom to watch smugly as Zoro struggles to use only his legs to get aboard.

One of his arms is coiled around a barrel of beer, the other is weighed down by as many shopping bags as Sanji could throw at him, topped with a box he’s balancing between his bicep and shoulder that contains large heavy pieces of meat.

The swordman seems to sense he’s being watched because he peaks a look up at Sanji, his eye’s just visible under his bandana.

“You going to help me, Curly?”

Sanji tsks loudly, his brief smile at the other’s struggling twisting into a frown again as he remembers just how pissed off he is.

“Screw you, Mosshead.”

The clack of Sanji’s dress shoes echo across the deck of the ship as he storms off towards the pantry, the door to the kitchen banging loudly behind him as it slams shut.

Zoro blinks slowly, shaking his head as he convinces himself not to think too hard about what has set the cook off. Knowing how temperamental he could be, it could be as simple as an eyelash grazed his eye, or maybe he had to buy a bruised fruit or something.

Zoro decides to ignore the temper tantrum and instead focuses on getting over the side of the ship and safely onto the deck. He kicks the door to the kitchen open, not feeling bad when it slams loudly against the cracking wooden wall. It’s not his fault someone had shut it when they knew his hands were full, and Zoro was not dropping any of stuff in his arms until he knew he’d never have to pick them up again.

“Oi, watch it moss for brains.” Sanji snarls, already halfway through unpacking one of the half full bags he’d decided not to throw at Zoro.

Zoro noisily drops everything from his left arm, the sacks opening and almost spilling their contents, while the box dents on one side. With both arms Zoro carefully drops his booze barrel onto the floor, the only thing he cared about getting safely back to the ship.

“What the hell, idiot. You better not have bruised anything.” Sanji seethes, storming forwards, his eyes not even on the products.

It was clear the cook wasn’t upset about the door, or the dropped goods. No, Zoro knew by now his rival was itching for a fight. Well, if that is the case, he’d give him one.

“What’s your problem, Ero-Cook? You don’t like how I handle them, then you carry them.”

Like expected, his blonde crewmate sucks in a breath before he easily spins his hips and launches a kick at the side of Zoro’s head. The hilt of a sword catches the edge of his ankle, stopping the impact by mere centimetres.

“Isn’t your job on this ship to be the pack mule?” Sanji hisses, leaning forward enough that Zoro can feel a flick of spit hit his chin. “Can you do anything right?”

The next few clashes between the pair are nasty. A pinch of hurt mixes with a wave of fury and frustration as Zoro matches the tempo of the other’s hits. They block, dodge and slam into one another, a litter of bruises and bumps being left in the wake of their moves as they throw insults back and forth.

It’s nothing new, nothing unusual between them, but it feels strange to Zoro. Sanji doesn’t feel like he’s letting off steam, not when one shoving kick almost breaks a rib, or when the next kick almost comes crashing down on his skull at practically full force, hard enough to crack bone. The cook clearly seems upset with him.

“What-” Zoro slams the hilt of his second blade into the side of Sanji’s knee, unbalancing him, “is your-” He steps further shoving into the cook and knocking him back onto his ass, the tip of Yubashiri pointing down at him “fucking problem?”

Sanji’s glare trails from the tip of the blade up to Zoro’s face before he growls back “You. You ruin everything.”

With that, Sanji uses a kick to knock the blade away before he pushes forward, barely lifting off the ground as he tackles Zoro at his knees, knocking him onto his back and briefly winding him.

He probably could have taken the hit, but he’s so surprised that he doesn’t even realise what the cook is doing until he feels two sharp knees digging into the inside of his elbows. His arms are pinned, stretched outwards with his swords as far from his opponent as possible, as Sanji sits heavily on his chest.

Zoro’s so startled by the approach that he goes to swing his head, to whip the sword in his mouth at the hot head, but before he can, Sanji has taken the sword away. For a moment, Zoro thinks he’ll join Sanji in feeling murderous, but some of his anger is quenched when he realises the cook doesn’t toss the blade away, but instead places it carefully above Zoro’s head, just out of reach of his mouth.

“You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut at the market, could you?” Sanji pants, pushing as much weight into his knees so he can, watching Zoro flinch as they push through muscle and pinch at nerves.

“What are you talking about, shit-cook?” Zoro tries to move his arms, he knows he’s strong enough to lift Sanji’s scrawny legs off him, but for some reason, nothing happens.

“You just had to butt in about booze right as I was getting somewhere with that beautiful blonde-haired beauty. You had to open your stupid mouth and ruin it.”

Sanji thinks back to the lady, all curves and soft lines and a small timid smile. The brief laugh she paid him for a weak joke was enough to make Sanji float. He’s sure he could have charmed an evening with her while they were stuck on this island, but big mean and green had to ruin it all, as usual.

“That’s what this is about? You striking out with yet another clueless chick?” Zoro continues to struggle, becoming perplexed that his strength seemed to have left him.

“Don’t call women demeaning shit like that.” Sanji snarls, only refraining from hitting the green bafoon when he notices the other looking worried at his arms twitching uselessly beneath Sanji’s hold.

“It’s not going to work, Mosshead. I’m leaning on a weak point in your arms.”

Zoro’s attention turns back to Sanji, his brows furrowed in thought as though he wasn’t sure to believe the blonde or not.

“Apologise, and I’ll move.” Sanji bargains, his temper subsiding as a feeling of victory settles in his chest.

“Eat shit.”

Sanji grins at the discomfort on Zoro’s face, the sweat breaking out across his forehead as he struggles to get himself back in a position of power. The blonde decides to lean his upper body back, a show of how long he is willing to wait for Zoro to cave. His hands fall lazily behind him as he goes to rest one of them on Zoro’s stomach.

The movement surprises the swordsman, the hand going unnoticed until he felt gentle fingertips dragging across his ribs, pushing at the taut skin. The lack of sight, mixed with an unusual place for Sanji to touch him is enough to cause Zoro to flinch, to let the smallest involuntary gasp through his lips as his breath hitches and his eyes widen in genuine surprise.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Maybe he didn’t notice?

“Oho, what was that Marimo?” Sanji, having literally felt the hitch in breath beneath him, stares curiously at his hand, then looks back at Zoro’s face, the faintest dusting of a blush growing on his cheeks as he suddenly refuses to meet Sanji’s face.

The cook might have just taken the reaction as having hit a bruise, but the discomfort on Zoro’s face makes Sanji curious. So, he does it again.

This time his fingers brush relentlessly over the spot, the touch getting softer as he realises it elicits more of a reaction from the man beneath him. Sanji can’t help the grin that spreads out across his face as the pieces start to click together.

“Oi, Marimo.” Zoro glares a hole through Sanji as he meet’s his gaze, his blood boiling at the sight of the smug expression on the assholes face. “I didn’t know moss could be ticklish.”

Zoro tries to keep his face neutral as he opens his mouth to deny it, to tell Sanji he’s an idiot and to get the fuck off him before he skewers him, but before he can…Sanji squeezes his hip bone, his long fingers coiling into the exposed hollow of his hip.

He thought with all his hard work and training over the years that he could have held back his reaction, hardened his mind until he felt nothing. It doesn’t work. Not with Sanji’s weight holding him down, his arms and swords useless for once, his rival’s touch soft against his skin. This was new, this was terrifying, and this was something Zoro had never prepared for.

He lets out a bark of laughter, his face whipping to the side in embarrassment and panic as he tries to will the flush climbing up his neck away.

Sanji forgets to be angry, forgets he was ever upset, forgets completely about the blonde that started this whole scene. He can feel the echo of the laugh through Zoro’s chest, can feel the panicked breaths that follow against his thighs. His eyes are locked on Zoro’s watery smile, not used to seeing such a shy grin on the swordman’s face.

He squeezes again, Zoro’s eyes twisting shut as though not being able to see what was happening would be enough to make it go away. He loosens his grip slightly, scratching the area instead, his nails bluntly dragging across the cotton of Zoro’s shirt as a groan from his mouth turns to soft giggles.

Sanji is pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breath. It’s like he’s afraid to. That he’ll make too much noise and miss a single sound coming from Zoro’s lips.

“Didn’t think a brute like you could giggle.” Sanji teases eventually, pausing his assault long enough to see if Zoro will answer him, if he is capable of speech.

Zoro is pretty sure he’s going to die. His chest is tight after less than a minute of this. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, his hip feels like it’s been electrocuted and now Sanji’s words are burning him. He can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his limbs will surely snap at any moment. When it does, it’s likely he’ll melt into the wood of the floor.

“What, no quip back?” Sanji is laughing now, joyfully too, not his usual cruel cackle that he uses to taunt Zoro mid-fight.

“Shu-huh-ut up!” Zoro gasps, trying to regain his composure.

He can’t remember the last time someone had pinned him like this, and certainly can’t remember a time when someone ever tickled him like this. He hadn’t even considered he was ticklish, not since he’d grown up.

“Aw Marimo, that’s not very nice.” Sanji’s eyes are practically shining as he leans back with both hands now on Zoro’s stomach, all ten fingers curling into the soft dip just below Zoro’s abs.

Zoro’s eye’s practically bug out of his head at the sensation. Any thought of shutting down his nervous system disappears as he lets out a stream of loud laughter, his legs curling and kicking out behind Sanji, his back arching off the ground, nearly hard enough to push Sanji off him. But the blonde was able to stay on top, his laughter joining Zoro’s.

“Oh, mosshead. I think I’ve found a way to indefinitely win our little fights now. Let’s hope no one outside the crew finds out about this, eh?”

Sanji’s words are too much, too condescending, and sweet and frustrating.

“I-Ihh- I’m go-ahah-gonna cut yo-oho-you’re fucking tongue ou-ouaha-out.” Zoro warns, deadly serious for once. His threat sounding ridiculous though as his voice cracks at the end, his laughter hitting a shriek as Sanji traces a spot just above his pant’s line.

Sanji hums, unimpressed. His hands disappear from Zoro’s stomach and for some reason that’s worse. Zoro’s gaze snaps from the door to the kitchen back to Sanji as he desperately tries to anticipate whatever the fuck the cook is going to do next.

He’s too slow though because he doesn’t feel the hands shoving under his exposed armpit’s until it’s too late. Not being able to drag his elbows into his sides is torture and his shrieking continues as his nerves tingle from his chest all the way to his fingertips.

“I don’t think the world’s greatest swordsman is the only title you’ll ever earn; clearly most ticklish swordsman is already yours.”

It’s the worst comment so far. Mainly because the cook has just fucking admitted he think’s Zoro can achieve his dream. The compliment is weird and warm enough to have butterflies fluttering in his gut while his lungs seize in his chest. His face is beetroot red at this point as Zoro starts to feel like he’ll never escape.

But just as he thinks this, Zoro registers his legs, which have been twisting and convulsing this whole time…Sanji is settled on his chest. Zoro’s legs are completely free. He mightn’t have trained his kicks like the cook, but he can still swing them as well as any other competent fighter.

As Sanji opens his mouth to tease him further, Zoro moves. He brings his knees up with as much force as he can in his position, and they hit Sanji square in his lower back. He knocks the cook forward just enough that one of his knee’s shifts from where they were pinching the nerve in Zoro’s arm and in a blink of an eye he goes from a laughing mess to grappling Sanji’s waist, rolling the pair over until Zoro finds himself nestled in between the blonde’s legs, his hips pining the other’s down.

Sanji is blinking owlishly up at the ceiling, disorientated, and confused at how he ended up in this position.

Zoro wastes no time in hopping up and falling back down on the other’s thighs, preventing any kicks or twists that might come his way. He gives Sanji a second, relishing in the horrified expression on his rivals faces before he digs both his large hands into every inch of skin he could on the blonde’s stomach and is rewarded by a loud wheeze followed by a stream of curses and laughter as Sanji loses it beneath him. His whole being wiggling and convulsing and suddenly Zoro doesn’t feel as embarrassed or weak.

He was going to kill the blonde, tickle him to an inch of his final breath and make him promise to never try this shit again, to beg and cry for Zoro to stop...

But the heated feeling dies in his mind as soon as he thinks it, because Sanji laughs like it means nothing. Like he doesn’t care that he’s being lit on fire by Zoro’s touch. He meets Zoro’s eye like they’re sharing a joke over a drink, like they’ve just surprised yet another unsuspecting crew, he looks at Zoro as if they’re friends…and it kills Zoro. Destroys him in a way he’s not expecting.

So, he stops, his fingers stilling when Sanji’s eyes gather tears and his face is as red as Zoro’s own.

He doesn’t tease him, doesn’t trust himself to say a single word when his mouth has dried, when it feels like cotton in sitting in the centre of his tongue.

“Tr-ucahaha-truce. Plea-ahah-se Marimo.”

Zoro stares at him until Sanji squirms uncomfortably at the silence. He watches the emotions swirling in Zoro’s eyes, his face it’s usual mask of secrecy. The idiot looks lost, like he’s stuck on something particularly complex.

Sanji hasn’t a clue what could be happening in the green idiot’s brain, so he doesn’t push him. Not when he’s still menacingly looming over him, ready to pounce.

Sanji handles him the way he always does when he needs Zoro to comply without needing him to actually agree with him.

“I’ll let you drink a bottle of the good booze if you let me up?”

Zoro grins then, the tension washing away as Sanji offer him something familiar, something safe.

He grunts as he stands, surprising them both when he offers Sanji a hand up.

He takes the hand, letting Zoro pull him to his feet, surprised when the other pulls him close, his breath tickling Sanji’s ear as he hisses “You tell anyone about this, and not even the world’s best sake will save you.”

Zoro pulls back then to glare as threateningly as he can at the cook. Sanji looks stricken, maybe a bit intimidated for a second before he bursts into laughter. Zoro pouts at the response, forgetting none of his intimating tricks work on the pervert.

Sanji gooses his side as he dances out of Zoro’s reach and towards the drinks stash, laughing as he replies over his shoulder.

“Next time I won’t forget to pin you properly, moss for brains.”

The threat sounds more like a promise, like Sanji is already planning his next attack. It makes Zoro uncomfortable, afraid, and slightly excited. The same mesh of emotions he always gets from fighting with Sanji.

Maybe, this would be another form of release for them. Another way to pass the time on the ship and let off some steam.

He tries not to dwell on the fact that a tickle fight was far less acceptable for a pair of terrifying warriors than genuine bruise inducing sparring.

Who could judge them out at sea? Who would learn of what they did on the grand line behind a closed kitchen door.

Zoro wanted to hear that laughter again, wanted to see that grin across the cook’s face…and maybe, he admits quietly in his brain as he takes the first gulp of his drink, he was looking forward to having the cook tease him like that again.

To beat him with a soft touch, rather than a short blunt one.

Zoro needed to drink the entire bottle placed in front of him before he lets his thoughts continue, before he reaches a conclusion, he’s been avoiding for months now.

He holds out his empty cup and receives a scoff in return as Sanji fills it again, the two of them clinking their next glasses together in a silent ‘cheers’.

They’ll figure it out, whatever this is.

They’re nakama after all.

308 notes · View notes

cbmagus49 · 1 year

Text

AAAAA JUST BARELY SQUEEZING IN AT THE LAST SECOND HERE BUT

HERE’S MY FORDUARY STUFF Y’ALL ALL IN ONE GO LET’S GO WOOO

WEEK 1: FAMILY

WEEK 2: ANOMALIES

WEEK 3: INSOMNIA

WEEK 4: SWITCHING IDENTITIES

Whooo, that was a lot! I only got properly started on these like a week ago; I’ve been back at school for the first time in like 3 years which is really eating up my executive function, and with all the crap that happened in Jan/Feb on top of that I wasn’t even sure I was gonna do Forduary at all ^^’ Not half bad for a very very very last minute mad rush to get something out before the late entry cutoff deadline :D

(I am so tired T^T)

I had a lot of trouble figuring out what to do for the prompts this time around, and eventually ended up making two sketches for each prompt! ...buuuut I absolutely did not have time to do all of them with how late I left it so I just picked my favourite for each week to polish up. I’m probably not gonna finish the others, but I liked how the rough blocking was turning out and I thought the progression of all of them together looked pretty cool, so since I didn’t wanna just not post them I’ve put all the thumbnail sketches under the cut so you can see ‘em ^^

573 notes · View notes

colorfulcosmoscat · 3 months

Note

I ask u to consider...

(In response to your request post hehe !)

..Scott and Knives parallel-playtime with babysitters Kim and Ramona

Something like Knives furiously doing little crafts and dumping glitter everywhere except the paper, while Scott is just trying to line up his sonic figurines by release date :']]

the kiddos!!!! :D

#btw kim is tryin not to cuss in a shocked way not a mean way!!!#she knows from this moment on they're going to be finding glitter on knives for a million yearsss!!! hehe #scott pilgrim agere #age regression #agere #scott pilgrim #ramona flowers #kim pine #knives chau #sfw agere #sfw age regression #posts i've made!#if you do want me to take out the cuss part lmk!! I can edit it!! ^_^ i just thought it'd be funny ^^“#also sorry i couldn't include the arts and crafts specifically!! my sketchbook paper doesn't have a lot of room :[#scott + ramona and knives + kim had to be drawn on seperate pages actually!! I had to edit them together!!#i hope you still like it!!! ^_^“

80 notes · View notes

ishipallthings · 4 months

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Additional Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pining, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Fix-It, Morning Cuddles, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Getting Together Summary:

Tony looks down, and blinks in surprise when he sees Steve Rogers’ ever-blue eyes gazing sleepily back at him, his head resting lightly on Tony’s chest.

“Well,” he says finally, wincing a little at the dryness in his throat. “I’m not sure I ever figured you for a cuddler, Cap.”

Two times Tony Stark wakes up cuddling Steve Rogers—nine years apart.

My 2023 @cap-ironman Holiday Exchange fic for Mistymoon27, pining and cuddling and post-EG happiness! ❤️

#stevetony #stony #superhusbands #steve x tony #avengers endgame #cuddling #pining #post-aou #getting together #my fic #my writing #hope you guys like this I had a blast writing it!

87 notes · View notes

pretentiouswreckingball · 2 days

Note

I WISH YOU WOULD WRITE A FIC WHERE DRACO IS A PINING FUCKING MESS JUST SO PATHETIC ABOUT HARRY PLS LOOPS

A loud thud. Someone dropped a book a few tables away and Harry stirs besides him making a noise as he settles, but still doesn’t wake up, deep in his slumber. Draco looks around to see if anyone notices but no one is paying attention to them, to Harry specifically.

Only Draco pays that much attention to Harry. Always has, always will.

Arms crossed on the desk, supporting his head, Harry face is towards Draco and has been ever since the class started and he fell asleep mid lecture. He hasn’t move since, just stirring every now and then.

Draco doesn’t wake him, doesn’t have the heart to do so, not to Harry who drags himself around the castle looking death on his feet whenever Draco finds him in the corridors. Draco loathes the sight of those dark bags under his eyes, a permanent feature ever since… Since.

There’s another noise, a bang, and then a yelp. A crease appear between Harry’s eyebrows, mouth pouting a little in discontent at being disturbed in his sleep. Draco has to suppress the urge to smooth the frown with his thumb. Quick glance away to make sure no one pays them any mind, slowly, Draco raises his hand and put his finger over the crease, of course he does.

Draco is a weak weak man.

Light as a feather his touch lingers, as he lets his thumb trace the edges of Harry’s face, mapping his features ever so softly, delicate, tracing the invisible cracks Draco sees with so much clarity, much to his own cracked mask.

First his eyebrows, then his nose, the curve of his cheeks. He traces the golden skin that seems to glow under the light of the sun pouring from outside. A contempt sight leaves Harry’s lips at Draco’s dutiful administrations and Draco cannot take his eyes away from him.

Funny thing, imagination. Makes your mind wonder about the impossible, like what your life would’ve been if you didn’t make the mistakes you made or who would you be if you were someone else. Anyone.

Anyone. Anyone. Anyone.

Or, when the mind is as twisted as the man, it makes you wonder how the lips of your so-called enemy would feel under yours. No, not an enemy. Hasn’t been for a long time. Are they as soft as they look? Yes. Yes.

The noise around them increases suddenly and because he has been so lost in Harry, Draco doesn’t notice the class is over. Only when he sees movement in the corner of his eye, ginger hair approaching, Draco snaps his hand away.

“Alright, mate?” Weasley eyes the sleepy form of his friend first and then, looks towards Draco. Draco nods.

“Harry, wake up, the class is over,” Granger shakes Harry’s shoulders a little bit, to wake him up. And then, a little rougher when he doesn’t stir the first time.

Eventually, Harry awakes, startled at first wildly looking around, fear settled on this features but quickly melts as his gaze lands on Draco besides him. His body visibly sags in relief.

“Time to go, Harry,” Granger repeats and Harry looks away, gathering his things quickly, shoving them without finesse in his book bag. “We have to hurry if we want to catch Hagrid,”

“Yeah, yeah, coming,” Harry makes a motion with his hand towards the corridor so they can wait for him outside. With a final glance on Draco’s direction, they go.

Draco tries to linger but his things are all packed and ready to go so he doesn’t have an excuse to stay. Without looking his way, he adjusts the strap of his book bag and walks away without a word.

“Draco, wait!” Harry calls after him and Draco stops and turns around.

“Yes?”

Harry’s things are packed and he stands in front of him, hair a mess. Draco wonders, not for the first time, how it would feel under his touch.

Harry shuffle on his feet. “Thanks for not telling on me, that I fell asleep in the middle of the class, I mean.”

Draco nods. “Don’t you worry about it. All is well.”

“Yeah okay,” he tries to advert his gaze, two seconds later his eyes are on Draco again. A warm pleasant feeling invades Draco suddenly. “Also, er, I just wanted to let you know some of the Eight Years are planing a party in our common room before the hols and I was thinking that maybe you want to go?”Harry’s cheek turn the prettiest shape of pink with every word he says and Draco gets a little lost at the sight and takes a few seconds extra for his brain to register what he just said.

“I— I don’t think anyone wants me there,” he says, swallowing the shame.

“I want you there,” Harry frowns in confusion, as if the thought of anyone not wanting Draco is preposterous.

Now is turn Draco’s turn to feel his cheeks on fire. “I— I’ll think about it,”

“Yeah, okay, fair enough,” Harry smiles the most dazzling smile at him and Draco can’t help to return the favor, only with a most reserved one.

“Harry!” They heard Granger call.

“Coming!” Harry shouts, never taking his eyes of Draco, “See you later?”

Draco nods, “Yes. Later.”

And with that, Harry turns around and walks out. Draco hears his voice fade alongside Granger and Weasley’s and waits another five seconds before walking out himself feeling lighter than he ever has been.

If that night, Draco’s dreams are plague with wild raven hair and beautiful pink cheeks, that’s no one business but his own.

#it was supposed to be under 200 I don’t know what happened #thank you for asking me for drarry jo!!! these are my babies I love them 🥺#I was only trying to make Draco the pining idiot but I couldn’t 😭#anywayyyy hope you like it??? I’m finishing this at 1am okay if you see grammar errors look away I read this only once I apologize #pinning idiots I love them 😭 so soft for them #eight year fics my beloved too<3 my favorite genre of drarry if you ask me #drarry #drarry microfic #(?) dunno if this counts as microfic lol #draco x harry #drarry fic #loops writes

42 notes · View notes

starcurtain · 4 months

Text

Another Haikaveh Fanfic I Want to Read

It's a 5+1 compilation but it's just all the super soft, embarrassingly domestic moments Alhaitham is daydreaming will happen after he and Kaveh finally get together (he is certain this is going to happen someday)... Plus the timeskip where the best one actually comes true, of course!

#genshin impact #alhaitham #kaveh #haikaveh #kavetham #pining alhaitham #is my actual jam #you cannot tell me this guy #doesn't zone out while reading in his living room #and come up with the most detailed imaginary scenarios #where Kaveh wakes him up with butterfly kisses #doesn't wait by the door kind of hoping #that one day Kaveh will do that 'So rushed I gave my roommate a goodbye kiss' trope #doesn't drop drunk Kaveh in his bed and dream that one day #Kaveh will pull on his glove and ask him to stay the night #just so that no one has to sleep alone #Do you see my vision???#this seems like the kind of fic that would already exist #if it does help a girl out

62 notes · View notes

theharddeck · 1 year

Text

your love is the love I need || chapter 1/4

pairing: javy machado x femme reader (no y/n), callsign Cross

summary: Cross and Javy are very good friends. Javy might've let it slip to his mother that they're more. A little fake dating never hurt anyone, right?

warnings: 18+, minors please DNI – no smut in this chapter (there defs will be in later chapters, and I never want someone to be caught off guard) but there is an attempted roofie-ing in this chapter.

length: 6.2k

A/N: literally the biggest shoutout in the WORLD to @daggerspare-standingbystandingby for talking me off a ledge, and also line editing, and also depth. @bradshawsbitch and @laracrofted thank you for always brainstorming with me 💙

Saturday

“Cross, get in here; I need a stand-in.”

You’d been looking for a glass for your cherry coke in cabinets at the Miramar Family Center, but at Hangman’s call, you grabbed a straw and jogged back over to the pool table. Bob folded a napkin and slid it across the table as you got closer and you smiled at him gratefully before setting the sweating can down on it.

“Tapping out already, Hangman?” Phoenix asked from across the table, where she was wiping chalk over the end of her pool cue.

“You and Avalone wish,” Jake drawled, smiling wanly at the group. “Nah, I’ve got to pick something up; I’ll be right back.”

He tossed his pool cue at you without looking and you considered letting it clatter to the ground, but you grabbed it out of the air, trying not to read into the gesture too much.

You were a recent addition to the squad; when Fanboy had decided he wanted to try piloting again, they’d needed a WSO to fly with Payback. Having only been a teammate for a couple months, you were still finding your footing with the group. Everyone had been welcoming, of course, but there were times that you felt the little idioms and questions were a type of test. Tests that you were determined to pass, not just for the sake of assimilation, but because this was a team you were genuinely proud to be a part of, and you wanted them to know it.

“Am I solid or stripes?” you asked, looking down at the table, confused by the seeming lack of structure on the felt.

“We’re playing cutthroat,” Payback said, looking after Hangman with a grimace, for not giving you any context.

“We’re 11-15,” Coyote said, because of course he and Jake had been a team. He swiped the chalk that Phoenix had been using, and as he dropped it into your palm, his fingertips brushed yours. You tried to ignore it, it was just an accidental brush, but your skin prickled anyway, and you looked away quickly.

“1-5,” Phoenix cut in, pointing between her and Fritz.

“6-10,” Payback finished, lifting a fist in Bob’s direction, as the WSO held up a clenched hand obediently.

“Cool,” you said, deciding if you wanted to take on the pilot who held your life in his hands any time you got in the back of an F/A-18, or Phoenix.

Which, honestly, wasn’t even a question.

You surveyed the felt once more, before seeing a clear shot for the 9 ball, walking around the table to take it, and shooting Bob an apologetic look as the ball clattered into the pocket.

“I knew I liked you,” Natasha cooed.

“Yeah, I don’t know why we bother,” Payback sighed to Bob, who shrugged, both of them good-naturedly.

“Atta girl,” Coyote crowed, and Phoenix nodded approvingly and you grinned at her, rather than risk looking at him. Not with the butterflies that erupted in your stomach at his completely platonic praise. You were on the same team, it was nothing more than that, and now was so not the time for your relentless crush to make an appearance.

Pool wasn’t really your game, and you weren’t at all surprised when you botched the next shot, flustered by the nearly six feet of Abercrombie model at your shoulder. You backed away from the table as Billy stepped up, apparently next in order.

You swiped your soda from the table by Bob, crossing the room to perch on the side of a sofa and wait for your turn again, or Jake’s reappearance, whichever came first.

Your eyes flitted over to Javy, as they always seemed to, when you weren’t actively trying not to. It wasn’t your fault he was magnetic.

All easy smiles and broad shoulders, deep protectiveness and unabashed confidence, just as good as Hangman and Rooster and Phoenix, less likely to call attention to it. The way he’d look deep at whoever was talking to him, nodding along as he gave them his full attention.

At present, that person was Phoenix, and Javy’s shoulders dipped as he hunched his back slightly, to get closer and hear her better. You played with the end of your pool stick, watching as their heads tilted together, quietly commenting on the table as Fritz lined up a shot.

“It’s a statistical impossibility, right?” Halo whispered, appearing next to you on the couch. “For them to be that pretty and that good of pilots?”

You followed her gaze to the trio around the table and shook your head, agreeing.

“The worst part of it,” you mumbled back, “is that they have the audacity to be decent people, so we can’t even do the easy thing and dislike them for being perfect.”

Halo clicked her tongue against her teeth, fiddling with the plastic cap of a water bottle.

“That’s why they need us,” she mused. “You, me, and Bob: subverting expectations as gorgeous backseaters.”

You snorted, before Callie’s words registered, and you looked over at her, your voice teasing when you asked, “Bob, huh?”

She shrugged lightly, even as a pretty flush bloomed on her cheeks.

“Completely impartially, of course,” she said, sheepishly. You smiled reassuringly, bumping her shoulder with yours, and she tilted her head as she looked back at the table.

“How’s that view from your glass house?” she asked, sweetly, making you nearly choke on your soda when you saw she was looking pointedly at Coyote.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked.

“I mean, it was a guess, but that just confirmed it,” Callie smiled broadly, before sighing again. “I think crushes on other pilots is the particular curse of Wizzos—we know better, but we think we’re smart enough to get around it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you muttered, bumping your soda can into her water bottle, memory taking you back a couple months to a night just like this one.

It was your first day in San Diego; you’d caught an early flight and were able to move into your off-base apartment and walk around North Island for a bit, exploring before you’d meet your detachment the following morning. As the sun sank over the Pacific, you walked along the beach, enjoying the warm sand and cooling air. You could hear a piano in the distance, something you assumed was the effect of a bluetooth speaker until you realized it came from a bar a little farther down the beach, and you redirected your footsteps towards it.

The Hard Deck smelled like sweat and good beer, and you clocked a couple different types of badges as you scanned the room. There was a good chance someone here would recognize you tomorrow, so you asked for a coke from the older man behind the bar, settling on a stool and looking around.

There was a man with a mustache and aviators (Indoors. At night.) at the piano, his head cocked back as he worked through the greatest hits of the 60s. Beside him, a stunning woman in a tight bun stood shoulder-to-shoulder with an impossibly tall man, also with a mustache, both of them singing along enthusiastically. A pool table was nearby, a couple more uniforms draped across it, and two men were playing darts against the wall closest to you.

Well, one of them was playing darts.

The blond man was clearly in his element, sinking bullseye after bullseye, and the man beside him seemed content enough to let him play it out. It wasn’t so much a competition, as it was one man showboating, and his friend humoring him.

The louder of the two was making jokes about his odds, calling shots before he took them, and every now and then his partner would quietly say something that would make his shoulders laugh enough to miss his shot. Their conversation faded into the noise of the bar as you turned on your stool, looking around you. When you came back to the bartop, you noticed a man sidling up to a younger girl a couple stools down from you.

She was rebuffing him as gently as she could, and he seemed to be taking it pretty well—until she turned to chat with someone over her shoulder, and he dropped something in her drink while she was preoccupied.

Your jaw dropped; that’d been clear as day. But the bar was crowded, and she’d been distracted by her friends, and your heart lurched when she reached back for her drink without paying attention.

“Hey, wait!” you called down the bar, and she turned to look at you. Along with the half of the bar, you assumed, but you slid off the seat rather than check and see how much of an audience you had. The girl frowned at you, an unfamiliar face yelling at her, but whatever she saw in your expression held her attention for the moment it took you to get down to her.

“Sorry,” you said, quietly as you could, when you got closer to her. “I didn’t want to make a scene, but he definitely put something in your drink.”

“Oh my gosh,” the girl set the drink down on the bar, glaring at the man. “What the hell, you creep!!”

“I didn’t—,” the man’s face flushed, and he looked angrily at you before at the people around him, placatingly. “Hold on, you can’t just go around accusing—”

“It’s not an accusation if it’s true,” you said, turning to the bartender. “Are you the owner?”

He shook his head, looking over your shoulder at some of the other patrons, then set down the tap he was pouring. “I’ll get Penny.”

“Now, hang on Jimmy,” the creep sputtered. “I-I didn’t do anything, you can’t prove I—”

“Drink it, then.”

Everyone turned at the deep voice, as someone else stepped towards the bar. You recognized one of the men from the dartboard, the quiet one, and he crossed his arms as he came up behind you.

The creep’s expression paled as he took in the tall frame of the pilot behind you. “I mean, it’s her drink, I’m not–”

The girl slid her drink down the bartop, in front of the man. “Go on.”

A door slammed in the back of the bar and a moment later, a slim brunette woman let herself behind the counter. She stalked behind the bar, looking sharply at you.

“You saw it?” she asked.

You nodded, and her jaw ticked. She planted her hands on the bar, looking the creep clearly in the face, like she was memorizing it, before she covered the drink with saran wrap and handed it behind her to Jimmy.

“You’re gonna wait in my office until the police get here,” she told the man, her voice level. “And when you leave with them, you will not set foot in this bar again. Understood?”

“Police?” the man echoed, his eyes going wide. “Hold on, this is all getting blown out of proportion, all I did was—”

Penny jerked her head to the side, and you felt a hand on your shoulder for a moment as the quiet pilot brushed by you to reach for the creep. The blond man was with him, suddenly, and they unceremoniously hauled the creep away from the bar.

Penny pursed her lips together, looking meaningfully over at the piano, and a moment later, some Elvis song was playing through the bar. Penny checked in with the girl, pulled some receipt paper out of the printer and had her write down her contact information, in case the police wanted to follow up with her. She waved you down as well, and you came over.

“Don’t think we’ve met before,” she said brusquely, holding a hand across the bar. “I’m Penny.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, shaking her extended hand and giving her your name. “You handled that really well.”

Her jaw clenched again, as she shook her head. “Hate that I have to handle it at all. Thanks for saying something; what’re you drinking tonight? It’s on the house.”

“Oh, thanks,” you shook your head, pointing to your abandoned coke, “but I’m not drinking; I have an early day tomorrow.”

Penny hummed, looking you over. You had the uncanny feeling that, even without your uniform, she somehow knew you were Navy, which detachment you were in, and—given another minute or two—she could guess your callsign.

“Better get your information too,” she said, sliding the receipt paper down the bar, “in case they want a statement from you. Include your CO; I can probably put a good word in edgewise.”

You scribbled your information down, wondering what ties she had to the Navy, but not doubting for a moment that they were strong. Her mouth twitched as she read over what you’d written, blooming into a full smile as she looked up at you.

“Well, that’ll be easier than I thought,” she said, almost to herself, before walking over to the tap to pour you another coke. “So, what brings you to North Island?”

You chatted with her until the police came and she excused herself to go deal with them. You were finishing your coke when you realized the two pilots were back by the dartboard, the blond one having sunk three bullseyes and performing what appeared to be a victory shimmy.

He looked like a Ken doll, like someone had manufactured him in a Mattel factory, then turned him to life and told him he could do anything a real boy could do.

You laughed to yourself at his antics, and watched while the quiet one collected the darts and took his stance for his turn. His first dart landed on double 16—solid, except it couldn’t beat 3 bullseyes.

You’d wanted to thank him for helping out before Penny got there, and this was as good a chance as any, so you hopped off the barstool and crossed towards the darts wall.

“Hey,” you said, inelegant but effective, appearing behind the two of them, turning to look at you in surprise. “May I?”

The blond man made a sound in the back of his throat like he was both shocked and thrilled by your presence, and he nodded like of course you could butt in. You looked over at the quieter one, trying to pretend he wasn’t the most beautiful person you’d seen in your life.

They’d both looked great from a distance, but up close, he was somehow even prettier, and as you looked at him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. It was like he liked the weight of your eyes, which was terribly flattering, and you found yourself wanting to smile back. You looked away quickly, back to Ken Doll, thinking about the accent you’d heard in his bragging earlier.

“Texas?” you asked, to distract yourself.

He raised an eyebrow. “Six generations back.”

You hummed, before holding out a hand to the quiet one.

“The lady will shoot for her own hand,” Ken Doll said, like he was quoting something, a laugh in his voice as you felt two darts drop into your palm.

“Pick that up from Medieval Times?” you asked.

“Brave, actually,” he muttered, before smiling sheepishly, “my sister’s kids love that movie.”

“What do they call you?” you asked, turning the darts over in your hands. It was a guess, but the way his eyebrows raised slightly when he registered the cadence of your question confirmed you were right.

“Hangman,” he said, lifting his chin over your shoulder. “That’s Coyote.”

You looked over at him. “Hey.”

He smiled, slow and easy, and you looked away before you messed up your shot. You focused, let it go, and Coyote whistled.

“Triple 20,” he said.

“Triple 20,” you agreed, looking back at Hangman. “Want to see it again?”

Hangman’s eyes narrowed as he did the quick mental math, and beside you, Coyote crossed his arms across his chest, laughing quietly. It was a warm sound, and tempted though you were to turn and see it, you let go of the last dart and watched as it landed next to your first.

“Look at that; Coyote wins,” you wiped your hands on your jeans, smiling at a shocked Hangman.

“Damn,” he said quietly, then grinned. “I like you; you can stay.”

You snorted as he strolled lazily across to the board to pull out the darts, before you turned to look at Coyote, who was watching you already. He had deep brown eyes, eyes that looked kind, like they laughed easy, like they didn’t miss much.

“Anyways,” you said, apropos of nothing, clearing your throat. “I came over here to say thanks for backing me up at the bar.”

Something like surprise flashed across his face before he could stop it. He shrugged like anyone would’ve done it, like it was nothing special to believe women, to support a stranger the same way he’d supported his friend all evening, and in that moment—before he knew who you were, before you knew his actual name, before you’d spoken more than a dozen words to the man—you fell hard for Javy Machado.

“Bob, you’re killing me,” Payback groaned, and you jerked out of the memory. Apparently, Fritz’s turn was done, Bob biffed it, and Phoenix lifted her hand in an “after you” gesture as Coyote stepped up to the table.

He walked slowly, and you tried to be impartial like Callie’d said, but it was damn hard when his shoulders filled out his khakis like that. He walked a slow circle, frowning at the spread and you shifted the pool cue in your own hands, telling yourself to stop staring and continuing to do just that.

“Duckie,” a soft voice called across the room, “if you don’t take the shot already, we’re going to be here all night.”

Javy dropped the pool cue with a clatter, turning to find the voice. You spotted Jake the same time everybody else did, his chest puffed out proudly as he escorted an older woman on his arm. She wore warm gray senegalese twists, dangling turquoise earrings and a wide smile you’d recognize anywhere.

“Momma?” Javy asked softly, then a grin split his face as he sprinted across the room. His mother opened her arms as Javy rushed into them, carefully bending his tall frame to enfold her, before straightening and spinning her around. Their laughter echoed around the room and a couple claps of applause went up.

Jake slapped a hand on Javy’s back as he stepped around them, walking over to the pool table to give them a minute together. Phoenix smiled lightly at him, a soft thing that you doubted any of you were meant to see, before she cleared her throat, looking back at you.

“See, this is why we put up with him being an asshole as much as he is,” she told you, shaking her head at Jake. “He’ll leave you out as bait if it gets him a shot at a bandit, but he’ll remember your mother’s birthday, burn his visitor passes, and fly her across the country to surprise you.”

“Take it easy, Nat,” Jake said lightly, resting his knuckles on the pool table and surveying the game’s progress since he’d stepped away. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Phoenix shook her head before lining up her next shot, and Jake pushed away from the table to come stand next to where you and Halo were seated on the couch.

You bumped his shoulder with yours as you both looked back across the center, where Javy and his mom were walking arm-and-arm towards your group.

“That was awful sweet of you,” you told him quietly, not wanting to “ruin his reputation” as he put it.

“The fact that you don’t sound surprised means Phoenix’s lies are taking root,” Jake muttered, but you heard the pride in his voice; he was pleased with himself for pulling this off.

You looked away from the pair over to Jake, who held out a hand for you to hand him his pool cue. You passed it to him, tipping your head, holding onto the other end of it.

“So there was absolutely no altruism involved in reuniting your best friend with his mom?”

“You wound me, Cross,” Jake said drily, but he lifted his chin at Javy’s mother, who was smiling broadly up at her son, her eyes shining as she patted at his uniform proudly. “Give it a sec; let’s see if it pays off.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but you felt your expression turn soft at the clear fondness between Javy and his mother; somehow you always knew he’d be a momma’s boy. Her neck was craned at a sharp angle to look up at him, but both of their smiles were wide as they broke into the group.

“Guys,” Javy said, his voice nearly giddy, “this is my mom. Momma, this is the group. We’ve got Payback, Bob, Phoenix, Fritz—I guess you already know Jake—Halo, and Cross.”

You all smiled and waved as Javy pointed you out to his mother, and her kind eyes followed Javy’s hand around the circle. You thought you might’ve imagined they lingered a little longer on you, but then her smile grew wider as she looked back at Javy. She elbowed him, then looked back at you.

“Now, Javy,” she chided gently, “I know that’s not how you introduce me to your girlfriend.”

The group stilled, and Jake pulled in a deep breath through his nose, his own smile turning decidedly smug as he pushed away from you, taking the cue with him.

“And there’s your answer, Cross,” he said out of the side of his mouth, going over to the pool table and lining up a shot.

You wet your lips as your eyes darted from Mrs Machado up to Javy.

His expression was a strange mix of shocked, mortified, and pleading, and you weren’t sure what Jake had done to land the both of you in this predicament, but you knew you weren’t about to spoil this reunion for Javy.

“Mrs. Machado,” you smiled, pushing away from the couch to come and hug her. “I’m so excited to get to meet you.”

Of course, she hugged like an angel.

She was just a little shorter than you, and she held you like you were something precious she was excited to have in her arms. When you pulled back, her hands settled on your elbows and she beamed up at you.

“Oh, aren’t you just the loveliest,” she smiled, and her voice sounded like the happiest thing. “You know, I told him, I did, when he started talking about the newest wiz—oh, what is that abbreviation?”

“WSO,” the group chorused.

“WSO,” Mrs. Machado nodded, grateful for the prompt. “Yes, well, when he started talking about you, I asked him if you were a nice young lady, and he insisted that you were just friends, but I just knew, you kept coming up in conversation and, well, I knew it was something more. And then sweet Jacob…”

She broke off to smile kindly at Hangman, and when you looked over your shoulder, Callie and Natasha had cornered him threateningly, but he looked too smug to be intimidated. Under Mrs. Machado’s eyes, they smiled charmingly, but their stance didn’t change. You appreciated them coming to your defense, but it did make you wonder how many people seemed to know about your crush.

“Yeah, sweet Jacob,” Payback deadpanned from the other side of the table, before assuming his role as Resident Adult of the squad. “Mrs. Machado, can we get you something to drink? I know lines at the base access point can be awful, maybe a glass of water?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Machado looked between Reuben and the kitchen, then at you. You smiled reassuringly, pulling your arms free from her.

“I’ll be here,” you said, then reached over without looking, turning away. “Hey, Jay, can I have a word?”

“Yep, figured,” Javy muttered, as your hand closed on the lapel of his khakis, pulling him after you.

“You both are doing my push ups after the next of Mav’s drills,” Payback hissed under his breath as your paths crossed.

“Done,” you said quickly.

“For sure,” Javy said, stumbling slightly as he tried to follow your shorter stride as you pulled him to a corner of the Family Center. You figured the group would be watching you so you turned your back to them, pulling Javy to stand in front of you.

“Wait, you’re his backseater,” Javy smoothed down his lapel, frowning over your shoulder in Reuben’s direction. “If he’s doing them, you are too, and 400 pushups isn’t—”

“You’ve got, like, 15 seconds to tell me why your mom thinks I’m your girlfriend.”

You probably could’ve handled it with more finesse, or at least not interrupted him.

Javy’s hand came up to rub the back of his neck; if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was nervous, but there’s no way that was real, so you just waited on his explanation.

“Okay, so she means well, my mom, but every time we talked, she’d be asking about if I’d met a nice girl, or telling me how one of her friends had a kid in town, that I should meet up with or—”

“15 seconds,” you reiterated, trusting in Reuben’s vamping ability, but the man was only mortal.

“Right,” Javy swallowed. “Uh, so it’s just…one day she was just going on and on, and I said I’d asked someone out, and she wanted to know who and you were the first person I thought of.”

You blinked.

“Not like that, not like I’d planned on asking you out or something,” Javy rushed to say, which shouldn’t have stung as much as it did, but damn. He must’ve realized how that sounded, too, because he winced. “I mean, not like that, it was just the easiest lie that she’d believe and she was never supposed to be here and meet you and—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes narrowing as you looked up at him. “How do you think this is going?”

“Yeah, not great,” Javy mumbled, his hand falling to his side.

“Awesome,” you muttered. “So now that we’ve established how it’s just a matter of me being the easiest lie, you didn’t want her to meet me, and you wouldn’t actually ask me out—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Javy said stubbornly, even though it was what he’d just said. He looked frustrated, and you couldn’t tell if it was towards your reaction or something else but when he opened his mouth, the words got stuck, because he just sighed.

Javy drew in a deep breath, looking over your shoulder. You knew when his eyes landed on his mom, because his whole face softened, and his shoulders drooped slightly.

“Tell me this,” you said, weighing your words carefully, “is this for her or for you?”

“For her,” he said, with conviction, and when he looked back at you, your heart skipped a beat at the look in his eyes. It was honest and deep, something selfless and that scared him too, and you believed him.

“She gets worried about me,” he explained. “What she and my dad have is special…when me or my siblings don’t have that, she gets worried. Like, it’s something she prays for. I know she’s proud of me and my career and all that, but I think a part of her will always think something’s missing, unless I’m with someone.”

You looked over your shoulder to find Mrs. Machado in the kitchen, smiling happily at Rueben as he made her some tea. She had this aura of comfort around her, that of being loved and known, and wanting it for everyone around her. It wasn’t an energy you were super familiar with, but you could understand that it would be heavy for someone like Javy to bear.

And this was a terrible idea—you were gonna embarrass yourself at the least, potentially break your own heart at the worst—but you couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” you sighed. “So, how do we do this?”

Javy’s eyes closed for a moment in relief, and for a second you thought he was going to reach for you, but then he held himself steady, his hands clenching at his sides.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You nodded, already regretting this, knowing if you could do it again, you’d choose the same result, every time.

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing at your temples briefly before looking back up at him. “Um, I guess, how much do you want me around? I’m sure you guys want time for just the two of you.”

Javy seemed to think it over. “I’ll probably take her to dinner tonight—she’ll invite you, but I think we can get you out of it. If…do you want to do breakfast tomorrow?”

Somewhere a trickster god was chortling, thrilled by Javy asking a question you’d never expected to hear, and in an entirely different context.

“I can do breakfast,” you said.

“Great,” Javy said, a full smile growing. “God, thank you. Great.”

And somewhere that same trickster god rolled their eyes, because you were a simpleton who’d do any number of ridiculous things to see that smile again.

Javy squeezed your shoulder lightly, moving to go around you before stopping himself and stepping back.

“You’ve never called me ‘Jay’ before,” he said, his expression curious.

And you hadn’t, never aloud. But in your texts to your girlfriends back home, you referred to him by his initial, just in case someone ever stole your phone.

“Yeah, well," you deferred, "Duckie was taken, so…”

Javy’s nose wrinkled as he tried not to laugh, and there it was, that smile again.

“I had a stuffed duck, when I was a kid,” he explained. “Took it everywhere with me, like some kids have their blankets…Momma always told me she loved me like I loved that duck, and it kind of stuck.”

“That’s adorable,” you said, honest.

Javy waved a hand, like it wasn’t anything, and then he looked back at you.

“I like it,” he said, something different in his voice. “Jay.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you pressed your lips together and shrugged. Javy looked at you for a moment, then he tilted his head towards the group. You turned with him, following him back to the group, telling yourself it was going to be fine.

Of course, that was until Mrs. Machado insisted that they drive you home.

Thankfully, you were able to convince her to take the passenger seat, so as Mrs. Machado and Javy talked quietly, the soft music on the speakers kept their conversation from reaching you in the backseat. You leaned your head against the glass of the window, trying to recall the cross streets from memory, rather than think too hard about any part of tonight. The car was in park for a minute before you realized it was idling in front of your apartment.

“Oh, sorry,” you said quickly, sliding off your seatbelt and leaning forward to brush Mrs. Machado’s shoulder lightly, “it was so great to meet you. Thanks for driving me home.”

“Of course,” she beamed over her shoulder at you, reaching back to catch your hand in hers, and squeezing. “I’m so glad we’ll get to visit more tomorrow.”

You smiled back, then let go of her, sliding down to the seat to the door. As you unfolded yourself out of the backseat, Javy’s hand appeared on the car door, holding it open for you as you climbed out. He shut it behind you, walking beside you towards the door of your apartment.

You looked up at him out of the side of your eye.

People shouldn’t be pretty from this angle but he was. The moonlight seemed to highlight his long lashes, and the soft shadow they cast over his face.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said under your breath, once you were out of hearing range of the car.

“Nah,” Javy said, his voice lower rather than quieter. “Momma knows I’d walk my girl to the door.”

It wasn’t a long walk up the driveway, but you seemed aware of every step. Or maybe the world just froze when Javy said my girl.

You glanced over at him again, admiring the way he looked perfectly at ease, his hands tucked into his pockets, steps slow to match your pace. You thought about how sweet his mother was, how excited she’d been at the prospect of spending time with you tomorrow. She was probably watching from the car now, and it did somewhat soothe the guilt in your chest, knowing that someone else had set a precedent for her, and she wouldn’t be too disappointed when her son calmly told her you had broken up.

“That’s good that she’s met others,” you said, climbing the first step to your porch, “it’s less intimidating to know I just have to be an average.”

Javy made a soft sound, something between a hum and an exhale, shoulders rising slightly in a shrug. “Actually, you’re the first since the Academy.”

You stopped on the step, turning to find Javy watching you closely. With the added height, the two of you were almost eye level, and your stomach flipped. His brown eyes seemed to glitter, something soft like starlight in them.

“But you said…” you trailed off, realizing Javy had said it was how he would be, not how he’d been. “Literally how is that possible?”

Javy smiled easily, looking back at the car, then back at you as he lifted his chin. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

You smiled back, you couldn’t not, even as you shook your head, despite the heat crawling up your neck because you didn’t realize you’d said that out loud. He was too bright to leave you unaffected, so you stood there on the step, smiling like a fool at a man who somehow had no idea how much of a marvel he was.

Which is when you realized you were staring again.

“Well,” you said, looking away, taking another step up the porch, “thanks again for the ride home. And walking me up here, and I guess…I’m gonna go inside.”

“Oh,” Javy said it quietly, like he hadn’t meant to, like you’d surprised him. He nodded, and you waited for him to say something else, as he looked over his shoulder at the car, but then his easy smile was back again. “Yeah, no worries. Actually, thank you, right?”

You were pretty sure the moonlight was playing tricks on you.

Because there was something in Javy’s expression that you hadn’t seen before, something that looked like uncertainty, something almost like wondering. The extra step put you almost taller than him, your faces closer than you’d expected. Javy blinked slowly, his gaze darting down to your mouth before he stepped back a half pace, like he’d remembered something.

It had to be the moonlight, or you were seeing things.

But you were the first person that’d come to mind when he’d needed a lie, and that had to count for something, right, and he’d looked for a moment like he was trying to think of a reason to keep you on the porch.

You reached for him, your fingers curling around the back of his neck and the slightest pull was enough for him to take back that half step, then more, closer, which was enough for you to know it wasn’t just the moon, and you kissed him.

Or you meant to.

The moment your lips brushed against his, Javy’s hands were on your waist, his long fingers spreading across your lower back, his body heat seemingly burning through the thin fabric of your shirt, like he needed to hold onto you. And then you weren’t kissing him, because he was kissing you, something that you couldn’t quite believe was happening. It was slow and soft and absolutely devastating, as unrealistically perfect as only Javy could be.

And then it was over, just as quickly as it had happened.

Javy’s lips lifted from yours, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back entirely. Still two steps down, you liked how he looked, looking up at you.

“I’ll wait till you get inside,” Javy asked softly, his voice like velvet, and you nodded, very uncertain if you could find words. You rested a hand on his shoulder to lean down to wave at the car, and Mrs. Machado, who was practically beaming back at you, before letting go and walking up to unlock the door. You let yourself in, turning just inside the frame to find Javy still watching you.

“Night, Jay,” you said.

Javy’s lips parted at the nickname, then he smiled at you, bright as the noonday sun.

“Night, Cross,” he said. His hands were in his pockets and he took a step back from you, waiting for you to shut the door. You did, leaning your back up against it, and waited for the sounds of the car starting and them driving away.

Now, what the hell had that been about? And, more importantly, how were you supposed to survive tomorrow?

next chapter

taglist: @peakyrogers @mxgyver @princessphilly @hangmanbrainrot @wildbornsiren @roosterforme @blowmymbackout @datemephoenix @fuckyeahhangman @lt-bradshaw @double-j @callsignvalley @sebsxphia @javihoney @jadore-andor @rosiahills22 @andrewrussgarfield @teacupsandtopgun i don't have a coyote list yet bc this is my first writing for him, so if any of you folks would like to be not included, please do let me know!

#javy “coyote” machado #javy machado fic #javy coyote macado #javy machado #javy machado x reader #javy coyote machado x reader #javy machado x you #coyote x you #coyote x reader #misskielwrites #god why is hitting publish so nervewracking???#i hope y'all like this chapter #i have a lot i want to do in ch 3 and ch 4 but this is necessary for now #a smidge of pining is good for the soul right #coyote x cross

404 notes · View notes