#Quicksilver aaron taylor johnson | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixpounder · 1 month ago

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play your part

pietro maximoff x fem!reader

summary: in which you and pietro maximoff go undercover as a married couple, your mutual hatred simmering beneath forced smiles and lingering touches. but when the mission turns chaotic, tension ignites, and in the heat of escape, neither of you can resist what’s been building all night.

warnings: mature content mdni (unprotected sex, oral f receiving) enemies to lovers, language.

words count: 3.3k

lowercase intended

the ballroom was suffocatingly opulent, gold chandeliers glinting off crystal glasses, the murmur of conversation laced with greed and danger. you tugged at the delicate lace of your gown, suppressing the urge to adjust the wedding ring on your finger. it felt heavy, unnatural. and not just because it wasn’t real.

“stop fidgeting, dragă mea” pietro murmured in your ear, his accent curling around the pet name with practiced ease. his hand settled on your lower back, fingers pressing just hard enough to make you stiffen.

you tilted your head up at him, keeping the picture-perfect facade of a loving wife, even as you dug your nails into his arm. “touch me like that again and i’ll break those fingers.”

pietro grinned, far too entertained by your irritation. “that is no way to speak to your husband, love.”

the word dripped with mockery, and you bit back a scathing retort. instead, you let your lips part in a soft smile, eyes heavy-lidded as you trailed a finger down the lapel of his suit. “then act like a husband,” you purred. “and stop eye-fucking every blonde in this room.”

his grip on your waist tightened, just for a fraction of a second. “jealous already?”

you leaned in, so close your lips nearly brushed his. “i’d have to want you for that, maximoff.”

he chuckled lowly, shifting just enough that his breath tickled the shell of your ear. “liar.”

you inhaled sharply, about to throw something equally venomous back, when a sharp ding rang through the room. the auction was beginning.

the act continued as you both took your seats near the front. pietro played the part of the arrogant, entitled buyer well, legs spread lazily, fingers drumming against your thigh as if he owned you. every time you shifted to brush him off, his grip would tighten. a silent challenge. a reminder.

you retaliated with lingering touches of your own, fingertips dragging over the back of his hand as you leaned in to whisper into his ear, voice honey-sweet. “try not to make it so obvious how much you’re enjoying this.”

pietro turned his head, his lips a breath away from yours, blue eyes flickering dark with something unreadable. “oh, i’m enjoying this?” his voice dropped to a whisper, teasing and taunting. “you’re the one breathing a little heavier every time i touch you.”

you scoffed, rolling your eyes, but you knew he was right. the heat simmering between you two had been building all night, long before tonight, if you were honest with yourself.

as the bidding began, pietro leaned back in his chair, arm draped casually around your shoulders. “stay close” he murmured, the romanian words for my wife sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. “wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

“oh?” you mused, turning your head to graze your lips against his jaw, just to see if he’d flinch. “and what idea would that be?”

his smirk was pure sin. “that you belong to anyone but me.”

your heart stuttered. you hated him. hated the way he could flip the game on you so effortlessly. hated that, right now, you weren’t entirely sure where the act ended and something real began.

the auction concluded. the stolen s.h.i.e.l.d. weapon was yours. and then, everything went to hell.

gunfire rang through the ballroom. guests screamed, overturning tables in their rush to flee. you and pietro moved in sync, slipping away in the chaos. he grabbed your wrist, pulling you through a side door into a dimly lit hallway.

he didn’t stop until he had you pressed against the cool marble wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other still gripping your wrist. his breathing was heavy, his body too close, his heat searing against your skin.

you tried to focus, to ignore the way your pulse betrayed you. “you-”

“you drive me insane” pietro growled, cutting you off.

you blinked, momentarily stunned. “excuse me?”

his fingers traced a slow path up your arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “you think i haven’t noticed the way you tease me? the way you love making me jealous?” his lips ghosted over your jaw, and you hated how easily your breath hitched.

you forced a smirk, tilting your chin up defiantly. “jealous? please.”

he huffed a laugh, then suddenly, so fast you barely registered it, he grabbed your hand and pressed it against his chest, right over his racing heart. “tell me that’s not the reason yours is doing the same thing.”

your fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt. damn him. damn him for being right.

the tension that had been building between you for months snapped like a live wire.

you surged forward at the same time he did, mouths colliding in a desperate, bruising kiss. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t sweet. it was a war, a clash of teeth and tongues, hands roaming, bodies pressing together as if you could erase the distance that had existed for far too long.

pietro groaned against your lips, one hand slipping to your thigh, hoisting it up to press closer against him. “tell me to stop” he murmured, but it wasn’t a challenge this time, it was a plea.

your head was spinning, your heart hammering. “don’t you dare.”

his responding smirk was wicked as he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, because he knew now. knew that, despite all the arguing, despite all the teasing and venomous words, this had been inevitable.

and neither of you wanted to stop.

you pushed him inside the elevator next to you and once the doors closed you blocked both of you inside, so you could have more privacy.

as the elevator doors slid shut, pietro’s back hit the cool metal wall with a soft thud. you pressed against him, your hands tangling in his hair, deepening the kiss. the small space felt electric, charged with the pent-up energy of months of unspoken desires and heated arguments.

your desperation ignited something dark and hungry in him. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you even closer as he kissed you back with equal fervor. the elevator walls seemed to close in around you, intensifying the moment.

your body was pressed against his while you pushed him more towards the elevator wall.

“fuck,” he gasped against your lips when his back hit the wall, one hand sliding down to grip your ass while the other fisted in your hair. your aggression was driving him crazy. “you’re not very subtle about what you want, are you?” he murmured between messy kisses.

“shut up” you answered, annoyed.

he laughed softly, taking your jaw in one hand and deepening the kiss again. your body was flush against his, one thigh snaked between his legs. he hardened against you, causing you to bite his lower lip.

“damn” he hissed, hips bucking slightly, seeking friction.

in that moment, he flipped the situation. now you were the one pushed against the wall, and he was the one pressing his body against yours. he caged you in with his arms on either side of your head. his kisses became more dominating, his hands roaming possessively over your body. “i think i like when you’re quiet.”

“if you keep talking, i swear i’ll punch you,” you warned him.

he was so annoying, but you kinda liked it. he smirked against your lips, clearly enjoying the fact that you were threatening violence but still keeping quiet.

“oh, how tempting,” he murmured, his hands sliding down your sides, his thumbs brushing over your peaks. “maybe i will make you lose your temper then.”

you found it so frustrating how he annoyed you so much you actually wanted him. you didn’t know what annoyed you the most, if it was the fact he never shut up, or that he kept teasing you, or maybe it was the fact that you loved when he did those things.

he leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered teasingly, “you know, for someone who claims to hate my mouth so much, you sure seem to enjoy kissing it.”

his lips quirked into a smug grin as he pulled back slightly to gauge your reaction.

you rolled your hips against his, enjoying how fast this little action made him stop teasing you. you smirked at him.

his eyes narrowed, his smirk turning into a full-blown grin as he realized you were using physical contact to shut him up. he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. “you think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“oh yes, i am, basing myself on how quickly it worked and made you shut up” you teased.

he threw his head back and laughed, his body relaxing. his hands squeezed your ass softly.

“you know what your problem is?” he teased back, his voice lowering again. “you either want to kill me or…” he paused deliberately, smirking again. “spread your legs for me.”

“oh shut up, like you don’t feel the same way about me” you teased, rolling your hips against his again.

he smiled widely, pressing against you more firmly.

“of course i fucking do,” he admitted shamelessly. “see the problem here, love? neither of us wants to back down. i spend all day wanting to shut you up, then thinking about shutting you up by fucking you instead.”

“then? what’s it gonna be now? will you make me shut up, or will you fuck me?” you teased with a smirk on your face, getting closer to him.

his pupils dilated at your words, clearly enjoying this little dirty banter between you two. his smirk was predatory now as he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “both.”

his hands snaked around to grab your thighs, holding you up as if you weighed nothing and pressing you against the wall. the only difference now was that your legs were wrapped around him, and also your arms.

pietro’s kiss became harder, more urgent, reflecting your desperation. his hands dug into your thighs as he ground against you, letting you feel just how much he needed this too.

you moaned.

he broke the kiss abruptly, breathing heavily. pietro’s eyes rolled back slightly at the sound of your moan, his grip on your thighs tightening. he buried his face in your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there.

“fuck, i can’t wait to hear how you sound when i’m inside you” he growled.

soft whimpers and little moans kept escaping your mouth because of his actions and words. you never wanted him and hated him this much at the same time. he was making you lose your mind.

pietro smirked against your neck as he felt your body shudder with each nip and grind. he loved reducing you to these desperate little noises, seeing you unravel.

“mmm, you’re so fucking responsive” he murmured, voice low and husky.

“shut up and kiss me” you ordered, crushing your lips against his again.

pietro groaned into the kiss, not needing to be told twice. his lips moved urgently against yours, tongue thrusting past to claim your mouth thoroughly. one hand slid into your hair, tilting your head for a better angle as he kissed you with weeks’ worth of pent-up frustration and lust.

he ground harder against you, his erection pressing firmly against your core. he knew exactly what he was doing, driving you wild with every movement. he broke the kiss just enough to whisper against your lips, “is this what you want? you want me to fuck you right here, right now?”

“yeah” you smirked.

his smirk matched yours, and he pressed his forehead against yours for a moment, breathing heavily.

“fucking hell” he muttered, then kissed you again, even more fiercely than before. his hands gripped your thighs tighter, positioning you so that his erection rubbed against your clit with each movement.

“fuck, there’s too much clothes” you commented, getting back on your feet and starting to undo his tie.

he watched you unravel his tie, then your quick fingers started to unbutton his shirt. he helped you push it off his shoulders, then your fingers moved to his belt.

he smirked. “you’re way too good at this. how many guys have you undressed?” he teased.

you scoffed. “fuck off.”

he chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as you worked on his belt. once it was undone, he helped you push down his pants. he stood before you, with just his boxers on.

“better?” he smirked, stepping closer to you again.

“much better” you started to unzip your dress.

his eyes followed your movements intently, darkening with desire as more of your skin was revealed. once your dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just a lacy bra and panties, he let out a low whistle. “fuck, you’re stunning.”

“i know” you sarcastically rolled your eyes, then leaned in to kiss him again, softer this time.

he laughed at your attitude, pulling you close with one arm wrapped firmly around your waist. “cocky little thing, aren’t you?”

his hand trailed down your spine to unhook your bra. as soon as it joined your dress on the floor, he cupped your breasts possessively, palming their weight. he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, nuzzling between them.

“panties next?” he asked, his voice muffled against your collarbone.

you nodded desperately.

he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them down your legs. he knelt down in front of you, helping you step out of them. once you were completely bare, he pressed a soft kiss to your pubic bone, looking up at you with a heated gaze.

you looked down at him, the sight was heavenly, his big blue eyes watching you made him look like an angel, but what he was about to do was the complete opposite.

he smirked, knowing exactly what you were thinking. he spread your thighs slightly with his broad shoulders, his eyes dropping to your core. "god, you're already wet."

“oh so now you’re acting like it’s not your fault” you teased.

he chuckled darkly, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your center. his tongue swiped through your folds, tasting you deeply. He looked up at you with a smirk. "oh no, i know it is my fault. I love reducing you to a needy mess."

you moaned and He licked you again, his tongue firm and purposeful as it glided over your clit. he knew exactly how to touch you to drive you crazy. he kept eye-contact, watching as your eyes fluttered shut and your head fell back, a long, low moan escaping your throat.

he knew you liked it. He could feel your legs trembling as he hooked your thighs over his shoulders, opening you up completely to his mouth. he curled his fingers into your thighs possessively as he continued to lick and suck at your most intimate flesh. "look at me,"

“fuck” you moaned, you were trying so hard to keep your eyes open and look at him, but the pleasure was too much.

he smirked at your inability to maintain eye contact, knowing exactly how good he was making you feel. he slipped one finger inside you, then another, pumping slowly while he licked circles around your clit.

“oh my god pietro” you moaned. you wish you never had said that. you moaned his name. you never called him that, it was always ‘maximoff’ or sometimes to tease him you also called him ‘sonic the hedgehog’, just to get on his nerves, but never pietro.

His eyes snapped up to yours at the sound of his name on your lips. “what did you call me?” A smug smile spread across his face as he continued to finger you slowly, his tongue never stopping its torture on your clit. "again," he demanded, his voice low and commanding. "say my name again."

“pietro” you moaned again.

his breath caught at the sound, and he redoubled his efforts, wanting to hear you say it again. his fingers curved upward to stroke that sensitive spot inside you while his tongue flicked rapidly against your clit. "fucking hell... say it one more time"

“pietro” you whispered into his ear “fuck me… please”

a shudder ran through him at your whispered plea. In one fluid motion, he stood, scooping you up and laying you on the floor of the elevator, over your clothes. he quickly took off his boxers freeing his hard erection. "that's what I like to hear" he growled, positioning himself between your thighs.

his blue eyes were locked onto yours as he slowly pushed inside you, filling you completely. He paused, allowing you to feel the fullness of him inside you before slowly pulling back and thrusting forward again. he kept his pace slow and deep, his eyes never leaving yours.

“fuck-“ you moaned as he pushed into you. he placed a hand on the wall of the elevator for support as he continued to move inside you, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm. he leaned in closer, his voice husky as he whispered in your ear. "god, you're perfect."

you locked your legs around his hips, pressing him more againt you, and making him thrust faster. a low moan parted his lips as you locked your legs around him, urging him deeper. he obliged, his hips snapping forward with increased fervor. the elevator shook slightly with the force of his thrusts, adding a thrilling sensation to your passionate encounter. "fuck, yes..."

he was making you a fucking moaning mess, he was hitting every right spot repeatedly, you were trying your best to not scream his name out loud.

he could feel you getting tighter around him as you tried to muffle your moans, his name on the tip of your tongue. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer as he pounded into you, his face burying in your neck. "say it"

“oh my god pietro” you cried out. “faster!”

he growled against your neck, his fingers digging into your back as he picked up the pace, thrusting into you so hard and fast. he could feel you getting closer, your nails digging into his back, urging him on. your pussy started tightening around his cock. his breath hitched as he felt you tighten around him, knowing you were close. he thrust once, twice more, hitting that perfect spot inside you. "fuck, you're going to make me cum..." his voice was ragged, breathless, as he fucked you harder, faster.

with a loud moan you finally came, reaching the high you were chasing, it all felt too good. He let out a deep, guttural groan as you tightened around him, pulling him over the edge with you. he came hard, filling you. he continued to thrust through your orgasm, drawing out every last moment of pleasure for both of you. "holy fuck... ". he collapsed on top of you, his body heavy and sated, his face nuzzled against your neck. he could feel your heart racing against his chest, matching his own erratic beat. he slowly lifted his head to look at you, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. "you okay?"

“fuck yeah, more then ok” you chuckled. he chuckled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips before rolling off of you and pulling you into his side. "we should probably get out of here before someone catches us”.

“yeah we should, and tony’s still waiting for us…” you said sitting up. he sat up with you, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "damn, tony's going to know something happened” he muttered, buttoning up his pants. "he always does."

a/n: let me know you liked it, and if you did, don't be scared to like, comment or reblog, it would really help me since this blog is new. let me know if you have any kind of request, it can be of any marvel character or more, i'm happy to write them <3

#pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff smut #quicksilver #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver smut #aaron taylor johnson #aaron taylor johnson x reader #marvel fanfiction #deadpool #x men #age of ultron #smut #marvel smut #x reader smut #x reader

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qutequeersstuff · 1 year ago

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Pietro Maximoff Fics

@acciopietro works

a bit distracted

an intervention

anything from you

a week’s isolation

bad idea *

no rules

not so tough

saved , pt 2

sokovian vodka*

twelve minutes

@dem-obscure-imagines works

Choosing Destiny

Goodnight Kisses

Little Stark

Slow Down

The Kiss of Life — Guardian Angel

@heliads works

Monster Series

Speeding Up

That Moment: Part One , Part Two , Part Three

The Brother

Til Death Do Us Part

@mar-gega works

Sokovian Cuddles

Sokovian Tradition

#pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #aaron taylor johnson #aaron taylor johnson x reader #age of ultron #quicksilver

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yourtypicalwriter · 4 months ago

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The Dream Team || (Pietro Maximoff x reader)

GIF Originally posted by @steve-rogers

Words: 2441

Warnings: Some swearing, minor injury.

Summary: You and Pietro went on a mission and had a rough day. Y/n is an agent like Natasha.

Author's Note: I loved writing this one!! Most of the story is a hilarious, action-packed flashback of what happened during the mission. This is my first post and I’ve been working on it since August, so I hope you enjoy it.

-- Christina

➳ ➳ ➳

The file landed on Steve’s desk with a smack.

He looked up and found you and Pietro standing in front of him. “Well, if it isn’t The Dream Team.” He smirked.

The rest of the team coined you and Pietro as ‘The Dream Team’ because of how well you worked together. Yes, you had the occasional quarrel, but ultimately balanced each other out and kept the other in check.

Pietro stood with his arms crossed. “Is that what you wanted?” He asked, flatly.

Steve flipped through the documents. “Yup.” He barely glanced up to thank you. “Great work.”

‘Great work.’ After everything you went through today, he could at least look you in the eyes.

What was supposed to be a simple mission to retrieve intel from a covert HYDRA office in Delaware went completely sideways. It was supposed to be a low-key job: get in, grab the files, and get out, but it turned into a full-fledged, cross-city chase and an overall hell of a mess.

➳

You and Pietro stood about a mile out from where the HYDRA laboratories were located.

Leaning against a tree, you watched as Pietro was kicking dirt, waiting impatiently.

You were waiting to meet up with a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who went undercover as HYDRA personnel a couple of months ago. They were going to get you past security and into a HYDRA scientist’s office so you could retrieve documents.

You jumped when you heard rustling from the trees, making Pietro spin around, too.

“What was that?” Concern washed over your face as branches continued to snap.

Pietro stepped in front of you, fist at the ready.

Emerging from the foliage was a woman in a business suit holding a briefcase.

You both exhaled and looked around.

“Hello, sorry for the scare.” The blonde-haired woman said. “It's a perfect day for a walk."

The both of you stood confused for a moment until you remembered the rest of the code sentence. "Oh right! I hope you brought an umbrella, just in case it rains."

She nodded. "So, you’re the ones I’m supposed to meet with? Agent Y/L/N, Maximoff, correct?

You both nodded.

“I’m Agent 13.” She said, flashing her badge.

She placed her briefcase on a tree stump and opened it to reveal a computer. She began typing away. “Turgeon is on an hour lunch break, which leaves his office unattended and gives you two plenty of time to grab the file."

You could hear the clicking of keys on the keyboard.

“I was able to make a copy of Turgeon’s ID card too, so opening doors won’t be a problem.” Agent 13 continued. “Once you’re past security at the front doors, take the stairs; there’s less of a chance you’ll be recognized. Then, you’ll go to the 9th floor, swing a left, and the office will be the third door to your right. Do not draw attention to yourselves. We can’t risk anyone recognizing you.”

“Got it.” You and Pietro replied.

“Okay, I temporarily shut down their security system, but not for long.” She looked up at both of you. “You’re up. Get in and get out.”

“Ready?” Pietro turned to look at you.

“Ready.” You confirmed.

He scooped you up, and in a second you were a few meters away from the building, hidden behind a white van parked out front.

Pietro smoothed out his shirt, and you fixed your false glasses in the van’s mirror.

You began to worry. “This is stupid. How is no one going to recognize us? We’re literally so recognizable right now. It’s like how no one knows who Superman is, but it’s so obvious.”

Pietro walked towards you and put a hand to your shoulder. “Look at me.”

You were reluctant to, but you did it anyway.

“Take a breath, okay? Don’t worry.” He said calmly. “Just don’t draw attention to yourself, and we’ll be out of there before you know it, m’kay?”

You took a breath. “Okay. Let's do this.” You peeked out from behind the van, and once the coast was clear, you both made your way towards the front doors.

The security cards worked; now you were in the building and headed towards the stairs.

You stopped as a man with a mop and bucket was blocking the doorway to the stairs.

“Sorry. Can't use the stairs. Clean up.” He said flatly.

“Really?” You questioned.

“Seriously?” Pietro rolled his eyes.

The man shrugged and continued mopping the floor.

“Elevator, I guess.” You suggested.

You headed over to the elevator and repeatedly pressed the button.

The elevator doors opened to reveal about 10 people crammed like sardines. They tried to make an effort to shift around to accommodate Pietro and yourself.

You both tried to keep a low profile on the elevator ride. You didn't worry much; everyone was pretty preoccupied with the documents and folders in their hands that they didn't really look up at the two of you.

Once you arrived on the 9th floor, you and Pietro stepped out and made your way down the hall.

You could see agents here and there, popping in and out of offices.

You arrived at Turgeon’s office and walked in. Pietro shut the door and you closed the blinds.

You were looking for information on ‘Project Red Sky.’ Some files were more recent and on a hidden network, so you shoved a USB drive into the computer and began uploading everything. And some files dated back to the 60s, so Pietro went through the filing cabinets in search of information.

“Found something!” Pietro called out and placed the file on the desk.

You looked through it. “Great! Uh… just fold that up and put it in your pocket or something.”

“You’re sure that’s safe?” He questioned.

“It’s four sheets of paper; I think we’ll be fine.” You reassured him.

Once everything had been uploaded, you removed the USB and opened the office door.

With Pietro in front, you walked back down the hall towards the stairs.

Just then, someone bumped into you by accident.

The man who was previously looking down looked up at you, now puzzled.

“Sorry.” You said, head down as you continued down the hall, now a little faster, trying not to be recognized.

You could hear indistinct whispering behind you and felt people’s gaze upon you. You tugged on the back of Pietro’s shirt to give him a signal that you two had probably been compromised.

Pietro fell behind slightly to make sure that you were safely in view.

How nice, you thought sarcastically.

You peered over your shoulder. Not paying attention, you stumbled over a file cart that was being wheeled across the hall. Pietro used his powers to quickly stop you from hitting the ground.

Your arm was wrapped around his neck. “Woah. Thanks.” You said, looking into his blue eyes. Then you snapped out of your daze and realized what he had just done: shown his abilities in a place where that meant trouble.

If the agents hadn’t already noticed you then, they sure did now.

“Hey!” A HYDRA agent called out.

You snapped your heads up.

“It’s one of the Enhanced. And her? She's with the Avengers!” The agent said, pointing straight at the both of you, who stood there like two deer in headlights.

The Dream Team had been caught. And that’s when shit hit the fan.

You and Pietro looked at each other and spoke in unison. “Aw, damn.”

One of the agents shot a device that latched onto Pietro, just as he made a move to grab you and run. The device sent a little shock wave through his body that immobilized his abilities.

“Gah!” Pietro clutched his side.

It seemed to be a power inhibition device.

Alarms began to sound as HYDRA agents poked their heads out from their offices.

He urged you to keep running.

You grabbed Pietro’s arm and pulled him along, down the hall and towards the stairs. You threw the door open and started jumping down the steps as quickly as possible.

HYDRA agents were popping out of doors in the stairwell and joining the chase.

You reached the bottom of the steps and threw the door open aggressively.

“Hey!” Shouted the janitor.

“Sorry!” You yelled back.

“Why must you apologize for everything?” Pietro asked hurriedly.

With Pietro, plus about a dozen HYDRA agents, on your tail, you made it through the lobby and outside. You both stopped and looked around for an escape plan.

“What do we do?” You asked.

“We can’t keep running; they’ll catch up to us. Y/n!” He said hastily as agents approached.

You looked from left to right and spotted the van from earlier, with its back doors open.

“Shut up and follow me!” You said.

Grabbing his arm, you pulled him into the back of the van and shut the doors behind you.

Pietro sat in the driver's seat. “I—uh.” He hesitated, unfamiliar with what he was supposed to do.

“You don’t know how to drive?!” You shouted as you could see HYDRA agents exiting the building from the side mirror.

“Well, I didn’t really need to know how, now did I?” He questioned, making a running motion.

“Get up!” You shouted as you threw him into the passenger’s seat.

You plopped yourself down in the driver's seat and turned the keys that were still in the ignition.

You stepped on the gas pedal and drove into the city, HYDRA agents on your tail in their black SUVs.

“Get Tony on the phone.”

“Wh—”

“Don’t question me; just do it!”

Pietro took your phone out of your pocket, dialed Tony’s number, and put him on speaker.

“Hello?” Tony's voice rang through the phone.

“Tony! We need your help.”

“Y/n? Who’s ‘we’?” He asked.

“Me and Pietro.”

“Let me stop you right there. Speedy’s been on a pranking rampage, hiding my tools, screwing with my tech, and now expects—"

“Listen, I’m sorry, but I don’t give a crap right now.” You said, rushed. ”You can give Pietro shit when we get back.”

A soft “Hey” came from Pietro.

“Long story short," you continued, "we’re on a mission, and we’re on the move in the city. Is there any way you can autopilot the Quinjet to our location?”

“There’s always a way.” Tony reassured.

“There’s no way we can escape them!” Pietro looked back at the black SUVs following you.

“Hold on!” You ordered.

“Whoa!” Pietro shouted as you took a sharp right turn.

And another sharp right just in case.

“Jesus!” He yelped, the phone slipping out of his hands.

“Sorry! You can never be too sure.” You advised as Pietro picked the phone up from the floor.

The black SUVs were no longer behind you, so you guessed they drove right through the intersection.

“Tony, I need an ETA on the jet.” You said urgently.

“Okay,” Tony said, “There’s a parking lot about a quarter of a mile west from your location. I can land the jet there.”

“Perfect. I’ll let you know when we board the jet. Bye!” You said as Pietro pressed the end call button.

You spotted an alleyway and turned into it. The both of you rocked as the van hopped the curb and skidded to a halt.

“Get out.” You said quickly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “What?” Pietro questioned as he unbuckled his.

“HYDRA’s looking for a van, so we’ll be better disguised if we ditch it.” You jumped out of the van and slammed the door, prompting Pietro to do the same.

“Let’s go!” You started on foot.

You and Pietro were running down the sidewalk, people jumping out of your way.

You looked back and saw the black SUVs from before, rounding a corner.

“Seriously!?” You said, breathlessly.

HYDRA caught up to you… again.

Pietro started. “But you said—”

“I know, I know.” You cut him off.

“Can’t catch a break.” He said, as you both began running faster.

Luckily, you were getting closer to the Quinjet.

You approached the parking lot and ran as fast as you could through the loading hatch door.

Once inside, you ran upfront to press the video screen, “Tony, hurry! Start the engines and get us out of here!”

Then you pressed the ‘close door’ button as the SUVs got closer.

“Hurry.” Pietro waited impatiently, as he watched the agents exit the vehicles.

“C’mon, c’mon.” You whispered as the door closed slowly.

"Got it!" Tony said through the video screen on the dash.

The engines started up, and the plane slowly lifted into the air.

You sighed. “Thanks, Tony.”

“No problem,” his voice echoed through the small screen, “But you’re in for it when you get home, you little bastard.” He pointed to Pietro, and the screen turned off.

Pietro rolled his eyes and plopped himself down in one of the seats, just as you did.

Finally, you both had a chance to exhale.

➳

“Seriously, all of that only for you to say, ‘Great work’?” You questioned Steve.

“What?” Steve chuckled. “Were you expecting a hug?”

“Yeah! Maybe…” You shouted, which made him look at you, confused. “Ya’ know what? A hug would've been nice after the day we just had.”

Steve looked at you with a face that had ‘sorry’ written all over it. “Y/n, you know I was just—”

“Ah ah—” You interrupted him. “Good day, Steven.” You slapped your hand on the desk and marched out of the office as Pietro loosely followed.

You walked down the hallway, thinking about how you definitely reacted too harshly. You knew Steve was joking and didn't deserve that outburst.

After all, he was only doing his job and giving orders. You knew he was busy, and now you felt bad for shouting at him.

It had been a long day. You just wanted to climb into bed and rest your aching body.

You felt someone poke you. As you spun around to face Pietro, he wrapped his arms around you and rested his chin on your head.

“Oof—” As much as you wanted to resist, you melted into his arms. How could you possibly fight this after the day you just had?

“There’s your hug.” He said with a smile.

“Thanks, Pietro.” You smiled.

“No problem. Also, I'm pretty sure Steve feels very terrible now.”

“Shush,” you tightened your grip around Pietro, “I'll give him his apology hug tomorrow.”

➳ ➳ ➳

↩︎ Back to Masterlist

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ticifics · 3 months ago

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Hair Bleach

Pietro Maximoff x f!reader

Summary: He was sitting on the kitchen counter, his long legs stretched out and his messy brown hair already partially covered by the bleach you were carefully applying. “Do you think it’ll look good?” he asked, his voice low and slightly rough, but carrying a playful tone that was so characteristic of him. “You’ve done this before, remember? It wasn’t exactly a disaster,” you replied, trying to focus as you spread the cream through his hair.

Warnings: fluffy, modern!au

Maybe it was the drink you both had earlier – that cheap wine Steve insisted on serving – or maybe it was just the laid-back atmosphere of the party, with Wanda’s laughter echoing through the room and the music that seemed like it would never stop. You weren’t exactly sure what had made you comment on his hair. Maybe it was a flash of memory, a detail lost in time.

“Do you remember when your hair was bleached?” you had asked, both still a little dizzy as you walked down the empty street, heading home.

He laughed, his voice rough and a little drawn out, clearly carrying the influence of the drinks. “Remember? Hard to forget. You loved messing with it.”

“I really did,” you admitted, feeling your face heat up. It was true, after all. Pietro with bleached hair had been almost a comical version of himself – always complaining about the upkeep, but knowing how much you liked it.

“Then why don’t we do it again?” he suggested, that carefree sparkle in his eyes that was so typical of him.

“Now?” you asked, laughing.

“Now,” he confirmed, with an unexpected determination.

And before you could protest, you were standing in front of a 24-hour pharmacy, arguing over which bleach brand would be best while laughing like two teenagers.

Now, in your apartment, the wine had given way to a comfortable sobriety. The apartment still smelled like the party, as if the echoes of the night you’d spent together refused to completely disappear. Dim lights filtered through the blinds, creating an almost theatrical contrast between the dark and the light. You were still in your party dress, a piece of fabric that seemed made for Pietro to look at you like that – his blue eyes sparkling, intense and sweet, as if the thought of looking away was unthinkable.

He was sitting on the kitchen counter, his long legs stretched out and his messy brown hair already partially covered by the bleach you were carefully applying. The black t-shirt was a little askew, revealing the outline of muscles you knew by heart, but that still made you blush as if it were the first time you saw them.

“Do you think it’ll look good?” he asked, his voice low and slightly rough, but carrying a playful tone that was so characteristic of him.

“You’ve done this before, remember? It wasn’t exactly a disaster,” you replied, trying to focus as you spread the cream through his hair.

He smiled, that grin that was a mix of mischief and tenderness, before tilting his head back, looking at you closely. “It wasn’t a disaster because you said it looked good. Everything you say looks good, I believe.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile that slipped out was inevitable. Pietro had that effect on you – an almost magical ability to turn the simplest moment into something that felt extraordinary.

“Stop moving your head,” you murmured, gently pushing his face into the right position.

“Hard to do. You’re here, looking gorgeous like this, talking to me as if I don’t want to kiss you every five seconds.”

“You’re already distracting me,” you shot back, but he didn’t seem in the least bit sorry.

“It’s part of my charm,” he replied before sliding one of his large hands to your waist. The touch was warm, firm, as if he needed to feel your presence there, just to make sure this was real.

“Pietro,” you complained quietly, but your voice lacked any strength. Not when his fingers were mindlessly tracing little circles against the fabric of your dress.

“Just one kiss,” he asked, leaning forward, his short beard brushing your cheek before he reached your lips with his.

It was a lazy kiss, but full of meaning. He had always been like that with you, direct in his feelings, with no room for doubt.

When he finally pulled away, you sighed, but the laughter that slipped out afterward was involuntary. “If I mess up, it’s because you can’t stay still. It’ll be your fault.”

“Then I’ll have to live with a permanently stained head,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But I bet you’d still think I’m cute.”

“Maybe,” you teased, turning your attention back to his hair.

Your fingers slid carefully through the brown strands, now covered by the white bleach cream. The chemical smell filled the air, but it wasn’t enough to overshadow the sweetness that seemed to emanate from the moment. Pietro closed his eyes slowly, as if savoring a luxurious experience and not something as mundane as getting his hair bleached in the kitchen of your apartment. For the first time that night, he was quiet, allowing you to work in peace – at least in terms of words.

His hands, however, weren’t so easily quieted. One rested on your waist, the fingers unaware of the thin fabric of the dress you were still wearing, while the other moved up to your thigh, resting there with familiarity and a touch of affection. He wasn’t exactly distracting you, but he didn’t seem willing to let you forget he was there, that he needed to touch you – as if you might disappear if he wasn’t sure you were real.

The warmth of his touch was something you could feel even through the fabric, a constant reminder that he was near, that he was yours. And as much as you tried to focus on his hair, the bleach, the time it needed to work, it was impossible not to be affected.

“If this keeps up, I’m going to mess up,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

His lips curved into a lazy smile, his eyes still closed. “Doesn’t seem like I’m the one distracting you right now,” he replied, but didn’t move, just enjoying the feel of your fingers massaging his scalp.

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled with the soft sound of his breathing and the sensation of his hair under your fingers. For a moment, you lost yourself, the movements becoming slower and more careful. It was almost hypnotic – the texture of the strands, the warmth radiating from his skin, the way he seemed so absorbed in the touch, as if nothing else mattered.

And then you looked at him.

His face was relaxed, dark lashes contrasting against his pale skin, the stubble outlining the curve of his jaw. His chest rose and fell in a tranquil rhythm, as if he were on the verge of a light sleep, but the smile on his lips was still there, a small curve that seemed impossible to erase.

It was inevitable. You leaned in before you even realized what you were doing, your lips touching his in a gesture as natural as breathing. Pietro responded immediately, as if he had been waiting for this, his hands gently gripping your waist and thigh, pulling you closer.

The kiss started sweetly but quickly turned into something more. It wasn’t urgent, but it had an intensity that made your knees almost buckle. When you tried to pull away, his hands wouldn’t let you, holding you in place as if he wasn’t done yet.

“Wait,” you tried to protest against his lips, but the word came out muffled, without conviction.

It wasn’t until you felt something wet trickling down the side of your face that reality hit hard. “Pietro!” you exclaimed, laughing as you pulled away.

He opened his eyes, confused, but the smile quickly returned when he saw the white stain on the side of your hair and a bit on your forehead. “Well, looks like you’re going to bleach with me.”

You stared at him, open-mouthed. “I told you this would happen! Now my hair’s going to be stained, and it’s all your fault.”

He shrugged, not a hint of regret. “You’re still beautiful. Maybe we should bleach it all at once.”

“No way,” you replied, trying to wipe the cream off your forehead with the back of your hand, only to spread it even more.

Pietro laughed, that warm, contagious laugh that made your heart race. He grabbed a piece of paper towel and leaned forward, wiping the stain off with a care that was completely at odds with the laughter shaking his shoulders. But then he held your face, giving you a look full of affection. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”

You blinked, surprised by the intensity in his voice. “I know, Pietro.”

His fingers ran along your cheek. “I want you to know. Really. I don’t care about the hair, or what we do. I just want to make you happy.”

Your heart tightened, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to disappear. “You already do,” you said, your voice softer than you intended, but full of sincerity.

He smiled, that small, genuine smile that was all his. “Good. Because you’re everything to me.”

You felt the words like a hug, warm and full of meaning. He had always been like that – direct, no nonsense, but full of feeling.

“Now stop distracting me,” you said, trying to refocus, but the smile on your face was impossible to hide.

“No chance,” he replied, leaning in to steal a kiss before you could protest.

#pietro maximoff #pietro marvel #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff x y/n #quicksilver x y/n #ao3 writer #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #romance #aaron taylor johnson #atj #fluffy #atj x reader #writing #no use of y/n #modern!au

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tvandfilmarvel · 5 months ago

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AVENGERS: AGE OF ULTRON (2015) dir. Joss Whedon.

#icons #movies icons #aaron taylor johnson #aaron taylor johnson icons #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff icons #quicksilver #quicksilver icons #age of ultron #age of ultron icons #marvel #marvel icons #marveledit #icons without psd #tvandfilm #cinematv #filmedit #moviesedit

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gingerteafairy · 2 months ago

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𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 + 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞

𝐝𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐤𝐢 – 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

Dave would have nearly all the love languages, but these two fit him best. As Kick-Ass, he would go out of his way to solve conflicts in your life, often being a bit nosy. If he found out someone made you cry, that person could expect a serious conversation (a real talk—he couldn’t actually fight them). He loves hugs and never misses the chance, even when you’re busy. He adores studying and gaming with you on his lap. "Would you mind sitting on my lap? It's for my exam. Really important, okay?" #1 PDA king.

𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐢 𝐯𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐲 – 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

Alexei would be the biggest fan of long night walks and picnics, where he could admire you and take in every detail of your world, from the sound of your laugh to the subtle way your breath deepens when he gets too close. If the conversation faded, he’d simply trace his fingers over your face, memorizing the texture of your skin and every hair in your brows, cherishing even the tiny imperfections you hated. "If you ever change, i fear that stars will fall with me to the ground. you're perfect this way."

𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐞 – 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬

He loves holding hands and kissing, yet he’s not a fan of being overly clingy and prefers other ways to show affection. He’d write songs for you, teach you how to play bass, and share headphones with you. He’d love when you visited the shop but wouldn’t let you help with the heavy work—he didn’t want you to get overworked. "You can help the cashier. You're good with numbers, right? Always thought you were smarter than me."

𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐫𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐫 – 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬

Tom is used to being praised, he loves having his ego stroked. This carries over into how he handles romance, where he’s quick to compliment you without overthinking it. “That’s really good, you’ve got talent.” “You look great today—did you do something with your hair?” Random gifts? Absolutely. Part of it is because he had the money and liked showing off, but deep down, it was because he loved seeing your surprised smile. “This? Oh, just bought it on sale.” (5K dollar jacket.)

𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟 – 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

Pietro is impulsive—his actions tend to come before he fully thinks things through. If someone upset you or made you insecure, even if it was in the past, he’d probably end up in a scuffle. Too tired to go grocery shopping? In a flash, he’d grab everything you need. Forgot to thaw the meat for dinner? No problem, he’d use physics to handle it in no time. "You saw that? Only for you, baby."

𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 – 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Because his job is so unpredictable, Tangerine prefers to show affection when he’s with you. He’d sit you on his lap and listen to you talk about what happened while he was gone. It was his way of forgetting all the work chaos and focusing on how normal life could still be. He even taught you how to trim his mustache just to have you close. And of course, he’d always compliment your talents, beauty, and everything you did—with that signature dirty mouth of his. “Shit, darlin'. You’re so fucking good for me. love ya."

masterlist

#x reader #imagine #reader insert #fanfic #aaron taylor johnson x you #aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson fandom #aaron taylor johnson #alexei vronsky x you #alexei vronsky #dave lizewski #tangerine #robbie #angus thongs and perfect snogging #tom ryder #pietro maximoff #quicksilver

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ch3rikizreal · 7 months ago

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AgauwjbahdaddydinabdkwnabdknenaaIwannahavehischildrenhhahirhiqbdjak

Alright, that’s all I have to say

#aaron taylor johnson #atj #bullet train #quicksilver #HES SO SLUTTY AJSHJAJSJRJAK #pietro maximoff #tangerine #james potter #i love him so much #I NEED HIM SO BAD #someone save him from granny

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painted-flag · 14 days ago

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RASPBERRY TARTS - p.m.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ part of my Marvel soulmate series, found here. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pietro maximoff x fem!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: action sequence, mention of parental death, and small depictions of violence. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 5.1k words.

The earliest memories you had were of your grandparents explaining soulmates. The exact cause was entirely unknown, but when a person was born they had the name of the person who shared their soul printed somewhere on their body. However, there seemed to be a split in the population; some people had the marks and others did not.

You happened to fall into the percentage of people who possessed a soulmark.

As a child, unable to understand much, you were excited at the prospect. However, as you grew and your grandparents revealed the truth of what happened to your parents, the idea of possessing a soulmate became bitter.

Soulmates were not guaranteed love, or even friendship with their partners. Sometimes it ended in a happy ending, other times it did not. Your parents had been the latter. Soulmates, yes, but it did not work out in the end. It was hard coming to terms with their ugly divorce, even more so the plane accident that left you an orphan and under the care of your grandparents.

Since then, the small words on your forearm seemed to glare at you. It was written in what you later learned was Sokovian.

Pietro Maximoff.

The name echoed in your head daily.

It all came crashing down shortly after the Ultron incident in Sokovia. You had been in a cafe in New York, scouting out places with your friend to start a cafe, when the news was captivated by the rising city. Then, months later, the Avengers revealed two new members that were caught on camera saving the citizens with them. Pietro and Wanda Maximoff.

You nearly had a heart attack that day and your friend, Evette, spent the rest of the day consoling you. She knew the name of your soulmate and had understood your rocky history with the concept.

Now, four years later, you and Evette had established a cafe in Brooklyn and have since moved on. Every day, you could absorb yourself into freshly made bread and other goodies and not have to worry about the very real fact that your soulmate was a superhero and living in the city. Under no circumstances did you want to meet him. If it ended so horribly for your parents, surely the same fate would befall you?

Especially if your soulmate was a high-profile person and the Avengers were not short on enemies.

You were in the front of the bakery during a lull in customers while Evette was in the back prepping some ingredients. Things were calm for once, which made you relieved to get past the morning buzz of customers. Your hand held a cloth as you wiped down one of the counters. The bell of the door rang out as a new customer came in.

You looked up to see a man who looked to be somewhere in his 40s. He had short, spiked dark hair and wore sunglasses. He was decently tall, fit as well, and walked with confidence. There was something there that was familiar, but you could not entirely pin it. He gave you a small smile as he came up to the counter.

“Welcome, how may I help you today?” You put the cloth down and wiped your hands on your apron nervously.

“I’ll have a medium black coffee with an apple fritter, please.” The man replied. You nodded while ringing his order up. While you were busy, he leaned against the counter.

“I’ve heard good things about this place, but never had the time to come by.” He spoke.

“Work keeps you busy?” You asked as you grabbed a to-go cup.

“You could say that,” He answered before taking note of your name on your name tag, “Don’t really come across that name often.”

You shrug at his words, “I always thought it was common.” You poured the hot coffee into his cup and put the lid on before grabbing a small paper bag and tongs to grab a fresh apple fritter from the display case. You packed it up and placed it next to the coffee on the counter.

“Well, it's nice regardless. I’m Clint. Good to meet you.” Clint gave you a friendly nod before turning to walk out of the door.

“You too.” You responded. Just as he was going to leave, the TV broadcasted a recent bank heist that was thwarted by some Avengers. Video playback showed a quick ray of silver shooting back and forth before it stopped, revealing Pietro, while the reporter spoke over the footage and recapped the events from just a few minutes ago.

You sucked in a breath. Pietro was undeniably an attractive man, which only made the situation worse. A superhero and hot? There was no way you could match that. Insecurity clawed at your heart for a moment.

“Pretty incredible guy, right?” Clint casually asked. You turned to him, only to see him already facing you with a look of curiosity on his face. There was something in his look, patience, waiting for which you did not understand.

Immediately you looked down at the counter, fiddling with a cloth while red coats your face, “I guess. I don’t really pay attention to that stuff.”

You cringed afterwards. Don’t pay attention to ‘that stuff?’ How ridiculous could you sound?

It was mainly the truth. You did not know the Avengers that well. It was never a priority for you. When the news of Pietro and his sister joining the team hit the media, you made sure to distance yourself as much as possible.

“Don’t blame you. That stuff is dangerous. Have a good day.”

The man left quickly, leaving you alone in the bakery. Again, that feeling of familiarity crept over you as you watched him through the front glass. You almost thought long on it, but a bell at the door and a new customer coming in caught your attention. A smile made its way on your face as you prepared to continue your day.

The ache in your feet was already prominent and it was not even midday yet. The morning rush had been especially chaotic with some convention being hosted down the street. Evette was working overtime in the kitchen and you had zipped back and forth behind the counter filling orders and trying to keep a smile.

When the crowd had dissipated, you slouched against the counter and stared at the floor with your eyes closed. It was a last-ditch effort to summon up some kind of will to continue working. A ding indicated a new customer. You immediately shot up and alert to greet them, only to relax and smile gently at who walked in.

Clint had become a regular, coming in every day for the last two weeks. He was always calm and good at conversation while being incredibly witty. There was something fatherly about the way he interacted with people. It was something you sorely missed and lacked in your life.

“You look dead.” Clint joked.

Your hand rubbed one of your shoulders to try and relieve the tension, “I feel dead.”

“Bad morning?” He asked while he looked at the pastries. One thing you knew about him was his insatiable attraction to baked goods. You were sure if the world came to an end, he would still run to the nearest bakery for a sweet treat.

“Busy. That convention down the street has a lot of hungry people.” You sighed as you adjusted some of the coffee brewing items behind the counter.

“You know, for someone who interacts with people as part of their job, you don’t seem to like them very much,” Clint spoke.

“Trust me,” Evette spoke as she exited the back with a tray full of fresh pastries to load the display case, “I’ve told her how ridiculous it is.”

You shrugged, “Big crowds aren’t my thing.” You were never a fan of crowded spaces; people shoulder to shoulder and speaking in shouts to one another. It was uncomfortable and only made you feel drained.

“Well, what about galas?” Clint slyly asked. Evette stopped loading the pastries into the glass and looked at him.

“What do you mean?” Evette asked.

“There’s this gala tonight and I got the room on my invite for two more. Does that sound good?” Clint asked as he eyed the raspberry tarts.

“Oh, uh-” You exchanged a look with Evette, prepared to turn him down before your friend interrupted.

“We’re both in.” Evette smiled at you. You gave her an intense look of disapproval. She had been trying to make you get out there and meet more people lately, but you had put up a good fight so far. Clearly, you were outmatched.

“Awesome. Here’s my number,” Clint slid a piece of paper across the counter, “Also, just my regular order, but I’ll take two of those raspberry tarts.”

Clint sighed with frustration as he sat on a high chair in the Avenger’s tower. His cup of black coffee, which was almost completely drunk, had gone cold. He had arrived to utter chaos in the living quarters. Pietro was running around, making markings on the ground as he jittered from place to place. Wanda sat next to Clint, happily eating one of the raspberry tarts as she watched her brother freak out.

“I do not see what all the fuss is about,” Wanda spoke as she took a sip from a glass of water. Despite it being four years since they joined the Avengers, their Sokovian accents were still as thick as the day they met the dysfunctional – but somehow semi-functioning – family of superheroes. Pietro stopped zooming around and took the second tart. He bit down, humming at the nice taste, before opening his mouth.

“This is going too fast. He was supposed to ease her into it.” Pietro rocked on the balls of his feet. For the first time in his life, he was nervous. A feeling he was not familiar with, nor ever wanted to feel again.

“Too fast for you, speedy?” Clint exclaimed with disbelief, “Days ago you were whining that I was not making any tangible progress and now, when I finally manage to make it, I am suddenly in the wrong?”

“Not like this. The gala is in eight hours!” Pietro started pacing. There was so much he had to do. He planned on having a grand entrance; a classic sweep-one-off-their-feet moment. He dreamed of it since he was a kid, even when he was unable to read the name of his soulmate as he had yet to learn English. It felt like he was staring down the barrel of a gun with limited time to move.

“It was almost as if this was a horrible plan in the first place,” Wanda spoke. Clint nodded her way in agreeance with her words.

“Look, you had Tony track her down and then sent me to scout the place. Remind me again why you think this is necessary?” Clint took a sip of his coffee, grimacing slightly at the cool temperature but still liking the flavour. Pietro’s soulmate makes a damn good cup, he thought to himself.

“I can’t even leave the tower without being swamped by people because your stupid American media does not stop chasing me. I don’t want her to be overwhelmed or put in danger.” Pietro reasoned. For some reason, the American media has chosen Pietro to be a darling representative of the Avengers. Sure, he was a flirt, but it had been taken too far and became nauseating to go out.

Clint hummed, “Fair point, but did you ever think that having me essentially lie to her these last two weeks was a good way to start this whole thing off?”

“Exactly what I said,” Wanda muttered before taking a final swig of her water.

Pietro paused for a moment, raising his hands to his face and digging the heels of his palms into his shut eyes, “I did not think that part through.”

“Do you ever?” Wanda teased. He looked towards his sister in challenge, but she only responded with a sly grin. His stress was getting to him and he took another bite from the raspberry tart.

“Look, we have until tonight to plan it.” Clint got up from his chair and stretched his legs a bit, “Now, what did you originally have in mind?”

This was absolutely ridiculous. Evette insisted that the cafe be closed early to prepare for the gala. For hours, the two of you got ready. Thankfully, you had an appropriate dress in your closet left over from a wedding you went to a year ago. It was good enough for the gala, but not anything entirely special. Evette spent hours on your hair and makeup, as that was something she was particularly gifted in.

It was odd to feel as pretty as you did, but the moment you showed up at the gala over an hour ago, it fled quickly. All the people here were stunning. The reporters, politicians, workers, and everyone in between. It was a charity event and the grandeur of the building shocked you. It was modern, elegant, and easily a damn expensive event.

You and Evette had been on the guest list, welcomed in, handed champagne, and walked into the area. So far, the two of you have not found Clint. Admittedly, you were having a good time despite being slightly uncomfortable with the amount of people that were there. For the most part, you and Evette stuck to one another and only engaged in a few conversations with people.

The two of you stood off to the side, engaged in a small conversation and sipping on champagne; both of you had lost track of the amount of glasses that had been consumed thus far. Both of you were looking out these large floor-to-ceiling glass windows that spanned the height of two storeys. The bright sparkling windows from the skyscrapers appeared to light up the dark sky.

“Having a good time?” The familiar voice of Clint came from behind you two. You turned to see him walking up. This area was more secluded, away from the dazzling crowd. He wore a crisp suit with no tie and the first button undone. Casual, but still fancy.

“It’s been alright.”

“This place is amazing.” Both of your voices chimed off at the same time. Clint laughed gently and stood up by you two. You felt an odd tingling feeling on your wrist where your soulmark was. It was covered by a thick bracelet and your fingers were unable to dig under and calm the itch.

“There is uh, actually a reason why you’re here,” Clint began. You turned to find him already looking at you. An unsettling feeling crept up your spine.

“Uh, guys?” Evette spoke, but it was whispered and unintelligible. She was looking out the window with an uncertain look painted across her face.

“What is it?” You questioned Clint. His hands folded in his pockets and he looked around the room as if searching for something.

“Well-”

“Guys!” Evette caught your attention and pointed down to the street to a pack of suspicious vehicles, “What’s that?”

You looked down the street to find vehicles moving at top speed, hurdling across the cement roadway. The two cars were large, armoured, and not stopping. For a moment, you froze while the worst thoughts flooded your mind. They wouldn’t, would they?

“Shit,” Clint said before grabbing you and Evette’s forearms and dragging you out of the way. In a clash of loud noise and shattering glass, the two vehicles rammed into the windows and pushed into the building. The shards dispersed all over the place, hitting your bare forearms and causing a bunch of cuts to open up. You gritted your teeth at the stinging sensation.

Everything was chaos. From your position on the floor, you could see people running all over the place while men in black clothes and balaclavas exited the cars with heavy weaponry. One of the men ran in your direction but stopped and fell to the ground instantly. You gaped in wonder when you noticed an arrow sticking out of his chest.

Evette’s familiar grip on your arms brought you out of your daze. Your head had taken a harder hit than hers and a pounding behind your eyes started to appear. Beside Evette, standing tall, was Clint with a bow.

Where the fuck did he get a bow from?

You watched as he shot another one of the invading men. It was then that you looked at him, really looked at him. Despite the chaos around you, your brain was finally thinking clearly.

Had you really been this stupid? For someone who wanted to avoid the Avengers, you were damn talented at letting one become a regular at your shop and friend. Shame and guilt filled you. You were not dumb, he knew who you were, he must have. Coincidences like this were unlikely.

Was this whole thing a setup of sorts? Did he actually stumble across your shop or was this planned? Before you could question anything further, you were brought back into the moment.

“Down that hall!” Clint pointed to a door off to the side, “Go to the end and take a right, get out of here!” He pulled an arrow out of a quiver on his back, nocked it, and fired with speed and efficiency that would have amazed you if it were not for how dangerous the situation was.

You and Evette wasted no time in heading towards the door with Clint following. He backed up with you two, focusing on shooting the men who scrambled across the floor of the grand hall. Evette opened the door to expose a long hallway, only to see that there were similarly dressed men there too.

One of the men lifted his hand that held a glock. Clint, being closer to Evette, had a faster reaction time and managed to pull her out of the way. However, it left you vulnerable to the men in front of you. Before you could even think, a flash of colour blurred in front of you. Within a second of time, the two men lay on the ground incapacitated.

Standing before you, was the person you did not ever plan on meeting.

He was slightly taller than you expected, but just as rugged as the videos he appeared in. Pietro wore a white button-up with a loose tie around his neck. His clothing was dishevelled, indicating he had been fighting the invading men well before showing up to play rescue. Your heart felt like it lodged up into your throat.

Pietro was better looking in person – if that was even possible. His silver locks with dark roots suited him, coupled with a strong nose and sharp jaw that was covered in stubble. He was obviously fit by the state of his muscles, especially the strain of his biceps against the white fabric of his shirt which had the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows.

His eyes were the most striking part of his appearance. Vibrant and alert given the situation, but still somehow soft. There was a reflection of familiarity in his pupils, and you immediately understood that he may already know about you. It only added to the evidence you had that Clint’s appearance in your shop may not have been a coincidence.

Pietro opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, his gaze never wavering from you, but the sound of a high-pitched scream back in the main room had his eyes snap to behind you.

It was interesting to watch the silent conversation he had with Clint in those few seconds. Clint gave him a curt nod, almost as if giving reassurance, before you blinked and Pietro was gone; likely off to continue fighting. This dull ache settled in your chest at his disappearance and the itching feeling on your soulmark faded the further he left.

Clint wasted no time in grabbing you and Evette and marching down the hall towards the exit door. He moved with speed, mainly so he could return to the fight. When he opened the door, a sleek back car was waiting in the alleyway. You had no idea how it got there or what it was originally for, but you did not have time to question it. Clint opened the back door and gestured for you and Evette to go in.

“The car will take you home. It will drive to shake off any potential followers. Once home, lock your windows and doors and cover them if you must.” Clint spoke.

Evette looked like she wanted to speak, but was stunned into silence and gratefully nodded before getting in. As you moved to follow her, Clint grabbed your wrist gently. You looked back at him with confusion.

“It was not supposed to happen like this. I hope you know that.” With those words, you finally understood that this was, in fact, planned. The break-in by those guys was not, but your invitation from him was very much intended. Pietro’s attendance at this event was intentional.

It almost hurt to think that Clint’s intentions were not casual. He had walked into your store, knowing damn well who you were – or at least who you were to Pietro – and acted accordingly.

All you could do was nod before joining Evette in the car. Clint closed the door and it automatically locked. He quickly went back inside and the car took off down the alleyway and to the street. You looked forward and saw that there was no driver present.

It was only until you had reached down the block that the adrenaline wore off and you could feel the pain of the cuts on your arm. Even worse, the dull ache in your heart.

The rattling buzz of your phone broke you out of your monotonous clean of one of the tables. You stopped your clean-up work and pulled it from the back pocket of your jeans. Clint’s name flashed across the screen and, like the many other times he has tried to call, you denied it.

It had been almost a week since the incident at the gala. According to the news, the infiltrators were there because the organizer owed the mob. They were stopped, of course, mainly by Clint and Pietro – which the news kept playing footage that bystanders caught during the altercation. Thankfully, you had not been in any of them and you took that as a positive sign.

Since then, Clint has tried to contact you. Truthfully, you were reluctant. The incident only proved one of your underlying fears; how unsafe you would be as a soulmate to an Avenger. The answer was lacklustre, though Evette had been trying to convince you otherwise. She wanted you to reach out and talk to Pietro at the very least. What bothered you the most was that she was right.

Over these few days, you had thought about it. It was not fair for you to isolate yourself from your soulmate. He did not deserve that. This was not a one-way bond, but a shared commonality. A shared soul. You did not want to be cruel to the person that was fated to you.

Admittedly, you were also scared. A soul bond did not necessarily mean a perfect connection. Would you even be good enough for a literal hero? You co-owned a cafe with your friend and played video games with her on the weekends. It was not exactly an exhilarating life. Would he even want an exhilarating life? Would you be boring?

You shoved your phone back into your pocket and took a centrepiece from the table to move behind the counter. As you were crouched down and organizing, the ring of the bell caught your attention.

“Oh, sorry but we are clo-” Your words faded away as you stood up to see Clint there. He was standing casually by the door. You soulmark began to itch you you clocked the situation immediately.

“He’s outside, isn’t he?” You asked. Your hands tapped the counter awkwardly as you tried not to sway on your feet.

“Yes,” Clint nodded, “He’ll come in if you want him to.”

“So, you’re still working as his little spy?” The comment felt harsh as it fell from your lips and you cringed slightly.

Clint sighed, “Look, if you could let him explain.”

You almost wanted to laugh, “How he sent someone to essentially spy on me? Tell me, what did you learn in your reconnaissance?” It felt odd, having been treated like a mission. You were made a target of which they needed to gather intel on. Not a person, not even his soulmate; a mission. Would that be your life with Pietro?

Clint only leaned against a table, “You know he almost died in Sokovia.” It was not a question, but a bold statement that almost knocked you from your feet. That you did not know and the thought of it…

“There was this kid I was trying to get out of there and, uh,” For the first time since meeting him, Clint got visibly uncomfortable and one of his hands lifted up to scratch the back of his head, “Pietro ran and took the bullets for us. By all accounts, he should have died but… he wished for us to find you if he didn’t. To take care of you.”

His words felt like a direct punch to your face. You had been so selfish, so terribly selfish because of your fear that you never thought about him. His life of danger, of possibly never meeting you.

“That kid is alive because of him. My kids still have their father because of him. All I’m asking is to give him a chance.” Clint finished his speech and waited for a response. You could not look at him, unable to reckon with it all.

As if on instinct, you quickly went to brewing coffee as you silently contemplated his words. While it brewed – and you were sure to regret it later as it had already been cleaned for the day – you grabbed tongs and picked out and bagged the last apple fritter; Clint’s favourite.

You placed it on the counter, along with the coffee you poured, and pushed it towards him. Clint made a move to reach into his pocket for his wallet, but you held out your hand.

“Dont. Just take it and,” You paused to breathe out, “You can send him in.”

Clint grabbed the items with a small smile on his face and gave you a nod. He made his way outside your shop and turned down the street and out of sight. You looked down at your hands as they shook with nerves. One of your hands fiddled with a ring on your other, turning it around and around as you waited with bated breath.

The familiar ding of the bell above the door caught your attention. Looking up, you spotted Pietro standing in your shop. He wore casual clothing this time, dark blue jeans with a gray hoodie. His hands were in his pockets and you could tell he was nervous too. Again, you found yourself paralyzed by his eyes.

“I feel I have to explain myself,” Pietro spoke. You crossed your arms and nodded, unable to speak.

“Clint was only doing me a favour. I was worried how you would feel about, well, me and my life, the Avengers…” He trailed off for a moment and took a few steps closer, “It can be overwhelming and dangerous at times, as I am now sure you know. Are you okay?”

“Only a few cuts. Nothing horrible. You?” You had managed to walk out from behind the counter, but for some reason found yourself unable to get closer.

“I’m fine. It was not supposed to be this way, I had planned on having some grand entrance. Sweep you off your feet. Not see you get hurt.” Pietro closed the distance. You noticed immediately how much taller he was. By now, the itch in your wrist has become intense.

Pietro slowly reached out and used his hands to grab your wrist. He carefully pulled up your sleeve and exposed the soulmark on your wrist. His name, in bold black elegant letters, was sprawled on your skin.

The moment his calloused fingers touched your skin, the itching ceased. Warmth pooled from the area and moved throughout our body. With your one free arm, you pulled up the sleeve of the hand that brushed over your mark and saw undeniable proof of your connection. Your name, sprawled in the same writing, was printed on his wrist. You touched it and you could feel him shudder under the sensation.

“I, uh, still can be. Be swept off my feet, I mean. If you want.” You could not help but stutter. His close proximity, the smell of fresh mint and lavender, overwhelmed you. It did not help that the two of you seemed unable to let one another go.

“That I can do.” Pietro smiled and turned over your hand, lifted it up, and brushed his lips across your knuckles without ever breaking eye contact. You could feel heat sweep across your face, which was no doubt red.

“Smooth. Should that make me worried?” You asked.

“Did you not say you wished to be swept off your feet?” Pietro answered. “Though I hate to ruin the immersion, I can’t help but ask, even if you are closed, if you happen to have any more of those raspberry tarts. Clint brought some this morning and, I have to say, you are good.”

You could not help but be reminded of words your grandmother always repeated; the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. If it were not for such a tender situation, you would have laughed.

You smiled at him, watching as he grinned back, “Well most of the food is made by my friend, but the tart is one of my recipes. We’re out but uh, we can make more right now if you want.” You were surprised by your own boldness. The experience you had with men was lacking, so your nerves on navigating uncharted waters ran high.

“That sounds good,” Pietro answered. He gently pulled on your arm, bringing you somehow closer. His hand left yours to tuck some hair behind your ear, “Would it be alright to kiss you?”

“Normally, yes, but I can let it slide.” You answered.

Pietro took your invitation as a go and leaned in. You closed your eyes and lost yourself in the feeling of his lips brushing against yours. His stubble ticked just lightly, but it felt comforting. The warmth from his body ran higher than normal and you suspected it was due to his abilities. Your hands moved to his chest as you gripped the fabric there.

Your heart was alight, buzzing with excitement as his lips moved against against yours. For the first time in your life, a thought burrowed itself into your mind.

Maybe soulmates aren’t so bad.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ It was so hard not to turn this into a 15-20k word long fic. istg it’s like fighting demons.

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mintyys-blog · 1 month ago

Text

CHALLENGE— hip hop dancer! pietro maximoff x ballerina! reader

WARNINGS: smut.

Y/N had always loved her ballet studio. It was her sanctuary—quiet, disciplined, and familiar. So when she found out the neighboring studio space had been rented out for hip-hop dancers, she didn’t think much of it. She wasn’t opposed to the idea. Different styles, different rhythms. Art was art. As long as they respected the space, she had no reason to mind.

At least, not at first.

The first few weeks pass without issue, though Y/N occasionally hears the bass from next door vibrating through the walls. She doesn’t let it bother her. After all, her focus is on her craft, her perfect pirouettes, and controlled leaps. If the music gets a little loud, she tunes it out.

But then, one afternoon, everything shifts.

Y/N walks to the studio with Natasha, laughing about something trivial. The moment they pass the open doorway of the hip-hop studio, a few of the guys lounging by the entrance notice them. One of them whistles low, another one mutters, “Hey, ballerina girl, show us a twirl.” It’s nothing crude, but it still makes Y/N’s stomach twist. Natasha bristles immediately, her hand already curling into a fist.

“I’m gonna—” Natasha starts, but Y/N catches her arm, shaking her head subtly. She doesn’t want trouble, not over some harmless words. Not when it can be ignored. So she pulls Natasha inside, shutting the door firmly behind them.

“Forget it,” Y/N says, brushing it off, but her hands tremble slightly as she ties her ballet shoes.

Still, that interaction lingers. Suddenly, the bass thumping next door feels louder. The walls feel thinner. And even though Y/N tells herself it’s not worth thinking about, she finds her concentration wavering. The calm she usually feels in the studio is cracked, just slightly.

The next few days, the catcalls stop—maybe because Natasha shoots daggers at the open doorway every time they walk by—but the music remains. Loud, fast, unpredictable. It interrupts the smooth flow of Y/N’s movements, her perfect concentration. She starts noticing the way her toes flex harder in her shoes, her jaw clenching at every heavy bass drop.

And then comes the final crack. A particularly loud afternoon, where the music blares through the walls so fiercely that her instructor has to pause their rehearsal. Frustration simmers in the air, and Natasha finally says what they’re all thinking.

“We should say something.”

Y/N hesitates. She doesn’t want to start drama, but the truth is, it’s getting unbearable. So with Natasha at her side, she walks next door. Not angry, just… firm. Calm.

When the door swings open, Y/N is caught off-guard. The man who opens it isn’t some random dancer—he’s Pietro Maximoff. Shirtless, skin glistening with sweat, his hair tousled like he’s just come off the floor. And those abs—well, they’re definitely distracting.

Natasha elbows her sharply, snapping her back to reality.

Y/N clears her throat, forcing her gaze upward, meeting his smirk. “Um, sir, do you mind turning down the music a bit? It’s coming through to our studio.”

She expects resistance, maybe a laugh, or even some flirtatious challenge. But Pietro just leans against the doorframe, his grin never wavering.

“Sure thing, princessa,” he says smoothly, the nickname sliding off his tongue like honey.

Y/N blinks, caught off-guard by how easily he gives in. No argument, no teasing. Just… agreement. He calls over his shoulder, telling someone named Bucky to lower the volume. Within seconds, the music softens.

“Thank you,” Natasha says, though her gaze is still wary.

Y/N nods stiffly, murmuring her own thanks. She turns quickly, walking back into her studio with Natasha close behind.

But she can feel Pietro’s eyes on her as she walks away. Like a slow burn—smoldering, patient, waiting.

Y/N tells herself to forget about it. That brief moment at the door—Pietro’s smirk, the smooth way princessa slid off his tongue—it’s nothing. Just an encounter, just a guy being casually flirtatious. She has more important things to focus on. Like perfecting her turns and holding her arabesque just a little longer. Like keeping her mind clear and her movements cleaner.

But forgetting proves harder than she thought.

The next time Y/N walks into the studio, she catches herself glancing toward the neighboring door. She hears the music, softer now, but still pulsing beneath the walls like a heartbeat. The same beat that seems to pulse in her mind, a constant reminder of who’s just next door.

Natasha notices. She always does.

“Don’t,” Y/N says quickly, before Natasha can even open her mouth.

Natasha just shrugs, but the knowing smile on her lips is infuriating.

⸻

Later that week, Y/N stays late after class, practicing alone. The studio is empty, quiet, the kind of silence that usually calms her. But tonight, it feels heavy. Like the quiet is pressing too hard against her skin.

She’s mid-pirouette when the door opens. Her heart lurches—but it’s only Natasha, leaning casually against the frame.

“You’re still here?” Natasha asks, arms crossed.

“I needed more practice,” Y/N says, breathless. “My form feels off.”

Natasha’s gaze lingers for a moment, then she steps inside. “You mean you needed an excuse to stay late and see if he was still next door?”

Y/N freezes, shooting her a glare. “That’s not—”

But before she can finish, music filters through the wall. Softer now, a rhythm steady enough to catch her attention.

“I’m just saying,” Natasha says, “if you want to talk to him, you should.”

Y/N looks down at her toes, at the tension in her ankles, in her hands. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Natasha doesn’t argue. She just raises a brow, smirking.

⸻

The next time it happens, Y/N isn’t expecting it.

She’s leaving the studio after another long practice, her hair pulled loose, ballet shoes slung over her shoulder. As she steps out, the door to the hip-hop studio swings open, and there he is—Pietro. Shirtless again, his skin damp with sweat, hair a tousled mess. He’s laughing about something, his voice rough and easy, but when he spots her, his grin widens.

“Working late, princessa?” he teases, stepping closer.

Y/N hates the way her stomach flips, how warmth curls up her spine at the nickname. She doesn’t let it show. “Some of us believe in discipline,” she says coolly.

Pietro chuckles, leaning against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world. “And some of us believe in fun.”

“Fun doesn’t win competitions,” she says, her voice sharper than intended.

“Doesn’t it?” His gaze drops slightly, lingering on her face, and for a moment, it feels heavier than just words. “Maybe you’re just dancing to the wrong music.”

Y/N’s throat tightens, but she forces a casual shrug. “I’m fine with my music.”

Pietro watches her for a beat longer, his smirk lazy but his eyes sharp. Then he nods, stepping back inside.

“Sure, princessa,” he says, just before the door closes. “Whatever you say.”

⸻

After that day, Y/N finds herself noticing him more—more than she should.

The sound of his laughter is the first thing she picks up on. It cuts through the walls, bright and careless, a sharp contrast to the soft classical music that fills her studio. It’s the kind of laughter that belongs to someone untouched by rules or expectations, someone who doesn’t have to worry about pointed toes or perfect posture. It lingers in her head longer than she cares to admit.

Then there’s the way his shadow drifts through the hallway, a flash of movement that catches her eye when their classes overlap. Sometimes, when she’s stretching at the barre, she glimpses him through the glass door—shoulders loose, steps quick, head tilted back as he laughs with his friends. She tells herself she isn’t watching, isn’t waiting to catch that glimpse.

But she is.

And when the doors of his studio are left open, when she sees him dancing—really dancing—it’s impossible to look away. His movements are wild, sharp, untamed. He moves like the music lives inside him, like every beat tells his body where to go. There’s a recklessness in him, a freedom she doesn’t understand but can’t stop thinking about.

Because Y/N knows what it means to be controlled, to master every movement, every breath. She knows the pain of long hours spent perfecting form, of pushing her body to its breaking point. She knows discipline, precision, sacrifice.

And Pietro? Pietro moves like he doesn’t know the meaning of any of those things. Like he’s never been afraid of failure or falling. He dances like nothing can touch him. Like the world isn’t pressing down on his shoulders, demanding flawlessness. He’s fast and powerful and chaotic, but beneath all that wildness, she sees it—control. Focus. Strength. Hidden, but undeniable.

It frustrates her, how effortless it looks. How he can be all instinct and still own the room. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t notice.

But she does.

⸻

The slow burn intensifies when the studios host a joint open house—an event to promote community, to show that different styles can exist side by side. Y/N doesn’t want to go. She tells Natasha it’s unnecessary, that ballet and hip hop have nothing to do with each other. That she doesn’t need to waste her time watching a bunch of guys showing off.

Natasha only rolls her eyes. “You’re coming. And don’t pretend it’s not because you’re curious.”

Y/N doesn’t answer, but they both know the truth.

⸻

The energy in the room is completely different from what Y/N is used to. It’s louder, messier, alive. People are laughing, moving, leaning against walls with easy confidence. Nothing about it is graceful. Nothing about it is restrained. It makes her feel like an outsider in her own studio.

And then Pietro takes the floor.

The moment the music kicks in, the world seems to tilt. Y/N tries not to care. She stands off to the side, arms crossed, her expression cool and composed. Watching, but pretending not to.

Pietro is reckless, but there’s nothing careless about him. His body moves with purpose, his steps sharp and fast. He’s quick on his feet, precise in a way that isn’t polished but feels powerful. Like every part of him is made for this, designed to catch the beat and twist it into something bigger. His muscles ripple beneath his skin, every motion fluid, sharp, dangerous.

He doesn’t need grace. He owns the chaos.

Y/N tells herself she’s unimpressed, that it’s not her style, not her world. But her heart is pounding, beating faster in time with the music. And when Pietro glances her way—just for a moment, catching her stare—she feels it like a jolt in her spine.

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and knowing. A smirk that says he caught her watching.

And she hates that her first reaction isn’t to look away.

The music cuts off, leaving the room buzzing with leftover energy. Pietro steps back, letting the applause wash over him, but his gaze doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on her, steady, sharp, unreadable.

For the first time, Y/N wonders what it would be like to let go. To forget about discipline and precision. To stop holding herself together so tightly. To dance like him. With him. And that thought—that want—lingers longer than it should.

Y/N forces herself to look away first. She focuses on the floor, on the worn edges of her ballet slippers, on anything but Pietro’s lingering gaze and that damn smirk that feels like it’s burned into her skin.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. Just a look. Just a moment.

But she still feels it. The pull. The spark.

And she hates it.

⸻

Later, when the event ends and the crowd begins to drift, Y/N lingers. She tells Natasha it’s because she wants to help clean up, but Natasha sees through it. She always does.

“Sure,” Natasha says, smiling like she knows something Y/N doesn’t want to admit. “You want to help clean. Not at all waiting to see if a certain someone comes over.”

Y/N scowls but says nothing, arms crossed tight over her chest. She’s not waiting. Not really. But when Pietro breaks off from his group and starts walking in her direction, her heart betrays her with a sharp, eager beat.

He’s still damp with sweat, hair tousled, grin lazy as he approaches. Confidence in every step. He doesn’t have to try. He never does.

“Enjoy the show, princessa?” he asks, stopping just a little too close.

She lifts her chin, sharp and composed, because she refuses to let him rattle her. “It was…interesting.”

His grin widens like he can hear the lie in her voice. “Interesting, huh? That’s one word for it.” His gaze drifts down, slow, like he’s studying her, reading her. “You watch like a dancer. Not just with your eyes, but here.” He taps two fingers to his chest. “You feel it. Even when you don’t want to.”

Y/N’s throat tightens, but she keeps her voice steady. “I know discipline. I know control. That’s what dance is about.”

Pietro chuckles, low and easy. “Nah. That’s what your dance is about.” His head tilts, eyes glinting with something sharper. “Mine’s about letting go. About feeling the music, not thinking about it.”

She meets his gaze, holding it. “Maybe some of us don’t have the luxury of letting go.”

For a moment, his smirk falters—just slightly, just enough to make her wonder. But then it’s back, bright and cocky.

“Maybe some of you are scared to try.”

It feels like a challenge. Like an open door. One she’s not sure she wants to walk through, but the temptation is there, coiled tight in her stomach.

Before she can think of a reply, Natasha calls her name from across the room. Y/N glances back, torn, then looks at Pietro one last time.

“Maybe I just know what I’m good at,” she says, stepping back.

Pietro watches her, the corner of his mouth tilting in that infuriating smirk. “And maybe you don’t know yet.”

⸻

That night, Y/N can’t sleep.

She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way Pietro moved. The way his body caught the beat and made it his. How he was untouchable, unstoppable. Free.

And then she thinks about his words. About the dare in his voice. The way it made her feel—like she was missing something. Like he could see through her, past the surface, to the part of her that wanted to lose control.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter. That it’s just Pietro. Just some cocky guy who thinks he can get under her skin.

But the truth is, he already has.

⸻

The next week, Y/N stays late again. She tells Natasha it’s for extra practice, but in reality, it’s because she hears the bass pounding through the walls, pulling at her.

She waits, sitting near the mirror, listening.

And when the music cuts out, when she hears footsteps passing by the door, her heart hammers in her chest. She tells herself it doesn’t mean anything. That she doesn’t care if he walks past, if he doesn’t even notice she’s here.

But the door cracks open.

Pietro leans against the frame, arms crossed, that smirk playing at his lips. “Burning the midnight oil, princessa?”

Y/N forces herself to stay composed, though her pulse is screaming otherwise. “Practice makes perfect.”

Pietro steps inside, slow and easy. “Perfect’s boring.”

She lifts her chin. “Maybe to you.”

He stops a few steps away, eyes dragging over her, thoughtful. “You ever wonder what it feels like? To let go. To stop worrying about perfect and just move?”

“I don’t need to wonder.” Her voice is sharp, cool. “I’m a dancer. I know what it means to move.”

Pietro’s grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens. “But do you know how it feels to lose control?”

The words hang between them, heavy and dangerous. And Y/N realizes, in that moment, that it isn’t just about dance anymore.

Y/N tries to follow the rhythm, but it feels foreign—too loose, too wild. She’s too used to structure, to steps that make sense, to movements mapped out like a blueprint. Here, with the bass humming low and heavy, she feels like a stranger in her own body.

Pietro watches her, head tilted, eyes sharp but patient. He doesn’t say a word. Just steps forward, slow and smooth, like a wolf stalking its prey.

Then, without warning, he moves past her to the speaker. The music cuts off for a brief second before a new song fills the space—deeper, slower, something dark and sensual that slides along her skin like smoke.

Y/N swallows hard. “That’s not fair.”

Pietro’s grin is sharp. “Life isn’t fair, princessa.”

Before she can argue, he’s behind her. Close. Too close. She feels the warmth of his body, the brush of his breath along her neck. Her muscles lock tight, instinct telling her to step away, to guard herself.

But his hands—calloused and sure—find her hips, gentle but firm. Guiding.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low, coaxing. “Stop thinking. Feel it.”

She wants to tell him no. She wants to resist, wants to pull away and remind him that she isn’t this. That she’s control and discipline and perfect lines.

But then his fingers press just slightly, coaxing her hips into motion, and her breath catches. She feels it—how easily her body can sway, can curve, can melt into something softer, something freer.

The way his breath ghosts along her skin sends a shiver down her spine, and she hates how it weakens her. Hates how her body responds, how her pulse stutters.

“You’re too stiff,” he whispers, his lips grazing her ear. “Let go.”

Her eyes flutter shut. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the music, the warmth of his hands, the way his fingers guide her hips in slow, fluid movements.

And when she shivers again, he chuckles softly, the sound brushing against her neck like a secret.

“Better,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

It’s too much. Too close. She spins, breaking free from his touch—but Pietro is faster. His hands catch her waist, pulling her into him. She stumbles, her breath sharp, and his arm slides around her back, dropping her into a dip so sudden it steals the air from her lungs.

Y/N gasps, her hands finding his shoulders, clutching tight.

And there they are—paused, suspended. His face inches from hers, eyes burning, lips just a breath away.

The air between them feels electric.

Heavy.

His hand is warm on her back, holding her steady, fingers splayed across her spine like he’s claiming her. Her heart races, thudding against her ribs, and she knows he feels it. Knows he hears it in the silence.

Pietro’s gaze flicks to her lips, and her breath falters.

“This is how you let go,” he says, voice a low hum. “You feel.”

For a second, neither of them moves. The moment stretches, thick and dangerous. Temptation curls low in her stomach.

She should pull away. She should fight. But she doesn’t. Because the truth is… she doesn’t want to.

Y/N’s fingers tighten on his shoulders, but she doesn’t push him away. She can’t. The way he holds her, the way his body feels pressed against hers, steady and sure, it’s like gravity itself has shifted—like she’s no longer in control of the moment, or herself.

And maybe that’s why she stays.

Pietro’s breath is warm, his gaze burning into her like a challenge. Like he’s daring her to give in. To admit what she’s feeling.

But she can’t.

Won’t.

Instead, she draws in a slow, shaky breath and lifts her chin just slightly, enough to reclaim a sliver of control. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, vibrating through her where his hand rests against her back. “Doesn’t it?”

And then—like he knows exactly what he’s doing—he pulls her in just a little closer. Their lips don’t touch, but they might as well. The heat is there, the tension crackling in the narrow space between them.

Y/N’s heart pounds, but her pride holds steady. “You think one dance is going to change me?”

Pietro’s smirk is slow, dangerous. “Not one dance.” His fingers flex against her spine, teasing. “But one moment? Maybe.”

She hates that part of her wonders if he’s right.

Hates that her body feels looser now, more fluid. That for a second, she did feel free.

But she’s not ready to give him that victory.

With a sharp breath, she pushes up from the dip, stepping back. Pietro lets her go without a fight, though his hand lingers just a moment longer than necessary—tracing the curve of her waist, like he’s reluctant to release her.

Their eyes lock.

Neither of them speaks.

And then Y/N forces her body to turn, retreating to the door without another word. Without looking back.

But her heart is still pounding. Her skin still remembers the heat of his touch.

And as she steps into the hallway, she swears she can still hear his voice, low and taunting, following her.

“Careful, princessa. The more you fight it, the harder you’ll fall.”

⸻

The days after feel heavier. Like the weight of that moment follows her, curling around her ankles, pulling her thoughts off balance.

She dances harder, sharper, pushing herself until her muscles scream. Until the ache burns away the memory of his hands on her.

But it’s never enough.

Because Pietro is always there.

Sometimes just a shadow in the hallway, the beat of his music slipping through the walls. Sometimes a flash of him dancing, wild and free, his movements all instinct and heat.

And sometimes—worse—he’s there in her mind, the echo of his breath against her skin, the low rasp of his voice telling her to feel.

And it lingers.

⸻

One night, she stays late, chasing perfection. The studio is empty, the air still. Her toes ache, her body tired. She’s been at it for hours, but it isn’t enough.

It’s never enough.

And when she collapses onto the floor, head bowed, frustration burns behind her eyes. She feels trapped in her own skin, her own technique, suffocating under the weight of control.

“Too tight,” a voice says from the doorway, soft but certain.

She doesn’t have to look to know it’s him.

Y/N lifts her head, jaw tight. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

Pietro steps into the room, his presence filling the space like smoke. “And miss watching you lose your mind?” His grin is easy, but his gaze is sharp, focused. “Not a chance.”

She glares, though it lacks heat. “I’m fine.”

“No, princessa,” he says, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. “You’re stuck.”

And God, isn’t that the truth?

He stops a few feet away, crouching low until they’re eye level. His gaze softens just slightly. “You know what your problem is?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

“You’re scared to let go.” His voice is low, coaxing. “Scared you’ll fall. That you’ll lose control and not know how to find it again.”

Y/N swallows, but the words won’t come.

Pietro’s hand lifts, slow and careful, not quite touching—just hovering near her cheek, close enough to feel the warmth. “But that’s the only way you’ll ever really dance.”

The only way she’ll ever be free.

The words burn in her chest. She wants to deny them. Wants to tell him he’s wrong.

But she doesn’t. Because maybe… he’s not.

The silence stretches, heavy and tense, the weight of his words settling over her. Y/N wants to deny it, to tell him he doesn’t understand. That he could never understand.

Because ballet is discipline. Ballet is control. Ballet is knowing every movement, every step, and perfecting it until there’s nothing left but beauty.

But Pietro’s right.

Lately, it hasn’t felt beautiful. It’s felt suffocating.

Her throat tightens, but she lifts her chin, masking the vulnerability with steel. “I choose control,” she says quietly. “It’s better than falling apart.”

Pietro’s gaze doesn’t waver. “And if falling apart is what makes you feel alive?”

The words strike something inside her, something raw and dangerous. Something she doesn’t want to face.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

And then his fingers brush her cheek—light, tentative, like a whisper. His thumb grazes the corner of her jaw, tracing the line of tension there. It’s not a flirtatious touch, not this time. It’s something deeper. Something real.

“You don’t have to be perfect, princessa,” he says softly. “Not with me.”

The words shake her more than they should. Because it isn’t just about the dance anymore. It’s about control. About the walls she’s built so high and so tight, even she can barely breathe inside them.

And Pietro… he’s reckless and untamed, but free.

And maybe, a part of her envies that.

Before she can answer, Pietro stands, offering his hand. “Dance with me.”

It’s not a question. Not a challenge. It’s an invitation.

Y/N hesitates, staring at his hand like it’s a trap. Because she knows if she takes it, something will change. Something inside her will break, and she doesn’t know if she can put it back together.

But then she thinks of the ache in her chest, the weight of perfection pressing down on her, and wonders if breaking might be exactly what she needs.

Slowly, she reaches up. Her fingers brush his.

Warmth. Strength.

He pulls her to her feet, his hands steady on her waist.

The music isn’t loud. Just the low hum of a bass from the other studio, seeping through the walls. But Pietro doesn’t wait. He starts moving, his steps loose, fluid, coaxing her into motion.

And Y/N—she wants to resist. She wants to hold onto control.

But when his hand guides her hips, when he whispers, “Feel, princessa,” something inside her fractures.

Her body moves—not with the sharp precision of ballet, but with something messier. Something raw.

Her movements are hesitant at first, but Pietro is patient, his hands warm, his presence steady. When she falters, he’s there. When she tries to pull back, his fingers catch hers, guiding her through.

And when she lets herself fall into the rhythm, something inside her loosens.

She lets him lead.

Lets her body sway.

And for the first time in a long time… she feels free.

⸻

Their dance slows, but Pietro doesn’t let her go. His hand stays on her hip, his fingers light but sure. Their bodies close, breaths mingling.

“You’re better when you’re not thinking,” he murmurs, and the teasing is gone now. It’s something softer, something that burns low and deep.

Y/N’s breath hitches. Her hands are still on his shoulders, fingers curled tight. She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t trust her voice.

But she doesn’t step back. And Pietro doesn’t move away.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asks, his voice a low hum, brushing over her skin.

And she does. Not just the music. Not just the heat of his body, the steady strength of his hands. But the pull between them. The spark. The danger. And when she meets his gaze, she knows he feels it too.

She should leave. She should say something sharp and cold, reclaim control. But instead, she whispers, “Yes.” And that one word feels like a surrender.

She, feeling the music and the moment, began to dance, her ballet training evident in the fluidity of her movements. Pietro was captivated, his eyes locked on hers as he spit his rhymes, his body swaying to the beat.

The music took over, and they found themselves lost in the moment, their bodies moving in perfect sync. Pietro's hands brushed against hers, sending shivers down her spine, and she knew she was in trouble. The air was charged with tension, and she could feel the attraction between them growing stronger with every passing moment.

As the music reached its climax, Pietro grabbed her hand, pulling her close, his lips inches from hers. She felt his hot breath on her skin, and her heart skipped a beat. The world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the rhythm and the passion.

Pietro started talking dirty to her in his native language, his words low and husky, sending shivers down her spine. She didn't know what he was saying, but the way he said it made her feel like she was his, like she belonged to him. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, his breath hot against her skin, and she felt her body respond to his touch.

"You're so beautiful, so sexy," Pietro whispered in her ear, his voice low and husky. "I want to fuck you all night, to make you mine." He started to speak in his native language again, his words dirty and sensual, and she felt her body respond to the sound of his voice.

Pietro's hands roamed her body, touching every curve and contour, sending shivers down her spine. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, and her chest, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She felt his fingers on her skin, tracing patterns and shapes, driving her wild with desire.

"I want to lick you all over, to taste every inch of your skin," Pietro whispered, his voice low and husky. "I want to make you cum, to make you scream my name." He started to speak in his native language again, his words dirty and sensual, and she felt her body respond to the sound of his voice.

Pietro pulled off her leotard, revealing her lacy bra and panties, and she felt a rush of excitement. He kissed her breasts, his lips tracing the curves of her skin, and she arched her back, feeling the sensation build inside her.

"You're so wet, so ready for me," Pietro whispered, his voice low and husky. "I can smell your arousal, and it's driving me crazy." He started to speak in his native language again, his words dirty and sensual, and she felt her body respond to the sound of his voice.

She reached down, unzipping Pietro's pants, and he groaned, his eyes flashing with desire. She wrapped her hand around his cock, feeling the heat and the hardness, and she knew she was ready to take him inside her. Pietro's eyes locked on hers, burning with intensity, and he whispered a single word in her ear - "Mine"

And with that, he lifted her up, carrying her to the nearby bench, and laid her down, his body covering hers. He kissed her, his lips claiming hers, as he positioned himself between her legs. She felt his cock pressing against her core, and she knew she was ready to surrender to the passion that had been building between them. She moaned his name, whimpering.

Pietro thrust inside her, his cock filling her completely, and she felt a rush of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, feeling the sensation build inside her. He moved slowly, his hips grinding against hers, and she felt the friction building, driving her wild with desire.

As the pleasure built inside her, Pietro's movements became faster, his hips pounding against hers, and she felt the sensation reach a crescendo. She came, her body shuddering with pleasure, and Pietro followed, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with his seed.

She lay there, wrapped in Pietro's arms, the music still pulsing through her veins, and she knew that she had found something special. The passion between them was raw and intense, and she knew that she would never be able to let it go. Pietro's eyes locked on hers, burning with intensity, and she knew that she was his, and he was hers, forever.

The room is quiet, save for the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. The air is thick, warm, carrying the scent of sweat and skin, of something reckless and unspoken.

Y/N lies on her back, her body still humming with the aftermath of what just happened. Pietro is beside her, propped on an elbow, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of her hip, drawing invisible patterns on her skin.

She should say something. Anything. But her thoughts are a mess—tangled and heavy, like her limbs.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not with him.

Not like this.

But it did.

And the worst part? She doesn’t feel regret. She feels… alive. Breathless. Scared.

But not regretful.

Pietro watches her closely, his expression unreadable. There’s no teasing smirk now, no sharp words to hide behind. Just silence.

It makes her skin itch.

She shifts beneath the sheets, tugging them higher over her chest like the barrier will give her back the control she lost hours ago. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she says, though her voice is quieter than she wants.

Pietro’s fingers still, his gaze flicking to hers. “No?”

And there’s that challenge again. That same sharp edge she’s come to expect from him.

Y/N swallows hard. “No.” She says it firmer this time, though her body betrays her—still aching, still remembering. “It was a mistake.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue.

He just hums, low and knowing. “Funny. Didn’t feel like one.”

Her stomach twists. She hates the way he says it—like it was inevitable. Like it meant something.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she says quickly. Too quickly.

And Pietro smiles, slow and dangerous, but there’s no real humor in it. “Then why are you still here?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Because she could leave. She should leave.

But she hasn’t moved.

Not yet.

And that terrifies her.

Y/N forces herself upright, clutching the sheet to her chest like armor. “This doesn’t change anything,” she says, though she’s not sure who she’s trying to convince—him or herself.

Pietro’s gaze drops, just for a second, to the curve of her bare shoulder, the sheet clutched so tightly in her hands. And when his eyes lift again, they’re darker. “Doesn’t it?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Because maybe it does change something.

Maybe it already has.

Y/N swings her legs off the bed, standing on shaky feet. She pulls her clothes back on with trembling hands, avoiding his gaze. She doesn’t trust herself to look. Doesn’t trust herself not to fall back into the heat of his arms.

Not again.

When she’s dressed, she stops at the door, her back to him. “This was a mistake,” she says one last time, her voice soft but firm.

And then she leaves, stepping into the cool hallway, closing the door behind her with a finality that feels like it should hurt more than it does.

⸻

But it does hurt.

The moment she’s alone, her hands clench at her sides, her chest tight. Her body still burns, still remembers.

And worse?

She’s not sure if she’s walking away because it’s the right thing to do… Or because she’s scared of just how much she wants to stay.

For the next few days, Y/N throws herself into her ballet practice, hoping that the rhythm of her routines, the familiar structure, will help her forget what happened. But every time she steps into the studio, the memory of Pietro’s touch lingers at the back of her mind, like an unshakable shadow.

She avoids him at all costs. When she hears the thumping bass from next door, her stomach tightens, and her chest grows heavy. But she forces herself to stay focused, blocking out the noise, the heat of his hands, the memory of how effortlessly he had moved her.

She sees him in the hallway a few times, but she quickly turns her back, pretending not to notice the way his eyes follow her every move. His smirk, that damn smirk, is always there, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking, exactly how she’s feeling.

And it drives her crazy.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling class, Y/N finds herself lingering at the edge of the hallway, just outside the door to the hip-hop studio. She tries to tell herself it’s just to stretch her legs, just to get some air—but she knows the truth.

She’s waiting for him.

A moment later, the door to the hip-hop studio opens, and Pietro steps out, sweat glistening on his skin, his hair wild and messy, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. His eyes immediately lock onto hers, and she feels a heat rush through her, a flush of something dangerous and raw.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, his voice low and teasing, but there’s an edge to it. He steps closer, closing the space between them, until he’s only inches away.

Y/N swallows hard, her throat dry. She wants to step back, wants to run, but something inside her rebels against that. Her heart beats faster, louder, in her chest, like it’s desperate for her to feel something again.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” she says, but it comes out weak. She tries to sound indifferent, but it’s a lie. “I’ve just been… busy.”

He leans in, just slightly, and she feels his breath on her neck, warm and teasing. “Is that what you’re calling it?” His voice is a whisper now, almost too soft, like he knows how much it affects her. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you look the other way every time I try to talk to you.”

Y/N forces herself to take a breath, to gather her composure. But it’s hard when he’s standing this close, when his presence fills the space between them like an electric current.

“Maybe I’m just not interested in whatever you’re offering,” she says, but even as the words leave her lips, she knows they’re empty.

Because the truth is, she’s burning for him. She wants to kiss him. She wants to feel the heat of his body against hers again. She wants to let go of the tight grip she has on everything and just… be with him.

Pietro must sense it, because his smirk deepens, and without warning, he reaches out, his hand catching her wrist. “I don’t believe that for a second,” he murmurs, his voice soft and knowing.

Before she can pull away, his lips are on hers. It’s sudden, but it’s not rough or urgent. It’s almost… gentle. His mouth moves against hers, coaxing, teasing, like he’s trying to remind her of something she’s tried so hard to forget.

And Y/N can’t resist. She doesn’t want to resist. The moment their lips touch, all of her resolve crumbles. Her hand reaches up, gripping his shirt as she pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. She feels him smile against her mouth, the warmth of his lips, the heat of his body.

The kiss is nothing like the disciplined, controlled movements she’s used to in ballet. It’s wild and free, just like him. Every touch is an invitation to let go, to lose herself in him.

When they finally pull apart, both of them breathless, Y/N stands there, dazed. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say. She can’t find the words, because she knows that giving in to him means losing control. And she’s terrified of what that will do to her.

But Pietro doesn’t wait for her to speak. Instead, he brushes his thumb over her lips, his gaze intense. “You feel it too,” he murmurs, voice low, almost like a promise.

She wants to lie. She wants to say no, to tell him that it’s just the heat of the moment, just a mistake. But when she meets his eyes, she knows that she’s already beyond that.

“I don’t want to stop,” she whispers, barely audible, but it’s the truth.

Pietro’s grin returns, mischievous and confident. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N doesn’t want to fight it.

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avengerscompound · 10 months ago

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Avengers: Age of Ultron

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pretty-little-mind33 · 10 months ago

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Pietro Maximoff x stark!fem!reader

Summary: You've always hated Pietro for his player tendencies—turns out he's never hated you at all.

Genre: Fluff, hurt and comfort (enemies to lovers)

Warnings: implied fuck-boy!Pietro, reader is Tony Stark's daughter (no physical description), reader hates Pietro in the beginning, mentions of blood and gun wounds, swearing, because Sokovia isn't real- I used Czech as Pietro and Wanda's language (i don't speak Czech so i used translating sites…if it's wrong, pls tell me)

~ thank you to the anon who requested this! this is my very first time writing for Pietro, please tell me what you think! ~

PIETRO MAXIMOFF MASTERLIST

Your father has always been overprotective of you.

He usually doesn't involve you with his affairs when you're with him and not at Mom's, choosing to have your room as far from any Avengers as he possibly could. At sixteen, you didn't like this—you felt like you deserved to live normally in your own home—so when he asked you to become friends with his newest members, Twins from Sokovia who also happened to be sixteen, and make them feel welcomed, you were more than happy to do so.

You liked Wanda Maximoff from the first moment you met her. She seemed quiet and shy in the beginning, but she also has this fiery side to her that you admire. She never took shit from anyone, including her brother.

Pietro Maximoff was very different from his sister. You remember standing in your room, your dad by your side, with an unamused Wanda in front of you as a blue blur sparked across the room, occasionally skidding to a stop and knocking over some books or picking up some trinkets and making unnecessarily judgmental and overly excited comments.

"Pietro," Wanda hissed, "Přestaň (Stop it)."

His sister's warning had only made his grin widen, his silver hair falling over his strikingly blue eyes as he returned next to her, his arms crossed. "Promiňte (Sorry)." You didn't know what he'd said, but it didn't sound like he meant it.

"Wanda," he pointed to his sister as he introduced her, and then his grin turned into a smile. "Pietro," he said, pointing to himself, and then he outstretched his hand with no awkwardness or hesitation. You looked down and then up at him again, turning to your dad with an unsure expression but when he nodded, you shook Pietro's hand.

"Y/n," you whispered with a smile, and as you shook his hand, what could have been the start of a wonderful friendship, should have started that day.

Should have.

In the beginning, it was childish teasing—which involved stealing things from your room and hiding them around the tower because it made Pietro laugh, running past you in the halls so quickly you'd almost fall over, or jokingly ruining any chances with any boys at school because he'd stick his nose in business that never involved him.

Most of the team and your dad found your banter funny—encouraging the same boys will be boys' bullshit that meant that as the years passed, your dislike for Pietro only worsened.

It especially didn't help when, by seventeen, he'd found out he was pleasant enough to look at and that girls seemed to adore his boyish charm. So, any chance he had, he'd either heavily flirt with girls at school, or find excuses during missions to pick up any pretty girl he came across.

Of course, this behavior only increased in his twenties and made him all the more annoying—especially since you began working the coms and the computer for when the team was out on missions. Ever since Ultron, your dad now trusted you more than a robot.

You're curled up in your chair, your headphones on as you watch the multiple screens in front of you. Some have news outlets playing out the scene while others have the biometrics of Iron Man's suit and the others' suits to make sure all is well. You also have every member in your ear as your fingers glide over the keyboard.

"Dad?" you switch the coms and touch the microphone.

"Yes, Y/n?" Tony Stark's voice echoes in your headphones and you smile.

"I can try and hack into the network of that bastard's suit if you want?"

"Actually, Y/n, can you locate Quicksilver for me? He was supposed to evacuate all the civilians but I can't reach him anymore. Could you try? He always answers you,"

Great, Pietro duty—again.

"Can't I do something more useful?"

Tony chuckles, making you glance at one of your computer screens where you can see him hovering in the air, protecting the civilians on the ground from some shit-bag escaped prisoners who had taken over some secret government-type weaponry and causing all kinds of havoc.

Steve and Natasha seem to be handling the situation with some tact, while Wanda looks like she's having fun crunching the weapons in the men's hands with her mind. All in all, the team seems like they're handling things just fine without Pietro around.

"Quicksilver is useful to me, darling. I know he's not your favorite person right now, Y/n, but he's a valuable member of my team and I need you to find him for me."

You huff. "He was never my favorite person," you whisper roll your chair over to another keyboard, and disconnect Tony from your headphones. You bite your cheek and hit enter. "Pietro? Hello?"

No answer.

You change the signal.

"Wanda?"

"Hello!" Wanda answers and you hear some commotion in the background.

"Where's your brother?" you ask, "he isn't answering me."

"I don't know," Wanda says and after a moment she adds, "I can feel him though."

"Thanks," you say, although she'd been completely unhelpful. All you'd learned was that Pietro was definitely alive—which wasn't really a concern of yours since you hadn't assumed something happened to him. You just assumed he was missing.

"Y/n?"

You hear him in your headphones and you quickly change the channel again, pressing your lips closer to your microphone. "Pietro," you say.

"Yeah?" Pietro sounds like he's running, "What's up, Princezna (Princess)?"

"Don't call me that," you say, knowing damn well he'll call you that anyway. He always has. "Tony wants you. Where have you been?"

Pietro laughs. "I got a little distracted, Moje srdce (My heart)." You hear what sounds like another pet name—he calls you that from time to time you just refuse to ask him what it means.

You want to ask him what he means by distracted, but you assume it has something to do with him getting some girl's number so you don't want to know anymore. "I'm on my way back now so no need to worry your pretty head about me."

"I wasn't worried about you," you say instantly, "I was ordered to find you. Very different."

"Sure, Princezna, sure," Pietro says, his voice husky as he stops and takes a breath. "When are you going to fess up and admit you like me, hm? This cat-and-mouse game has been fun and all, but c'mon, what will it take for you to understand? Tady mě zabíjíš (You are killing me here)."

"Understand what?"

"Understand that I–" Just as he speaks, you hear more familiar voices and shouting in the background and you look to one of the screens from a news outlet where you can see that Pietro is back with the team, only he's not running anymore. No, he looks like he's swaying. You stand to look closer at the screen.

"Pietro?" you call into the mic, trying to understand what happened until you see him fall to the ground, clutching his side as his blue suit stains red. He must have stopped running for a moment and one of the fucking assholes dressed in machinery must have shot him. You panic and run to an opposite computer and change the channel one last time.

"Wanda?" you whisper, your voice hoarse and shaky as you look back at the screen and see that Clint has found Pietro, and Wanda is running up to them too. "W-Wanda?" you try once more, watching her on-screen as she tends to her brother and ignores you.

You feel completely powerless.

* * *

When everyone comes home, you feel stupid as you greet them. Most of the Avengers send you sympathetic smiles as Tony walks up to you. Clint, Wanda, and Pietro aren't with them. You look up at your dad, feeling embarrassed that you're worried for someone you claim to hate.

Tony's expression softens as he hugs you stoically, he's not much for this type of affection but he can see you need this as you bury your nose into his shoulder.

"He's being checked now but nothing serious," your dad sounds calm, "he's fine, darling."

You pull away, forcing a look of nonchalance as you. "I- I know that I- I didn't care either way," you lie shamelessly.

Tony shakes his head, sounding exhausted when he says, "You're so stubborn, just like your mom." He ruffles your hair and kisses your forehead. "You can see him in a bit, I'm sure. I'll tell Wanda to come find you when he can have visitors."

You nod and spend the next few hours pacing your room, nibbling at the skin around your nails until you taste blood and finally, someone walks into your room—only it isn't Wanda. It's Pietro himself. He's wearing a slightly wrinkled tank top and a pair of slacks hung loosely around his hips. It's almost sinful. He grins cockily and runs a hand in his hair, his shirt riding up to expose his stomach. You stare at him, wide-eyed and your hand drops from your mouth.

"What are you doing out of bed?!" you say, sounding more worried than you'd intended.

"What are you? My máma?" Pietro laughs and leans against the edge of your vanity. "I heal quick," he shrugs and looks around your room. He hadn't been in here in a while. He smirks. "Still sleep with Teddy, hm?" he hums.

You feel warmth in your cheeks and you send your poor beaten-up-with-love Teddy-Bear a glare as if it was his fault you still slept with him in your arms at twenty-four. "Ha ha, funny," you mumble and move to stand in front of Pietro so he can't make fun of any more of your belongings. "No– I don't. Can you leave now?"

Pietro crosses his arms and tilts his head, his blue eyes piercing into yours. "Stark said you wanted to see me."

Of course, he did.

You narrow your eyes. "Well, I have seen you and I see you're fine so now I've changed my mind," you say with a shrug and point to your door, waiting for him to make the decision and leave.

"You don't even wanna ask why I was distracted out there?" Pietro says and a smirk curls his lips.

"No–"

You feel the wind in your hair and in a blink, he's standing much closer to you with a slight pant—as if he'd just run—and he's holding a small bent bouquet of roses in his hands. He holds them out for you and you stare at them in disbelief.

"What are those?"

"Roses."

You glare at him. "I know that but why?"

"I saw them and thought of you," he says so nonchalantly you almost don't believe him.

"What? When?"

"When I was helping the civilians," Pietro shrugs and his eyes are intense. He pauses after a moment and raises his hand, his knuckles skimming your cheek. You freeze, warmth spreading all over your cheeks as you panic internally. "Saw them in the park and I wanted to get them for you."

Your eyes widen. "Isn't that illegal?"

Pietro smirks. "Not if it's done in the name of love, Princezna."

"I don't think that's how that works—" Realization dawns on you and you feel like you're spinning. "Wait, wait, what did you just say?"

Pietro laughs and his hand moves to tuck some hair behind your ear, smiling. Maybe he's excited but you can feel his skin vibrate on yours. Your heart is pounding so heavily and your mind is screaming at you that this is all a trick and this is what he does with girls. He throws around the l-word and expects women to fall at his feet. He's a player.

"What I was trying to tell you before I was rudely shot, is why haven't you caught on and understood that I'm madly in love with you?"

What?!

You blink at him and then take a step away from him, shaking your head as you force a laugh. "Pietro, this isn't funny. It isn't funny to mess with me like this. You know how I feel about you playing with my feelings—"

Pietro frowns. "Playing with you?"

You roll your eyes. "Please, it's just not funny, okay?"

"You think this is a joke, mé srdce (my heart)? Ach, můj drahý (Oh, my dear)," Pietro says in a whisper and moves closer to you again, his hand reaching for yours as he hands you the roses.

"I'm not messing with you. I tease you sometimes, but my feelings are real. I haven't messed around with any women in years—minus that mistletoe kiss—" he rubs his nape, mentioning the time you'd caught him and an office girl kissing at last Christmas party. He didn't mean for that to happen, and even less for you to see him.

You're really trying to understand him now but nothing is making sense. "You have feelings for me?" You whisper, your eyes wide. You feel like you've entered some alternative reality. "You can't just say things like that now, Pietro. It's not fair."

His expression turns more serious than you've ever seen him. "I'm not saying this lightly, Y/n. I know I've been a jerk to you, but I was a stupid kid who didn't know how to express his feelings and then it was too late because you hated me. But, I have always cared for you, miláček (darling). I really have."

You move back, your eyes round, processing his words. All those years of childish teasing, all those petty arguments you'd had, and all the jealousy you've felt suddenly hit you like a train and you're left broken and bruised. He had feelings for you? You've been pushing him away because you were scared of how you felt about him.

"Why now? Why did you choose to tell me all this now?" you ask, shaking the roses in your hands as your voice trembles.

Pietro exhales. "Because when Wanda mentioned me how worried you were about me, I realized how much I need you in my life. Need you beside me. I didn't want to hide my feelings anymore— and I picked those flowers wanting to confess anyway. I want to be with you, Y/n. No more games, just us."

You feel a mix of relief and fear. Deep down, you've wanted to hear this for so long, but it's as terrifying as you'd imagined. You look up at him, walking in closer and you can hear your heart in your throat when you run a hand in his silver hair, holding him and pulling him down to meet his lips.

You've convinced yourself this would be confirmation. Confirmation that this was a bad fucking idea. Instead, his kiss is intoxicating and it makes your mind go all fuzzy. Of course, he'd be good at this, he'd been quite the whore—your thought is interrupted by Pietro pulling you in closer and deepening the kiss, his hand finding your hip.

You gasp, leaning up into him as the world as you'd known it crashes around you.

"Sakra, Princezna (Damn, Princess)," Pietro murmurs into your lips, holding you close. "This is so much better than I imagined."

"You imagined this?" you say, sounding more teasing than you'd anticipated as you're left breathless from his kisses.

Pietro hums. "All the damn time," he admits and kisses you again.

After more kisses, he finally pulls away. "So, is that a yes? You want be with me too?" he asks hopefully and you look into his eyes, taking in his excitement. You don't dare even think of breaking his heart as anyway, your swells at the mere thought of being his.

You nod but then smirk and pull him back in for a kiss, your hand fisting his shirt, "Kiss me some more and then I'll tell you."

And he does just that.

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