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silverzoomies · 1 year ago

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Monster Mash

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: shameless smut, smut, kissing, porn with plot, halloween, zombies, biting, undead, undead!reader, gender neutral reader, zombie kink

word count: 11,996

a/n: first of three peter-centric halloween fics!! hopefully i'll get them all posted before the month ends!! timeline here is extremely fuzzy, and might not fall in line with canon. it's kind of super ambiguous.

the usual apologies: clunky writing, potentially ooc peter/other characters, inconsistencies, ending's super meh, etc etc etc. idk if peter would realistically be down to bang a cute, zombified reader. but hey, it's fiction. why the heck not!

tag list (i remembered this time!!): @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz @scene-and-dandylover @quickandsilvers @luttic @billielourdslays

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October. Just a week before Halloween.

Peter didn’t celebrate the holiday too often these days. Not like he used to. Ever since he took up teaching at the X-mansion, he only participated in a handful of Halloween activities. The staple being - playing escort for mutant kiddos on trick-or-treating ventures. An activity he enjoyed a lot, since the kiddos referred to “Mr. Maximoff” as “the school's most awesome trick-or-treat buddy.” Which had nothing to do with Peter swiping a little extra candy - for the kids, of course - when the other teachers weren’t looking. Swear on his life.

Another Halloween festivity he loved? The school's annual, X-family Halloween party. The team generally left Peter in charge of decorations, considering it took him no time at all to set them up. Professor Chuck himself - legendary baldy - always played host at those parties. As per tradition - after the party died down - Peter cozied up in the living room with the team. They’d gather together to watch everyone’s favorite horror flicks on VHS.

He really couldn’t wait for this year’s festivities. Peter looked forward to those after-party, horror movie marathons every year. Movie nights with the team? Pretty freakin’ awesome. If only for two reasons: The abundance of sugary garbage to snack on. And the way Ororo loooooooved snuggling up with him on the couch. Being so hot natured helped. Living life in the fast lane - operating like a human furnace - sure had its perks sometimes. ‘Ro’s cuddling made an excellent distraction from Peter’s unbridled loneliness. Haha...

C-...Consider that a topic for another day. Moving on.

On horror movie night, Peter inevitably saw the jumpscares coming leagues before anyone else. It never failed. He’d call them seconds ahead of time. With ‘Ro lying at his side, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Peter would exclaim, “Jumpscare!”, breaking the tension heavy silence amongst the group. Spoiling whatever movie played. Everyone hated it, of course. Kurt growled at him. Animalistic, but nowhere near intimidating. Jubilee pelted Peter with popcorn.

Peter just couldn’t help himself. Those scares were so predictable and boring sometimes. Sure, he liked horror movies enough. With all the gnarly gore and twisted kills. But they never freaked him out, since he didn’t spook easily. His incomprehensible reaction time made terror a tough game.

All that being said...

Even with his totally outrageous bravery streak, Peter - guilty as charged - sure had his candy-ass moments.

This current mission proved, without a doubt, one of the spookiest situations he’d ever landed himself in. He could feel it in the air tonight. And not in the groovy, Phil Collins way either. An ominous sense of uneasiness crawled across his skin. Eerie vibes sent chills creeping up his spine like spiders through a web. Peter wished he could fast forward to Halloween night on the couch with ‘Ro. Heck, he'd even take decorating duty over this any day of the week. At least he could go all out, and have his own fun with it.

For an October’s night, the weather seemed uncannily coincidental. Drops of rain showered from a mass of black clouds. A sharp crack of lightning struck the ground, with a roar of thunder following in succession. It rattled the very foundation of the abandoned lab Peter found himself exploring. As part of a last minute, late night mission.

Below his feet, tiled floors laid in disrepair. Dirtying the mismatched laces of his untied sneakers. Peter snuck his way through murky hallways, his heightened senses buzzing on edge. Fight or flight kicked into high gear, making him all the more sensitive to any outside stimuli. Another echoing roar rumbled through the building, threatening to topple its cracking walls. Peter worried the ceiling might cave in at any moment.

A terrifying thought. But it happened to be the exact reason Hank chose Peter for this mission to begin with. Should shit hit the fan, Peter could skedaddle at the speed of light unscathed. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Unlike his other team members, who might risk being flattened like a pancake. Under the weight of, not one, but two floors above.

…Speaking of pancakes. Peter should definitely drop by a mom ‘n pop diner before heading back to base. He could really go for a fresh stack of late night hotcakes right about now. Warm and soft. With chocolate chips melting on the inside. Caked in sticky syrup and slathered with butter. Oooooh! And a little bacon on the side. Not too crispy, not too flop-

His mouth watered, and Peter blinked. Wiping his jacket sleeve across his lips, he redirected his attention to the task at hand. Focus, Quickie. He had a job to do, and he didn’t wanna be stuck doing said job all night.

The lab sat nestled off the coast of some island with a foreign name. Super hard to pronounce. Peter couldn’t remember it off the top of his head. Prior to this assignment, he’d never even heard of the place. But apparently, neither had anyone else. Hank sent Peter in search of what he dubbed leads on a mystery project. Something to do with scientific documents.

If he found any, he’d read their info over to Scott. Who would then relay that same intel back to Hank. Like an insanely boring game of telephone. Why Peter couldn’t speak to Hank directly was anybody’s guess. Too busy with his super secret project thingy-majig, possibly?

Hanging from Peter’s stereo belt alongside his old Walkman, a walkie screeched with a shrill chirp. A shock of alarm shot straight through Peter’s veins, making him jump. Scott’s voice crackled from the speakers.

“Any updates, Pete?” Scott asked, “Tell me anything you got. Even if it seems boring. Just hit me with it. It’s gotta be better than waiting around here in the lab, doing nothing.”

Peter held a compact flashlight in one hand, searching the lab’s pitch black halls. Most of the rooms he passed looked desolate. Barren and dusty. Save for the odd desk or empty cabinet. Peter wondered if they’d all been ransacked when the place closed down. The ceiling leaked rain from the floors above, dripping onto Peter’s bomber jacket. At the edge of his vision, he caught a rat scurrying by. But otherwise, not much else.

Pulling the walkie from his belt, he brought it up to his lips, “Uh. It’s dark and kinda spooky here. Saw a rat. Storm’s not gettin’ any better. It keeps shakin’ the whole place.” Peter shook his head, “If it doesn’t let up, I’m gonna have to split. Don’t wanna wait around to see what happens next, y’know? Over."

On the other end of the line, Scott breathed an annoyed sigh. Even through low-quality speaker fuzz, Peter could tell the sigh lacked any real spite.

“Peter. We’ve been over this. We aren’t using decades old, two-way radio communication. You really don’t have to say over. ”

Peter drummed his free hand on an empty desk. Following the beat of Sweet Poison by Naked Eyes, as it played from the only earbud he wore. He wanted to keep one ear open, just to hear Scott clearly. And mayhaps because he felt the teensy weensiest bit paranoid by his lonesome in the lab.

“Copy that. Over.” He grinned to himself.

The further Peter explored the lab’s halls, thick layers of mucky green seemed to take over. If he had to guess, he assumed Hank didn’t consider masses of moss “key intel.” Every few feet Peter stepped, he tore his way through another wall of cobwebs. Lots and lots of creepy cobwebs. Reduced to undying boredom, Peter took to karate chopping them. Might as well have fun in the face of ennui.

Half second flickers of lightning cast the lab in gleaming flashes. Bringing Peter’s attention to more rooms he missed. He wandered through some old offices. Or what he thought were offices, anyway. The trashed state of the rooms made it hard to tell. Nothing within them had withstood the test of time. Peter even tried poking around with some clunky computers. No luck. Dead as doornails.

“Found some computers. C64’s, I think. Haven’t seen one ‘a these bad boys since forever ago. But they’re totally busted.” Peter reported into the walkie, banging a fist onto one of the computers, “Yep. Busted. Over.”

Before leaving the room, Peter fucked around. Knocking over a computer monitor for no reason at all. He snatched a few, grubby pens from a lone desk. As well as a cracked coffee mug that read “I try to tell chemistry jokes, but there’s no reaction.” Just for the heck of it. Why not swipe some keepsakes, eh?

After what felt like a geological age of scouring, Peter eventually stumbled upon more filing cabinets. Stuffed to the brim with research documents and science-y records. Sighing, he pulled each drawer open one by one. Peter read the dusty files, sharing intel with Scott over the walkie. For every document Scott dismissed, Peter tossed them carelessly aside over his shoulder.

Antsy to wrap the mission up, grab some pancakes, and race home for a game of GoldenEye; Peter rushed through the last few folders. In hopes of finding whatever specific file Hank needed. But upon the last one, Scott broke some totally bogus news.

“Sorry about this.” Scott sighed, “Those files? Yeah. Hank says they’re all duds. No dice. You think it’s safe to keep looking? You might have to check the second floor.” He mentioned, to Peter’s dismay.

Peter bumped his head into the filing cabinet, groaning aloud. With a kick of his foot, he closed the last drawer and trudged onward. Oh well. The speedster could totally manage. At least he brought mix-tapes to keep his mind occupied. Along with extra tapes stashed in his belt pockets for good measure. Without music, he’d be so outrageously miserable on a mission like this.

Shining the dinky flashlight, he scanned the first floor area one more time. Just to be sure. The flashlight’s glow passed a set of double doors, leading to-

Wait. Back it up a sec. Double doors? Quietly singing New Order’s Blue Monday to himself, Peter moonwalked backwards to observe the doors again. Knitting his brows, he blinked. Stumped.

“Yo. Scotty. Got another room on the first floor. Gonna check it out real quick. Over.” Peter reported, clicking the walkie into place on his belt.

Another echo of thunder rattled through the lab, shaking the floors above. Lightning illuminated the halls in temporary flickers of white. Peter stared at the large set of doors, totally bamboozled. He couldn’t comprehend how he missed them before. When he knew for a fact he checked every nook and cranny. Inching closer, he eyed a sign pasted on one of the doors. In a rough scratch of permanent marker, the sign read:

Reanimation experiments in progress. Do not disturb!!

Reanimation? What, like…of the dead? Pfffbt. No way! Could this spooky place get any spookier? Peter swallowed an uncomfortable wedge in his throat. Shaking off any chills threatening to overtake him, he shined his flashlight through one of the door’s windows. Peter scanned the area for anything useful.

Inside, he clocked an operating table. Close to that, a lone cart cluttered with rusty, surgical tools. Cracked computer screens lined one of the walls, more advanced than they should’ve been. At least for the era they originated. Tangled cables ran along the floor, leading to something in the shadows. Peter couldn’t make it out.

He arched a brow, finally locking his sights on - Aha! Jackpot! More filing cabinets. Hopefully, they held his ticket out of this creepy place. Fingers crossed. Peter burst into the room in a flash, kicking up dust in his wake. Tearing through another wall of cobwebs, he surveyed the area again. Making a mental note of every cabinet he could see. Enough to keep him busy for the next hour, he guessed. Peter slumped his shoulders, huffing an aggravated groan.

Talking to Scott through the entire process made it more bearable. Being so no nonsense and straight forward, Scott had no problem retaining the info Peter shared from every file. Which saved the speedster any hassle of repeating himself, or having to explain things he didn’t understand. Science? Not really Peter's area of expertise. He thought himself more of a tech, or music guy.

Luckily enough, Peter found whatever documents Hank sent him after. A deep dive into every folder, in every drawer, in about a dozen different cabinets were all it took. Had Peter aged another thirty years? He sure as hell felt like it. No sweat! Mission accomplished. Time to bid the old lab goodbye.

Peter flew through the rest of the cabinets in less than a second’s time. Triple checking for any intel Hank might find compelling. He skimmed some records documenting the “reanimation of dead tissue.” Hm. Actually, blue beastie might potentially find that fascinating. “Reanimation” of the dead didn’t exactly sound too commonplace in modern science, did it?

In a folder, Peter discovered a file. Clipped with a photograph of - hellllllllooooo there! Someone…kinda cute. Very cute. Peter whistled, piercing the quiet thrum of distant rain. He read on.

Oh. The cute someone. They died. Tragically perished. Hit by a car back in the 80’s. What a bummer. One of the scientist's brought them to the lab as a test subject. Used for some twisted experiment in reanimation. The kicker? They proved to be the lab’s first and only successful trial run. Of around fifty different, reanimation trials. Yikes. That's...a lotta dead bodies.

These scientists successfully revived the dead? Peter doubted it. Over a decade had passed since then, and no one ever used the technology mentioned in the files. This lab's research couldn’t be as successful as they documented. Or something must've gone wrong, for them to give up and shut down the lab's operation completely.

Yeah. Treating human corpses like science fair projects for school? Super warped. Hank, wacky in his science ventures, totally found macabre shit like that interesting. Shrugging, Peter tucked the manilla folders he gathered under an arm. He grabbed his walkie, and reported to Scott.

“I got somethin’ else Hank might be into. It's totally messed up, he'll love it. But-uh…if that’s all he needed? I’m gonna jet now, ‘kay? I can’t take another minute in this scary ass place. Over and out.”

Before making his leave, Peter glanced around the room one last time. He appeared near the operating table in a picosecond, his brown eyes scanning the cart next to it. Curiously, Peter picked through some rusty, surgical tools.

Upon finding a scalpel in fairly okay condition, he swiped the tool and slipped it inside his back pocket. Whistling to Oingo Boingo's No One Lives Forever - in hindsight, kind of ironic - playing from his Walkman, Peter raised a foot to kick the cart. Watching it roll away into a nearby wall. Hasta la vista.

As Peter steered away from the operating table, a monstrous shadow loomed at the edge of his vision. His heart rampantly pounded in his chest, his senses still high strung. Jumping back with a terrified gasp, Peter climbed halfway onto the operating table. He fumbled for his flashlight, pointing the glow at the massive bundle of darkness. The light shook in Peter’s trembling hand.

But it-...oh. Phew! Nothing to be afraid of. Hah. What the heck was Peter gettin’ riled up for?

Like something straight out of science fiction, Peter’s shadowy monster proved nothing more than a giant pod. He squinted, moving towards it until close enough to observe it more clearly. The tech appeared big enough to hold a person of his size. Or, hell, maybe even someone of Beast’s size. Peter ran a hand along the surface of the pod, gathering a layer of dust on his fingertips. Scowling, he shuddered, wiping the dust on his jeans. “ EUGH! Eck-” Peter exclaimed to no one, “What’s up with this dusty, old thing??” Glass encased the outer layer of the large machine. It might've been see-through, if not for the unsanitary grime blanketing the entire thing. Years upon years of soot build up. Peter tried wiping the dust away with his elbow, to no avail. He couldn’t see inside, even with the aid of his flashlight.

Puzzled, Peter darted around the room in a silver blur, searching for clues. A switch of some kind? A secret code? He tampered with everything from the cracked monitors on the wall, to the colorful cables lining the floor. Peter even tried prying the pod open with a rusty hammer he found. Still, it refused to budge. Even with the power of speedster strength. Was it made of adamantium or something?

Sighing, defeated, Peter tossed the hammer away. It crashed into one of the screens hanging against the wall. Shattering the crystal display upon impact. Whoops. Oh well. How much more damage could be done to the place? Not like anyone would be making renovations anytime soon. Not in the middle of buttfuck nowhere island.

Making an accidental misstep, Peter slipped on his untied shoelaces. His ankle entangled itself in a circle of cables on the floor, and he lost his balance. Tripping, Peter stumbled backwards into some busted machinery, knocking his head. His back collided with the hard, metal surface behind him.

“ Auuugh. Shit.” Peter muttered. He didn’t understand how he could be so goddamn clumsy all the time, given - what the professor called - his mutant gift, “Ow. Dammit.”

He must have triggered a switch when he tripped. Suddenly, a loud hiss seethed through the air like a bus braking to a stop. A slow moving cloud of smoke rose from inside the pod. As it spread, filling the room, the fumes turned radioactive neon in color. It swarmed Peter’s nostrils, overflowing his senses with an earthy scent.

“Uhhh…uh oh.” He mumbled, “Is that supposed to happen?” Acting in haste, Peter scrambled to free his ankle from the cable’s tight grip.

A corpse reanimation research lab.

Nope. Noooope. He’d seen Return of the Living Dead enough times to know - whatever the hell’s happening now? Bad news. Couldn’t be good. Peter suppressed the urge to scream like a frightened child. A buzzing voice chimed from his walkie, startling him further. Dammit all, Scotty! He almost sent Peter into cardiac arrest for a hot second.

“Peter? Hey-uh, are you there? You alright? You didn’t stop somewhere for pancakes again, did you?” Scott crackled through the walkie, but Peter didn’t respond, “Better bring enough back for the whole class.” He joked, sarcastic.

Peter gawked at the sight before him in a mix of horror and confusion. Completely petrified, as Oingo Boingo played through his ear. The neon smoke emitted from the pod began to clear, revealing a body inside. A dead body.

Your dead body, to be specific.

Somehow, Peter recognized you. But that didn’t make any sense at all. He knew for a freakin’ fact he’d never seen or met you a day in his life. Unless… oh. Oh, holy shit. He hurriedly grabbed the extra folder he’d taken and opened it, just to glance between you, and the photo inside. And sure enough… The first and only successful trial run in reanimation.

Oh. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Peter’s eyes blew open wide. His stomach dropped twenty thousand feet through the ground, plummeting to the Earth’s core. Swallowing thickly, he observed your slumbering body from his position on the dirty floor.

Your skin appeared ashier than it naturally should be. Y’know, on account of being dead and all. It more closely resembled a subdued, greenish color. Kinda Frankenstein-esc. Stitches lined each and every one of your limbs. As if some psycho nut job took you apart and sewed you back together again. Judging by the info in your file, they probably did. Embedded into your neck, were two bolts on either side. Also very Frankenstein-esc. You reminded him of a wax dummy on the set of some low-budget, horror flick. It’d be kinda funny, if he didn’t feel seconds away from screaming in horror.

You could be a dummy, if Peter had any luck. Yeah. This mission? Surely just a super elaborate prank set up by the team. Like a haunted house tour, made to scare the silver pants off him. Those sly dogs think they’re so slick, huh? ...R-Right?

Peter took a deep breath, keeping his terrified gaze fixed on you. In his ear, the funky tune came to an end. The lab fell into a deafening silence. Only broken by the faintest pitter patter of rain, and a quiet clamor of thunder now echoing at a distance. Signaling the passing of the storm. One less thing to worry about.

Though, he’d much rather agonize over a building’s foundation crumbling. He could handle a weather-related disaster wayyy better than a zombie coming to life, to - potentially - gorge on his flesh.

Raising his flashlight, he pointed the glow at your lifeless body. Again, Peter breathed a long sigh to ease his panic stricken nerves. An interference of crackling static ripped through the walkie then. Loud, and shrill enough to cut glass. At that very moment, your eyes - once locked in eternal slumber - popped open freakishly wide.

Oh. Oh hellllll no. Fuck that. Fuuuuck that.

Peter’s hunch proved totally right. You weren’t just dead. You were undead.

“ Mmmmmm nope.” Peter mumbled to himself, swiftly shaking his head, “Nuh uh. Nope.”

Shaking with adrenaline, he glanced between your dead-eyed gaze, and his trapped foot. Okay! No problem-o! Not a problem at all. For an X-Man, zombies made an easy foe, right? Peter could totally just-...

Just vamoose! Make a break for it! Right now!

Like, now.

Peter hadn’t run away yet. Why hadn’t he run away? Hellllloooo? Ground control to Quickie! Time to make a quick exit, and head for the hills. Lest he become zombie chow.

Stunned, Peter remained petrified. In an uncannily slow movement, you rose from the pod like Nosferatu out of a coffin. Peter cursed under his breath, willing his terror to take a one way ticket outta there. He needed to come to his senses, and fast. Even as Peter tried to move, his paralyzed state caused him to fumble again. His movements lacked their natural fluidity, and his blood ran cold.

Like a total doofus, in his failed attempt to escape, Peter tangled his foot even deeper through the cables. Sometime in the last thirty seconds or so, he dropped his flashlight. Within the inky darkness, he could barely make out your shape as you moved. You groaned a long, croaky sound. Guttural, like an eldritch abomination.

Another crash of lightning showered your living corpse in a white luster. Peter made direct eye contact with you. A gaze between life and death.

A yell vibrated through his lungs and bounced off the walls of the room, as Peter finally screamed. Your slow moving, zombified body climbed from the pod much like a spider. Stumbling at first, you connected your bare feet with the dirty, tiled floor. Once you found your balance, a cracking sound erupted from your limbs. Your bones clicked and popped audibly into place. Peter scowled, physically cringing.

Another scream tore from the depths of his chest, “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” He shouted.

You dragged your feet in a limp, moving towards Peter with a slow gait. Stitched arms reached out for him in an unhurried motion, “ Luhhhhhhhh- ” You choked on a groggy gurgle.

Fuck. Fucking shit fuck. You definitely wanted to feast on his juicy brains and smooth flesh. No denying that. It had been, like, a decade since you last ate anything. And Peter probably looked like one hell of a snack right about now. Not even in a totally kinky way.

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH! Hold yer horses there, baby! Yer gettin’ a liiiitttle too close fer comfort now! C’mon, huh? Do you really think I’m on the menu? ‘Cuz trust me. If yer gonna eat somebody? I shouldn’t be yer first choice! I really don’t taste all that great!” Peter yelled, throwing a hand out momentarily before returning to the tangled cables. He huffed an uneasy laugh, “SHIT! Yer not listening, are you? Ahaha! Yer gonna eat me. Totally gonna eat me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-”

Peter tore at the cables wrapped around his foot. Acting as quickly as his petrified state would allow, he pulled the scalpel from his back pocket. But the dull razor’s edge refused to cut through the wires. Dropping the useless tool, he ripped into the cables one more time using all his strength. Only to free himself a millisecond too late. Always late. You lurched forward, making grabby hands.

Quicksilver vs. an actual, real life zombie. If he made it out alive, that’d make one helluva story.

But-

Wait a damn minute. Hold the freakin’ phone. Why were you…looking at him like that?

The glazed over eyes of a living corpse opened up, all big and doe-like. Gazing at Peter in - no mistaking it - infatuated fondness. Your supple lips parted with a wide smile of pure delight. Like sunshine peeking through hazardous, storm clouds. You leapt forward unexpectedly, squeaking a raspy squeal. Burrowing your face into the warmth of Peter’s chest, you linked your arms around his neck. Holding onto him tight.

“What the-” He whispered, looking down at your messy head of hair.

Uh. Okay. So, that just happened. Weird. Why weren’t you feasting on his flesh? Wasn’t he supposed to be your first meal since zombie hibernation, or something? Didn’t you wanna go chomp chomp chomp, and turn his guts into mush?

Peter realized, looking at you up close, you appeared perfectly clean and preserved. You didn’t reek like a dead body. The earthy scent on your cold skin wasn’t too unpleasant either. It smelled herbal. Floral, even. Your smooth skin lacked any signs of rot. Aside from one or two lesions revealing rib or arm bones. Kinda...freakishly cool. The surface of your skin looked see-through, with veins weaving underneath like intricate wiring.

A little spooky, sure. But not all that scary to look at, surprisingly enough. Not like Peter expected, anyway. As you snuggled closer into Peter’s body, he began to realize how oddly affectionate you were. Very out of character, for a zombie. You squeaked an unintelligible noise, attempting to communicate. But you just couldn’t form the words. Maybe your speech capabilities fizzled out after years and years of unending silence.

Peter creased his brows, lowering his defenses and calming himself down. Another thirty seconds passed. His brains remained intact, and you hadn’t made him your next meal. He pulled the earbud from his ear, hooking them around his neck and pressing pause on the Walkman. Craning your neck back, your glassy eyes met Peter’s own. You grinned so big and joyful, gleaming the innocence of a pure-of-heart, golden retriever. Despite being totally bizarre, Peter found your sweetness...sorta...weirdly cute.

“Uhmmm…hi? Hey. Uh-why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” He laughed, a little uneasy.

Maybe your affection stemmed from something simple. If Peter were locked up in a cramped pod for so many years, he’d be ecstatic if someone finally freed him. You were probably just uber thankful he’d broken you outta that pod thingy. And you showed gratitude through touching, since you couldn’t exactly flurry him with thank yous. He could accept that. Sure. For now.

The walkie hanging from his belt droned a buzz, and Scott’s voice called out. Peter finally reached for it, maneuvering between his body and yours. Your arms stayed around his neck, your body hanging like a stubborn monkey’s from a tree.

“Peter? Do you copy? Peter, are you there, man? Talk to us. Please. Should we send someone over to assist?” Scott asked, his voice itching with alarm. “Yeah! Yeah, nah. Uh-hey, Scotty! Hey, I’m here. I’m oka-...dude, it’s fine. Nothin’ to worry about. Seriously. But…I do kinda have a situation here? Over.” Peter replied.

Scott exhaled a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. In the crackling background of the walkie, Peter heard Jean’s voice. She asked, “Did he say over ?” Followed by a series of hushed chuckles. Peter smirked to himself.

“Oh! Oh my god. Thank goodness, Pete. We were all getting pretty worried about you over here. What’s going on? Are you still at the lab? You said there was a situation. What kind of situation? Did that old place finally cave in?” Scott asked. Many, many questions.

Peter heard even more frantic, muffled conversations in the background. While he couldn’t understand them, he recognized the voices. The entire team had gathered, just to make sure he made it out alive. Awww. How sweet. They were worried about lil ol’ him? If Peter hadn’t had the bejesus scared out of him not even five minutes ago, his heart would’ve melted.

“Heyyyy, guys! Uhhhh…soooo…I might’ve found, like, a zombie? No joke. Like, a real zombie. But it’s not tryna kill me. It’s-” Peter paused, raising a brow. You fluttered your lashes, giving him a coquettish look, “Bro, I think it’s makin’ eyes at me. Legit. Kinda weird, right? Definitely not what I was expecting. But it’s totally fine. I got it all under control now. Over.”

A long silence fell amongst the walkie’s noise. Until Scott finally responded in monotone.

“Did we hear you wrong, or did you just say you found a zombie?” He asked, his tone carrying a hint of disbelief. As if expecting Peter to say - Psych! Fooled ya!

Peter parted his lips to confirm. But the abrupt tickle of a chilly kiss on his neck silenced him. You stood up on your bare toes, giggling sweetly. Across his hot skin, you peppered your chapped lips. Instantly, Peter froze in place again. Shudders rang through his body. He reached for one of your arms, tugging you to try and pull you off him.

“Uhm. Y’know what? It’s no big deal. B-But yeah, it’s a zombie fer sure.” Peter tugged your arm with more insistence, urging you to let go. But you persisted, giggling into the crook of his neck, “Like I said. No worries here. It’s not like I’m in da- haaah okayokayokay-”

Your feather light kisses became soft, kitten licks. Flicking Peter’s flesh with your slimy tongue, you squealed, tickled pink. Peter jolted, shivers sizzling down his spine. He tilted his neck to the side, wincing. Over the walkie, he heard Hank’s gruff voice.

“Peter! It’s Hank-” The blue beast said, as if Peter couldn’t already tell based on his growly tone, “Are you a hundred percent sure the undead creature isn’t dangerous?” He asked, buzzing through a scratch of interference.

Coldness slathered and swirled Peter’s neck in slow circles. Fluttering his eyes closed, he replied, “N-Not dangerous. Ohhhh. Definitely not dangerous. No danger here. All good. Over.” Again, he tried to pull you off.

Your discolored arms tightened their hold around his neck and over his shoulders. Cooing noises dripped from your tongue like honey, so sugary sweet. You swiped his skin with your tongue, nuzzling your cold nose into the heated crevice of his neck. Pressing your body closer into his, you squirmed, littering him with zombie kisses.

Peter tensed, apprehensive of your affections. He didn’t want to be too harsh or aggressive towards you. Worried that any sign of conflict might make you snap. For all he knew, you might go bonkers and brain hungry. Really, he should’ve gotten it over with and pushed you away. Before you took things a little too far. And you did. Your teeth sank into his neck, lightly nibbling his flesh. As you pressed yourself even closer into his proximity, your breasts - covered only by a ragged crop top - met the swell of his broad chest. WOOOOOAH! Talk about twisted! Sure, okay, maybe your bites turned him on, like, a little. Flooding his body with a pleasant, all-over shudder of pleasure. But he couldn’t just fold for a zombie, could he? That’d be disgusting!

It’d be gross, right?

A subconscious desire in the recesses of his lonesome mind told him he wanted - no, needed - the attention. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone like this since the pogs fad. Easy, now, Peter! Down, boy.

But…shit. As much as he wanted to give in, he couldn’t. Not for a monster. A living corpse, left cooking in a secluded pod for a decade. Cloaked in discoloration and held together by expertly crafted stitching. Not entirely mindless, but so dense, you hadn’t the forethought to ask - “What happened? Where am I? Who are you?” No. Instead, you went after him the moment you saw him, showering him in bubbly, zombie lovin’.

He…shouldn’t find that hot. His fingers shouldn’t be tightening around the walkie, and his groin shouldn’t feel as scorching as it does. Oh, man. Could Peter be any more doomed? He’d have to be mad desperate - way out of his mind - to reciprocate your affection. Raising the walkie again, he cleared his throat.

“Hiya, Beastie. A-Acutally, I think they-...the zombie really, really likes me.” Peter added for no reason at all. You nibbled him a little harder, and he winced again.

“Well, now! That’s good then, isn’t it? Better than the alternative, I’d say! If at all possible, Peter, you should bring the creature with you. I’d like to look it over. Maybe run some tests. Figure out what brought it to life! This could be the secret to reversing brain death!” Hank chimed, excited.

Peter rolled his eyes. Of course Hank wanted to poke and prod at you like some little, lab rat. He opened his mouth to respond, but choked before he could get a word in. Your dull teeth clamped roughly into his neck. Peter braced a free hand on your hip, his thumb digging into the cool, exposed flesh there. Now, suspicion began to dawn on him.

You could be a clever, little zombie. Capable of luring Peter in with flirtatious wiles and sweet touches. Once he let his guard down, what if you planned on tearing into his guts? Well played, smarty pants zombie. Well played. But Peter caught onto your little game. You couldn’t get anything past him.

Instead of slurping his blood like a 7-Eleven slushie, or ripping your nails into his taut muscles; you suckled his skin lovingly. Pulling tiny hickies into his neck. Squealing and giggling in that girlish fashion, playful with every nibble. Peter gulped, biting his lip between his teeth. No way in hell he allowed a zombie to give him hickies.

…Except he did. So what? No harm in it, right?

“Y-Yeah. Sure. I’m good. Great. Just hangin’ out with my new zombie buddy. It’s totally not gonna eat my brains. Like, zero percent chance I’m gonna die an ugly, zombie death. So, y’know, Beastie, don’t lose any sleep over it.” Peter responded, before following it up with a condescending, “Over.”

On the walkie line, Peter heard a series of groans and faint giggles. Followed by Hank’s voice, as he passed the walkie back to Scott. The X-Men’s laser eyed leader sighed, his tone unamused.

“Whatever, Peter. Just…just hurry up, will you? And bring those documents over for Hank. Thanks.”

Peter tried, and failed to keep his composure. A cutie pie zombie kept macking on him like a lovesick puppy, and he had no clue what to make of it. You sucked more sloppy, violet marks into his neck. Tugging his skin with your teeth and nibbling like you couldn’t get enough of him. Peter’s skin flared up in cold creeps, as you trailed your chilly lips to his shoulder. Pulling his jacket and the collar of his shirt aside, you spoiled him in more undead affection.

“Gotcha. Copy that. Ov- mmm -” Peter whispered a moan, replying with a rushed, “Overandout.”

He clipped the walkie back onto his belt. Attempting once more to pry you off him, Peter gave your arm a strong tug. A little more forceful this time around. As you finally dislodged yourself from his neck, Peter took a few steps back. Avoiding any stray cables on the floor.

Now, with some distance between the two of you, he cleared his throat. Peter brought a hand to his neck, grazing fingers over the love bites you left behind. Tiny splotches of purple pooled with offsets of scarlet. Faint teeth marks left grooves in his skin. He hissed.

Giving you the freedom to pepper him with hickies might not have been the smartest idea. Hopefully, you didn’t infect him with some sick, zombie disease. One with the potential to end humanity as he knew it. He couldn’t cope with the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders.

You gawked up at him with those big, adoring eyes. Excitedly, you squealed, hopping towards him with your eager arms outstretched. Hoping to pull Peter into another close hug, just so you could litter him in more nibbly, love bites. He raised an abrupt hand, maintaining distance. Peter cleared his throat again. His cheeks burned hot, doused in bright pink.

Totally not fair, the way an overly affectionate zombie got him blushing.

“L-Listen. Uh. Yer sweet, but-” Peter started. Subconsciously, his gaze drifted down your body. He observed the stitches sewn into your neck and limbs. His dark chocolate eyes followed the rips and tears in your skimpy shirt. The flimsy garment revealed a tiny peek of your - admittedly pretty - breasts. And Peter swallowed, his throat running dry, “Uhhh…you can’t keep doin’ this, okay? The-” He wiggled his long fingers, gesturing to his neck, “The hickie thing. If yer gonna come with me, we gotta lay down some ground rules. Alright? You get me, babe?”

You tilted your head to the side, blinking slowly. Gazing at Peter with a look that told him you didn’t understand. But you didn’t seem to give a shit either way. You reached for one of his hands, a dazzled smile curling into your lips. Purring a candied noise of affection, you brought his hand to your cheek and nuzzled his palm. Your lips gently kissed each fingertip. Peter pulled a face, knitting his silver brows.

“Why’re you so damn-” He shook his head, “Whatever. Listen. Can you, like, chill out? No biting, you understand?” Peter paused to make a chomping gesture, clicking his teeth. But this only made you giggle. Which, unfortunately, he found super infectious.

Peter chuckled, scoffing playfully, “Stop that! I’m totally serious! No biting. No licking. No kissing. Like this. You see this?” He gestured to the hickies on his neck, their trail leading under his shirt, “No more ‘a that, you feel me? I dunno how I’m gonna explain this to the crew back home. They’re gonna think we got, like, freaky ‘er somethin’. Yeah. Can you imagine that? Like I’d ever fool around with-”

Fluttering your off colored lashes, you tilted your head to the other side. You parted your chapped lips, squealing as you edged his fingertips into your mouth. Pressing the salty pads to your bitter tongue.

“Oh! EUCK! Gross! Don’t-” Peter scowled, jerking his hand from you in less than a millisecond. With a horrified look, he observed his fingers as if they were germ-infested specimens, “Yer a real weird one, babe.”

His guard fell. While Peter kept his perplexed eyes on his fingers, you leapt forward. Burying your face deep into the fabric of his shirt, you squealed. Gleeful and bubbly. Peter groaned, only half-annoyed. He made a move to push you off him again. But your precious, little purring noises changed his mind. Peter couldn’t find it in himself to put his foot down.

Turns out he had a weakness. Cute, overly affectionate zombies. Who woulda thought?

Whatever. Peter had wayyy more important things on his plate. He knew he should gather up those folders he dropped, along with anything else he lost during his freak out session. Once he did, he needed to get the two of you out of this dingy, old lab asap.

“ Mmmmm …n-need…” You hummed your first word, before squealing, “Loooooove~!” Your voice strained, rattling like you’d been pounding down cigarettes by the plenty.

Peter’s eyes widened, and he let his sizeable hands fall to your hips, “Di-...wait a sec, did you just talk? Holy shit! You can talk?” Peter asked, dumbfounded, “Woah! Wow. Uh…so…you got a name? Can you at least tell me yer name?”

Your case file hadn’t listed your name, leaving you reduced to a number. Pretty messed up, if anyone were to ask Peter. Either you still didn’t understand him, or you couldn’t remember your own name. Instead of giving him an answer, you nuzzled your face in his chest. You tittered, so soft and smitten, your ragged voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Cold, tiny zombie hands tickled the back of his neck, raking gentle nails down his torso.

Standing on your toes, you connected your cool lips with his neck all over again. You kissed your previous love bites, as if doing so would heal them entirely. Ashamed of himself for letting it happen, Peter stifled a groan.

"Y-...You don't remember yer name, do you?" He mumbled. Peter's strong arms wrapped around your back, pulling you in, "That is...a seriously messed up situation. But, hey, I'm here fer you. Don't worry, 'kay? We'll get you to a safe place, and you can start over there. Sound good?" His caring nature shined through. But male horniness abruptly overshadowed it, as your wet tongue tickled his skin.

A guilty part of him, overrun with sympathy, felt bad for you. Those scientists hadn’t treated you like the victim of an unfortunate accident. More like a toy. Meant to be ripped apart, played with, and abandoned. It seemed wrong to perceive you in a frisky light. But then again…you wanted love. You may as well have been begging for it.

Love. One of the first words you spoke since your undead coma. Not that much of a surprise, if he thought about it. As a science experiment, loneliness probably consumed you. Even before your decade-long slumber. In a way, Peter understood. He too felt haunted by a longing for affection for far, far too long. In his mind, that made the two of you kindred spirits.

Ahhhh …dammit. Peter just couldn’t resist you and your sweet wiles anymore. His self control steadily slipped from his weakened grasp.

“ Mmmmm! Wa-....waaaant…love~! Neeeed… mmm …lo-....love~!” You squeaked, your cold tongue curling over a fresh, purple mark.

“C’mon, baby. We can’t-...you really have to stop this. We gotta head back to base, like, now. Everyone’s waitin’ on me, and I-” Peter muttered, and you pulled back. Gazing at him with that mystified, doe eyed look. Like you saw the beauty of the cosmos in him, and him alone. Your lips sparkled, wet from your lovin’. Peter clutched your hips firmly. His jeans seemed...somehow tighter all of a sudden, “Would ya stop lookin’ at me like that?”

“Looooooove~?” You cooed, your voice taking on a lustrous, but groggy tone.

“Yeah. I know. But…” Peter sighed, letting his hands feel up and down your curvy sides, “Yer gonna get me in soooo much trouble. But, fine. You win, okay? What kinda love are we talkin’ 'bout here, babe? You wanna hug? Want me to-uhm…to plant one on you? Is that it?”

You perked up then. Peter took it as a sign you understood him, more than you let on before. He arched a brow. At this point, why even hold back? Because you were dead? So what! Who ever said zombies couldn’t be smokin’ hot?

If he messed around with you just a little, no one would ever know. Which…made the concept even more enticing. You could be his little secret. An affectionate secret he’d forever bury in the ground. In place of the grave those scientists never gave you.

Peter fluttered his eyes closed, finally giving in to your closeness entirely. Lowering his big hands, he grabbed your ass. His palms squeezed over the torn, booty shorts you wore. Never did he imagine - upon exploring some horror movie, science lab - he’d feel up a cutie pie corpse’s plump bottom by the end. What a way to end a mission. Life worked in some wildly bizarre ways sometimes.

Kissing a zombie? Not as gross as he thought it’d be.

Okay. Maybe for, like, half a second. But the earthy taste on Peter’s lips didn’t faze him much. Once he pushed past the initial ick, he embraced you fully. Peter decided he didn’t give a flying fuck how unsanitary zombie smooches might be. Uncoordinated lip motions lured him in further. Pinkish teeth grazing his bottom lip between kisses. Soon enough, they turned sloppy, and Peter found himself frenching the living dead.

Zombie make out session. An experience he hadn’t planned to check off his bucket list. But now, he could.

One of his hands gripped your ass. While his other held your face and pulled you in for more tongue action. In the midst of swapping spit, you sought every opportune moment to nibble him. Peter couldn’t help but be super into it. You mewled softly, giggling when he gave your booty a hard squeeze. Chuckling, he parted from your lips to look over your greenish face. Your eyes bulged so big and wide, pupils an off-grey color and impossibly huge. Wonderstruck by his very existence. Darting down to capture your lips again, Peter stumbled forward. He guided your body towards the operating table, knocking you into it. Your hips collided with the edge, causing a loud, vibrating clang. The rough motion worried him enough, he stopped sucking face just to confirm you were alright. Peter feverishly kissed your cold lips, his hands exploring your body. Feeling stitched skin under his fingers.

You pulled from him with a joyous squeal, but Peter followed. Confused as to why you stopped, until you dove for the untarnished side of his neck. Dull flats of your teeth chomped straight into his flesh, grinding a little too roughly for comfort. Peter winced with a start, ceasing his love on your bootylicious bottom.

“N-No! Noooo! Hey, baby, look at me.” Peter snapped his fingers to get your attention. Not that he wanted to be so demanding. But you needed to understand his boundaries, before you tore into his flesh and guzzled his blood. Instantly, you reacted, retracting your teeth from his neck. You moved to make eye contact, and Peter fixed you with a soft gaze, “What’d I tell you, huh? Look, it’s not that I can’t appreciate some neckin’. 'Cuz I totally can. And I really dig it. Like, a lot. But you can’t be munchin’ on me! Really freaks me out when you do that.”

You angled your head again, curious. Doe eyes gaped at him with fluttering lashes, innocently confused, “ Mmm. Giv-....Giiiiive…love?” You croaked, pawing at Peter’s chest over his shirt, acting so needy.

He couldn’t begin to understand what you meant, or what you imagined love to be in your head. Were you really so desperate to bite him? Or, were you asking for something else? Wanton, bedroom eyes dawned your pretty face. Plush, ashy lips parting. You pawed his chest again, your blunt nails scraping across his shirt. In your desperation to communicate your-uhm…needs, you jutted your hips forward into his jeans. “L-L…Lo-” You started, throaty voice oozing innocence. Though, the look in your lidded eyes betrayed said innocence, “Loooooove. Need. P-Please?”

Peter’s eyes popped open, as realization dawned on him. Oh. You meant you needed-... Ah. He understood now. The unreasonably cute, living corpse he found - dormant in a pod for, like, a decade - wanted to bump uglies. Great. Awesome. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? Fulfill your unbridled desire? C’monnnn. Didn’t boning undead cuties come with any moral implications? If he took you to pound town, would that make him a necrophiliac? Peter really didn’t wanna be labeled a necrophiliac.

But hypothetically, what if he admitted his own desperation to himself? He always fumbled every time he tried to step up his game and woo the ladies. Not like he had any game to begin with. And tonight, there you were. Practically begging for him to take you. He should acknowledge the fact that, yeah - no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise - he found you very hot. So, ludicrously hot. Zombie traits and all.

And regardless of how many times he second guessed himself - at the end of the day - his dick didn’t have any qualms about zombie hanky panky.

Peter’s hand traveled up, thumbs curiously tracing the rough lining of your neck stitches. Before toying with the rusted bolts an inch or two above. Testing if you could even feel it. You didn’t react, and Peter wondered if scientists used those bolts to revive you. Did they awaken you Frankenstein style, with sharp surges of electricity? Or did you come to life by other means? A glowing, reagent liquid, maybe?

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Peter tugged the front of your loose top down. A pair of off-green, zombie melons jiggled freely. Stitches circled each breast, and Peter may or may not have thought they looked hot as fuck like that. Call him inhumane, but he really dug your whole monstrous babe aesthetic.

His hands kneaded the softest pair of undead knockers he ever felt, making you squirm under his touch. Peter grinned, pleased with every choked squeak leaping off your lips. He flitted his dark gaze up to your face, then back down to your breasts; back and forth, back and forth. Admiring the delicate expressions you made, your precious face scrunched in pleasure.

“Damn. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are? ‘Specially like this.” Peter chuckled, pinching and twisting your perky nipples, “Bet those bad guys never did. Sucks fer them. Yer a total babe. And sooo fuckin’ cute. Makes me want you all fer myself.”

Sooooo…about your…cooch situation. Yeah. Uh…Peter might’ve been somewhat worried about that. Taking your condition into consideration, he felt himself overcome with hesitance. Fearful that your-uh…flower, so to speak, may have withered away after a decade of darkness.

What about diseases? The thought made Peter squeamish. Even though you appeared and smelled relatively clean, you still hadn’t showered in a long freakin’ time. Then again, protection existed. Not to mention, you were so, so needy and cute. Your body looked undeniably amazing, and felt so soft. Fuck it. With some reluctance, Peter willed himself to test the waters. For your sake, but also for his own. Just to make up for the years he spent wishing he could get laid again.

A win-win for you both.

Tugging your tiny shorts down your smooth thighs - finding a little struggle along the way, since the meat of your thighs proved an obstacle - Peter snuck his fingers under the hem of your worn panties. The millisecond before his fingers met the supple curtains of your pussy, he second guessed himself for the zillionth time. Peter’s subconscious doubt pestered him enough, he almost withdrew his hand completely.

But the precious whimper you made gave him enough encouragement to keep going. His thick digits cautiously braved forbidden, undead territory. Finding an overabundance of cool, silky wetness between your lips. Peter swallowed hard, knitting his brows as he scoured for your clit.

“Jesus, baby.” He muttered. Judging by your bubbly squeak of delight, Peter assumed he found what he’d been venturing for. Leaning slightly forward into your proximity, Peter circled your stiff, little nub, “You want it bad, don’t you?”

“G-...G-....Gooooood! Mo-....More? More!” You mewled, clenching fists into his shirt. Mindlessly, you canted your hips, seeking his crotch. “Hey, it’s whatever you want, pretty.” He mused with a smirk, voice tender, “Relaaaax. I gotcha. I gotcha. ”

His fingers drew downwards, teasing for a beat before cruising into your silken entrance. Lush, deathly cold walls welcomed his digits in a loving hug. Beckoning Peter to sink them in deeper. You held his shirt like a lifeline, moaning an angelic, rattle of a noise. Pulling you closer into his warm body, Peter lowered his head to your shoulder. Thin strands of silver hair tickled your cheek. His thick fingers curled, hooking into a cushiony spot inside you. Your near-empty eyes saw hot flashes of light.

“L-LOOOVE~!” You whimpered through hitched cries.

“Mhm?” Peter laughed, impishly nibbling his lip, “Feel that lovin’? Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

Keeping you distracted for a temporary moment, Peter dotted your neck in warm kisses. Subtly easing his fingers in and out of your velvet pussy at a quicker pace. Your knees buckled, trembling the faster he moved. Until his motions became brutal. With a perfect curl, speedy digits rammed repeatedly into that spongy spot you loved. Your sugary sweet, unintelligible whines rose in volume, as your sticky, little, zombie cunt quivered.

You gnawed powerful bites as you came, your teeth digging into Peter’s neck. But this time, he allowed it. He forced himself to muscle through the pain, holding your shuddering body close, “ Shhhh. Shhh. It’s cool, baby. It’s - ahh - it’s cool. That's it.” He cooed with a careful tone, stroking the back of your head and threading fingers through your ragged hair.

Easing his fingers from your cunt, he double checked the digits, making sure nothing seemed off. Your release felt thicker and stickier than any living person’s, but didn’t have much of a scent. While usually he looooved to taste the aftermath of a total cutie’s orgasm, Peter opted not to. Sure, your wetness didn’t appear radioactive or hazardous. But the thought of guzzling zombie honey put him off a little bit.

“G-....Goood?” You ogled Peter with half-lidded, glassy eyes, your lips parting in an irresistible giggle.

Peter bit his tongue. Alright. Maybe he…could give it a shot. Just this once. Zombie love liquor couldn’t be deadly or anything, could it? Disease-ridden, maybe. But Peter knew a hyper-intelligent doctor who could whip up a cure for most ailments. Guess it didn’t matter anymore. By the time Peter second guessed himself yet again, he’d already sucked his fingers clean. A bitter thickness lingered on his taste buds. Peter salivated at the thought of drinking down more.

“ Mmmm … mhm …not bad.” He chuckled, lips humming around his fingers, "I'd go fer seconds." He added with a wink, making you laugh.

Yikes. If Hank only knew how reckless Peter acted in the presence of some zombified cutie. He’d lock him up in the infirmary and run a thousand tests on him. Just to make damn sure Peter hadn’t contracted anything lethal.

Politely pushing you off him, Peter turned his head. He double checked the perimeter for any signs of life, despite the lab being totally desolate. Hopefully Summers hadn’t sent anyone after him, since the speedster took way too long returning to base. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulled his hard length from the fly. Almost immediately, you gasped in elation. Tickled squeals danced on your discolored tongue. Thick, and flushed a dark scarlet, Peter’s cock throbbed in his hand.

"I'm guessin' you like what you see?" He snickered, giving his dick a firm stroke, "I like what I'm seein' too...if you couldn't tell." Every word Peter said, every charming smile he gave, seemed to attract you considerably. Drawing more kittenish giggles from you.

With your freezing, zombie mitts, you ungracefully reached for him. Cold fingers squeezed his cock, stroking in a clumsy motion. Peter drew in a sharp breath, the cool sensation of your hands arousing his nerves. Even if your hand to gland combat lacked any skill, it felt damn awesome to be touched like this again. He stepped forward, his giant hands grabbing your hips. You played with him as much as your little, unbeating heart desired. Tugging his burning hardness with an overzealous grip.

You tried lowering yourself to the floor, your mouth falling open, tongue gliding over your lip. But Peter instinctively stopped you. His hands darted to your shoulders, pulling you into a standing position. He preferred if you didn’t take your biting addiction downstairs. Visitations of the oral variety were closed to any undead visitors. At least, for right now.

“Y’know, I don’t usually like goin’ all the way on the first date.” He spoke, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, “Like, call me an old soul 'er whatever.” Peter worked quickly, pulling a condom out of his wallet. He slipped the latex over his length, “But I can make an exception. Just fer you, cutie. But this stays between us, yeah?”

You nodded, pushing yourself up onto the dusty, operating table. Peter cringed, curling his lip out of concern for you. This couldn’t be sanitary. Dragging his attention from the filth under your bottom, you parted your knees. With your body angled backwards, you pointed eagerly at your panty-clad pussy. Soaked and dripping under the thin fabric. Peter’s breath hitched.

“Looooooove~? M-Ma…make?” You cooed, scooting a little off the edge of the table. As if tempting him to give in and fuck you already, you wiggled your ass. Like a beautiful, monstrous display of stitches and postmortem skin. All for the speedster's taking.

"I-I mean-uh...sure. If you really want me to. What kinda guy would I be to turn you down?" He awkwardly joked, fighting his nerves.

Peter pushed a strong hand against your inner thigh. Warm on your deathly cold flesh. He pulled your thin panties to the side, teasing your glossy slit with the head of his cock. You whimpered, cute noises bubbling in the back of your throat. Edging you for a beat more, he slid the teary eyed tip over your clit. Before sinking his length through your walls. Inch by pulsating inch, he bottomed out in a flash, tip kissing your cervix.

“ Wohhhhh, fuck.” He groaned. A new kind of coolness enveloped his cock, plushy and soft. Hooking your stitched legs over Peter’s shoulders, you tilted your body. Inviting him to submerge as deeply as your tight cunt would allow, “Oh, baby…yer so-...ah, fuuuuck. ”

"G……..Goo-......Gooood~!" You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut. Your strangled voice erupted in a mantra of lustful squeals.

By some act of divine intervention, Peter could feel the swollen, unyielding lusciousness of your pussy. Walls wringing his cock, like you wanted to suck him dry of everything he had. He swiftly rutted into your cunt, hard enough to make you bounce against the table. Peter’s sluggish eyes followed your breasts as they bobbed. Titties jiggling with such a soft, sexy whirl; He felt his cock twitch inside you.

Leaning down, Peter loomed over you, the rough fabrics of his clothes sliding along your bare skin. He kissed you tenderly, a little heedless. In the midst of fondling your precious, stitched breasts, Peter's hot palm curiously pressed against your chest. Feeling...nothing. No heartbeat, no blood flow. A little spooked, he refocused his attention. Playing with your bouncing, zombie titties again.

"Feels so-...you feel so good, holy fuck -" He moaned, his voice catching in his throat, "So pretty. L- ah ...love how tight you are." Playfully, Peter lost himself in the moment. He pulled a nipple between his teeth, suckling one of your Frankenstein tits, "Loooove these zombie boobies. Hah -oooohhh, shit-"

Lying in slumber for a decade must have left you majorly sensitive. In just a few more, aggressive, bunny humps; you came again. Hypnotic delight burst through your core, pushing you to the point of tears. Your pussy fluttered, sticky wetness gushing around his cock. Reaching up to link your arms around his neck, you clawed little etchings into his skin.

“M-Mmmmmooore~! More, mmm- ...more~!!” You pleaded, coaxing Peter to drill you with all the energy he carried. Not to toot his own horn, but - little did you know - he harbored enough energy for a hundred men. And then some.

"You w- fuck -want more? Want more, baby? God, yer gonna make me-" His voice wavered between moans, "G-Gonna make me lose it-"

Peter’s mischievous eyes met yours, as you gave him that doe eyed look he couldn’t fucking resist. Sharp jabs of his cock sped to a blur, slamming into your cunt in a brutal display of his strength. Keeping himself balanced, hands pressed to the table on either side of you; Peter showed no mercy. Abusing your precious, syrupy walls with a ruthless pace. But not fast enough that he’d tear his means of protection. A harsh surge of heavenly pain flared up inside you, as he tore into your pussy and bashed your cervix.

"LOOOOOVE~! Ah~! Peeeetur~!" In a moment of post orgasmic clarity, you called his name. Slurred, and barely recognizable. How'd you even know? Had you picked it up from his walkie conversations? Damn, his zombie buddy's more perceptive than he thought. Peter snickered, finding your pronunciation ridiculous. But the cute, needy sound of his name on your lips triggered something.

" ’Mgonnacum- ” Peter whined, his brutal pace more inconsistent and sloppy, “Gonna-...feels too good o h fuck oh fuCK -”

A pearly white burst of thick heat stuffed the latex of the condom full, threatening to make it pop. Burying his nose deep in the crook of your neck, Peter moaned. Guttural whines ripped from his chest, drying his throat. Panting - not from exhaustion, but overstimulation - Peter loosened his muscles. In mellow, post nut bliss, he almost overlooked the sizzle of static buzzing from his walkie.

“Peter? Peter, answer me right now. So help me god. Everyone’s worried sick about you! Do you read me? Peter, I said, do you read me? Please!” Scott pleaded through a mix of agitation and genuine distress.

Peter drew out a long, hard groan. Pushing himself up a little, he fumbled lazily for his walkie. A sluggish grin curled into his dimples, as he nibbled his lip and winked down at you. His eyes half lidded and hanging heavy.

“Mmmm…’M fine. ‘M fine. ‘M fine.” He chuckled, overcompensating for himself. He knew he’d be in mega trouble with the crew by this point, “It’s all-uh…all good. Jeez, Summers. Did ya think I was dead ‘er somethin’? Haha…” Peter drolled, his tone slower than usual. He withdrew his softening cock from inside you, watching while you squirmed. On your back, you appeared a blissful, fucked out mess. Ultimately satisfied. Mission accomplished, “Don’t worry so much, bro. I was only takin’ my new, zombie buddy out to-uh…tooooooo…an arcade. Yeah. An arcade.”

On the other end of the line, a silence fell. Peter filled it with an, “O-Over.” to compensate again.

“...You took the zombie…to an arcade?” Scott responded, an edge of irritated disbelief in his tone, “Peter, are you out of your damn mind? Do you not realize how much of a risk that is? I can’t even-...your priority for this mission was to retrieve those documents for Hank. Doesn’t it seem irresponsible to be dragging an unknown, undead creature around a public place? I can’t even believe you!” He heard Scott scoff, “Now, will you please return already with those documents? We’re all waiting on you. Bring the zombie too.”

“Uhhh…yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Dunno what came over me. Sure. Okie dokes. Lemme, uh-” Peter spoke, playfully fighting you off. You reached for his neck, trying to pull him back down for post-sex cuddles, “Lemme grab ‘em. They’re goin’ hog wild with skee-ball right now. Crazy, right? They scored, like, sooooo many points. You should see all the tickets we got, man. We could totally get one ‘a those jumbo prizes. Say, Scotty, do you want, like, a giant Mighty Mouse?”

“Maximoff.” Scott replied sternly, without a beat of hesitation. His frustration oozed through the speakers, and Peter could feel guilt itching at his conscience.

In the background, Peter overheard someone - though he couldn’t guess who - mutter a, “Is Mighty Mouse even a thing anymore?” Oh. Once Peter returned, he’d be in for it. Royally fucked. Figuratively, and, thankfully, literally. In the short, momentary instance of silence between walkie communication; Peter disposed of the condom and straightened himself out. He disappeared for a millisecond, snatching a fresh towel from some luxury bath shop all the way in Paris. Dousing the cloth in warm water, he wiped you clean upon his ultra speedy arrival. Before helping you redress, making you look…somewhat presentable.

“Fine. I totally get it, okay? Look, man. I’m sorry. But can ya really blame me fer wantin' to hang after the experience I just had? Doesn’t matter. Be there in a flash. M-Maybe don’t tell Hank, though. If you can hel-” Peter rambled sheepishly, slinging the towel over his shoulder. He stepped backwards, extending a hand for you to take.

“Pietro Maximoff, I am beside myself with you!” Hank started, clearly agitated, cutting Peter off.

Peter groaned, mumbling quietly to himself as you took his hand, “He told Hank. He did it. He fuckin’ told him. Shit. I’m so fucked. I’m so, so fucked.” In a motion to guide you off the operating table, Peter pulled you forward by your hand.

“I have several questions. Why would you bring an undead creature to an arcade? What were your motivations behind taking the creature out, on a recreational activity? The potential danger or damage to the arcade and its patrons is far too high. And, furthermore, Peter, is there any scientific value to observing a zombie around arcade equipment? I understand you have this insatiable need to act out, but this is ridiculous! It is our duty, as members of the X-Men, to protect humanity from all threats. Including potential zombie related incidents at public arcades. Now then, please return the specimen immediately for further observation.” Hank ranted on and on and on and on-

A noise, like fabric tearing, cut uncomfortably through the air. Weak stitching around your elbow ripped loose, and Peter pulled your forearm clean off. Hank’s tirade met an abrupt end, as a blood curdling scream rocked the entire room. “Peter? Peter?? What’s happened? Peter, are you alright?” Hank panicked over the walkie.

Past the edge of terrified, shocked to the point of nearly pissing himself; Peter screamed. He wiggled his hand, trying to let go of your lone arm. But your hand held his tightly, your grip refusing to ease up. Once he finally freed himself, he expected your arm to drop to the floor. But your little fingers moved, crawling like spider legs. A zombie’s dislodged arm creeped up Peter’s shoulder over his jacket. Some real, Evil Dead kinda shit. He smacked at it, shouting like a housewife frightened by a mere mouse.

“YEAH!I’mfineI’mgreatI’mawesomesorryit’snothing.” Peter responded, rushed and unclear, “O-Over?” He cringed, scowling as you hopped off the operating table to retrieve your missing arm.

“...Pardon?” Hank asked, tone puzzled. Peter swallowed, shuddering while you pulled your freakish, deadite arm off his shoulder, “Are you…sure you’re alright, Peter? What’s going on? You’ve been acting awful strange tonight. Is there something on your mind?”

A lot. Peter had so much on his mind. Like, the totally real fact that he boned an undead, Frankenstein babe, for one.

“Uhm. It’s-...it’s nothing. Seriously, don’t even worry, Beastie. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Just-uhm…lab’s still-...there was some thunder, and the building-uh-” Peter nervously rambled, struggling to find his words, “Over.”

Another pause drew out long enough for Peter to realize his mistake. He cursed, smacking himself on the side of the head. How could he be scatterbrained, to forget his own lies in a matter of seconds? He had a feeling, deep in his gut; Hank would rip him a new one tonight once he got back. “...The lab? Peter…didn’t you just tell us you were at an arcade?” Hank asked, reasonably suspicious.

Peter’s voice broke as he replied, “I mEAN-” He cleared his throat, “Uhhh-...heh. I-I ran back! Forgot-uh...there was somethin’ I forgot. Like I said, doesn’t matter. I’m totally fine! I’m juuust peachy! Hang tight. I’ll be right there. Over and out.” Peter took a second to collect himself, clipping his walkie to his belt. He silenced the device, ignoring any further questions from Hank. Subconsciously, Peter took a step back as you reached for him again. His veins vibrated with a buzz of adrenaline. With your arm dismembered, you moved abruptly forward. Nuzzling your face into Peter’s chest, the same way you had all night. Still just as smitten with him. Groggy purrs rumbled in your throat.

Rolling his eyes, Peter patted your head, smoothing out your ragged, messy hair, “What am I gonna do with you? Yer nothin’ but trouble, y’know that?” He teased, pinching one of your cold cheeks, “Whaddya say we get outta here already? But I gotta make a couple ‘a pit stops. And you gotta behave yerself. Don’t get any funny ideas about eatin’ anybody.” Peter wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you close. Pointing at you with an accusatory finger.

You tilted your head, confused again. Peter really couldn’t get enough of that cute, clueless look. Hank and Scott had no idea what they were talkin’ about. His zombie buddy? Totally harmless. You’d never even hurt a fly.

Okay. First order of business. Find a Mighty Mouse plush, just to really sell his arcade story. After that, he planned on snatching you some nicer clothes. Anything to protect your modesty. Thirdly, Peter wanted to teach himself some gnarly makeup tricks. Cover up his hickies. Yeah. No sweat! He could do all that in a flash.

Oh. And late night pancakes. Peter refused to skimp out on those. He’d been craving them all night, and his body desperately needed to replenish its energy. Surely, the gang back home wouldn’t mind. After everything, they totally wouldn’t be supremely pissed and fed up with Peter’s bullshit. And the waitress serving at whatever diner he picked? She wouldn’t bat an eye at some undead, zombified customer, would she?

Why's he even kidding himself?

Gathering Hank’s files, Peter tucked them under his arm. He zipped around in search of whatever other knick-knacks he lost, including his fallen flashlight. Stepping towards you, Peter brought his earbuds to your ears. He exchanged the tape in his Walkman for another, aiming to keep you entertained with music while he traveled at superspeed. As soon as the tune graced your ears, you leapt in place. Squeaking a surprise chirp. Your shoulders bunched, and you darted your hazy eyes around.

“Hey, easy, easy-” Peter reassured, cranking the volume down low so you could still hear him, “It’s just music, baby. It’s nice, right? You like it? You like-uh…you like the Monster Mash? Crypt Kickers? Bobby Pickett?” He gestured with his hands, suggestively raising his brows, “We had a graveyard smash, didn't we, eh?” You simply stared at him, clueless as usual. Huffing, Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Seriously. What am I gonna do with you?”

You clutched your dislodged arm tight, cradling the appendage close. Throwing a quick glance your way, Peter shook his head. He pulled his goggles over his eyes, and braced a warm hand at the back of your neck. The few seconds before he took off, he leaned in close. Hearing that Halloween melody playing from the earphones you wore, he quietly sang along.

As much as he liked cuddling ‘Ro on Halloween, horror movie nights; A new idea crossed his mind. He might just snuggle up on the couch with someone special this year.

#peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x reader #txt

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averagewriter-inthedark · 2 years ago

Text

Love Across the Galaxy 🌌 | Helmut Zemo Imagine

Contains spoilers for GOTG Vol.3

Link to my Marvel masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Baron Helmut Zemo x Roman Goddess/Guardians!reader (romantic), The Thunderbolts—Baron Zemo, Bucky Barnes, Thaddeus Ross, Valentina Alegra De Fontaine, John Walker, Ghost, Justin Hammer, Taskmaster, Yelena, & Red Hulk (platonic), The Guardians of the Galaxy—Quill, Mantis, Nebula, Drax, Rocket, Groot, Kraglin, & Cosmo (platonic)

Content Warnings: profanity, light angst, fluff, mentions of death, fighting & violence, spoilers for GOTG Vol.3 (don’t read if you haven’t seen it!) | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 4.9k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: In which Baron Helmut Zemo, hater of the Avengers and desire to rid the planet of enhanced beings, becomes a member of the antihero team led by General Thaddeus Ross & CIA Director Valentina Fontaine where he meets the legendary group of misfits turned Guardians of the freakin Galaxy and loses his heart to a Goddess with a love for 80s music and talent for cutting of limbs.

Note: GOTG Vol 3 has permanently altered my brain chemistry and I cannot stop thinking about it. Truly the best film since Endgame & it’s inspired me cause I’m also back to loving Zemo again. I refuse to believe Marvel would give us a Thunderbolts film w/o Zemo so I will make sure he’s in this team.

After learning about all the Gods in Thor: Love & Thunder, picture you are Minerva, the Roman Goddess of Wisdom & War (Roman equivalent to the Greek’s Athena) and has cosmic powers similar to the Eternal’s Thena and has been with the Guardians since the events of the first GOTG film.

————————

Fall 2023

“I don’t see why we need these people to help us,” Zemo rolled his eyes, strolling beside General Ross with the rest of the team around them. Once outside the cool breeze hit him, ruffling the lapels of his coat as his eyes squinted from the bright light.

Ross lets out a tired sigh, “Because, Zemo, as much as it galls me to admit it this threat is far beyond what we can deal with. It’s not terrestrial and chances are these…” he had trouble coming up with the word, “let’s just say they’re more experienced for this situation.”

They all stop before the flight line. It’s clear all around them with no sign of an approaching vessel.

“Who are these guys again?” Justin Hammer popped some jelly beans in his mouth. John looks down at the file in his hands, making a face as he does.

“They call themselves…The Guardians of the Galaxy.”

“Oh God,” Bucky moans, immediately making mental notes to protect his mental arm knowing a certain talking animal was on the hunt for it. He was gonna have to sleep with one eye open.

Zemo raises his brow, “Friends of yours, James?” Bucky is not pleased by the assumption.

“I wouldn’t call them that.”

“Aren’t they part of the Avengers?” Ava’s tone is slightly disapproving. While Scott Lang and the Pym/Van Dyne’s helped her, she still got bad rep despite doing what she did to survive.

Zemo, not happy with the idea of working with Avengers, snatches the file from Walker.

“Not technically,” Ross replies while Zemo reads over the page. “They arrived with Thor in 2018 against the first battle with Thanos, remained an associate to the team while continuing whatever the hell it is they do in space, and returned in 2023 to defeat the purple bastard once and for all.”

“Did you fight with them, Bucky?” Yelena asks from beside the soldier.

“Yeah,” the memory appears in his mind. Specifically where he grabbed Rocket by the scruff and spun them in circles to cover more area as they fired off their guns. “Our interactions were brief…but memorable.”

The Baron had seen many things over the years, like the rest of humanity with the formation of the Avengers and reveal of intergalactic and enhanced beings, but to stay he wasn’t thinking, ‘what the fuck?’ by the picture in front of him would be a lie.

An earthling turned ravager, a blue mercenary, a woman with antennas, a genetically engineered raccoon, a living tree, a gray alien that could take down Thor, a man with a metal Mohawk, a telekinetic dog, and an exiled sword wielding Goddess. All misfits and outcasts, mostly space criminals turned superhero guardians of the cosmos.

Well….they were quite the bunch.

“They are not still with the Avengers, I take it?” Zemo wanders around, eyes lingering on the Goddess. White streaks adorned her natural hair color, eyes gold and lips painted with what appeared to be a permanent smirk. She wore a gold and white headpiece that had an owl extending its wings.

Name/Alias: Minerva, Goddess of War; Race: Deity; Planet of Origin: Caelum; Age: approx. 2500 yrs (39 Earth yrs); Occupation: Warrior/Mercenary/Defender of the Andromeda Galaxy; Allegiance: The High Council of Caelum (formerly), Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor, God of Thunder, The Avengers (formerly); Abilities: Cosmic manipulation, enhanced strength, agility, speed, & durability, thermal detection & mental teleportation; Specialization: artillery and battle strategy.

Ross let out a sigh, “only when the planet is about to go to shit due to an intergalactic threat. Which we’ve now got on our hands, but considering the Avengers are all on sabbatical I’m sending you in,” he checks his watch, “but I need all the extra hands and like I said, they’re experienced.”

Zemo stares at the blank sky, “How will we know they've arrived?”

“Believe me,” Ross mutters under his breath. “You’ll know.”

A loud rumbling noise caught everyone’s attention, gazes turning upward as a hexagon shaped breech in the sky revealed a very large spaceship in its wake, followed by the distinct lyrics of AC/DC’s ‘Back to Black.’

“Back in black. I hit the sack. I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back. Yes, I’m let loose. From the noose. That’s kept me hanging about.”

“Oh my,” Yelena breathed out, hair flying back from the gust of wind. Zemo lifted a hand to cover his face from the leaves, as did the others, many wide eyed.

“I’ve been looking at the sky. ‘Cause it’s gettin’ me high. Forget the hearse ‘cause I never die. I got nine lives. Cat’s eyes. Abusin’ every one of them running wild.”

“Great song,” Justin voiced, grinning from ear to ear. The ship made its descent, music getting louder.

“‘Cause I’m back. Yes, I’m back. Well, I’m back,” it approached the tarmac, “Yes, I’m back. Well, I’m back, back.” wheels hit the tarmac, engine powering down but music still blasting, “Well, I’m back in black,” the ship doors opened, revealing steps extending to the ground, “Yes, I’m back in black.”

It was almost like a scene from a movie. Slow-motion if one will by how the Guardians exited their ship and stepped foot on the tarmac with AC/DC on full volume. All dressed in their new suits of red and blue leather with the Ravager flames on the chest.

Arriving in style.

Quill led with the rest flanking his sides. Drax munching on snacks while Nebula looked menacing and Groot towered over everyone. Cosmo had her tongue out in excitement, Rocket carrying his gun strapped to his back. Mantis’s chin held high, like she was on top of the world and Kraglin trying not to appear lost. Lastly Minerva was drinking a caprisun, Ray Bans covering her gold eyes.

Zemo tilts his head in amusement at the sight. He expected the Goddess, of war nonetheless, to have a more menacing approach like Nebula considering her reputation. But she was just as relaxed and laid back as Drax.

The Guardians walked several paces until they were directly in front of the Thunderbolts. It was then the music stopped, Ross being the first to address them. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”

Quill gave a smug grin, “We know.” Hands go to his hips, “You’re wearing a suit so you must be the boss man. Although I believe there’s also a boss lady we’re here to do business with.”

“Director Fontaine is currently occupied. She’ll be arriving in the morning.”

“I assume we won’t be knowing a damn thing until that happens, huh?”

Ross tightens his lips, “You assume correctly.”

“I told you we should’ve handled it on our own,” Minerva’s glances to Quill annoyed. Surprised by her voice, Zemo's eyebrows raised at her sudden input. Her accent was slightly Italian given her mythological origin is Roman.

Quill clicked his tongue, “We don’t have authority here, Minnie.”

“Midgard is part of the Andromeda Galaxy. Technically we should.”

Now the man was giving her a pointed look after Ross’s body language turned defensive, “I’d rather not get our asses thrown in Earth’s prison system. We go by the rules—the ones we established.”

Minerva grumbles under her breath, finishing the last remnants of her juice pouch, “Would’ve finished the job faster. They wouldn’t even know we were here.”

“Okay well, we’re doing things this way. We’re here as a team to work with a team. Right, Mr. Secretary?”

Ross’ disapproving eyes linger on Minerva, who in return rolls her own, before turning his attention back to Quill, “Yes. Now let’s move on shall we?”

He lets out a breath of relief, “Agreed.” Bidding a warning look to each of his teammates, they all wait for what the man in the suit has to say. Ross extends a hand to the people on either side of him.

“This is my team. All with different levels of skill and experience. Justin Hammer is our tech and weapons specialist,” Justin gives a wave, “Yelena Belova,” Ross points to the blonde in a white tactical suit, “former Black Widow and master assassin.” At the mention of Black Widow Rocket, Nebula, and Minerva all tense, faces becoming solemn at the memory of Natasha. They were the three remaining Guardians during the blip, becoming close with the Avenger.

“Ava Starr, she can phase through anything,” they all look impressed, finding the talent cool. “Antonia Dreykov, who we like to call Taskmaster.”

“Why’s that?” Kraglin asked intrigued.

“She has photographic reflexes and can mimic your fighting powers. Basically use your own moves against you.”

“Niceeee,” all the Guardians echo. Ross points to the two individuals in between Zemo and Yelena.

“Our super soldiers, Captain John Walker and I believe you all know Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky tightens his mouth with a curt nod.

“You still got that arm on ya?” Rocket muses, earning a nudge—well more like a kick—from Minerva. The rest of the Thunderbolts besides Bucky all become wide-eyed at the talking Raccoon…even though it said on the file he could.

But how the fuck else were they suppose to react to a talking raccoon?

All Bucky does is glare, “Don’t even think about it.” Rocket shrugs, “Worth a shot.”

“Why is that one carrying a giant frisbee?” Drax’s mouth is filled with Zargnuts. Walker, the man in question, becomes visibly offended.

“It’s a shield not a frisbee.” Zemo bites back a smirk at the soldier's tone. Not to mention the Guardians' reactions were priceless.

“A shield?” Mantis repeats confused.

“It’s a frisbee,” Drax mumbles.

“Like that circular object Minerva conjures to deflect attacks,” Nebula tiredly explains. Mantis’s mouth forms the shape of an ‘o’.

“And lastly,” Ross sounds just as exhausted as the cyborg, “Baron Helmut Zemo, former intelligence operative.”

“I am Groot,” Zemo’s attention goes to the tree alien, confused by his words. Minerva, seeing his expression, addresses it, “He says he likes your fancy cape.”

‘Cape?’ He thinks, but doesn’t comment on it and his perplexed reaction makes Minerva smirk. Instead Zemo says, “Well, I appreciate the compliment. Thank you.” Groot’s pleased, grinning wide like a child.

It’s then Quill’s turn to formally introduce the Guardians. The Thunderbolts bite back their own amusement at the nicknames and surprise of hearing the dog, Cosmo, speak through her suit with a distinct Russian accent. Afterwards Ross leads them all into the hangar, Minerva removing her sunglasses now that she was inside, allowing her gold eyes to be visible.

From there they all interact, awkwardly for the most part as they have no idea what the hell to do as they wait for further instruction. It soon becomes bickering and even challenging someone in hand-to-hand combat.

Well, what can you expect when a team of heroes meet a team of villains/anti heroes? Rivalry at its finest.

“Any day now, Quill,” Minerva groans, relaxing her stance. Across from her several feet away was Walker, confused by why she was taking so long to attack. They were standing in the middle of the squared off area with the teams surrounding them, but giving enough space to avoid being in the crossfire. Quill was scrolling through his Walkmen.

“What’s he doing?” Zemo whispers to Kraglin, eyes flicking back and forth from the human Guardian and the Goddess.

“Trying to find a good fight song. You know, get the vibes going.” Out on the square Minerva lets out a loud huff signaling her annoyance was increasing.

“Just give me another second—.”

“Quill.”

“I almost got it.”

“Pick a goddamn song!”

“Fine!” Quill shouts, randomly selecting the first one his finger hits. A second later Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like the Wolf,’ blasts through all the speakers attached to the Guardians arms. The antiheroes become perplexed, while also noting the song choice. Justin and Yelena started to bop their heads.

“Darken the city, night is a wire. Steam in the subway, earth is afire. (Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do)”

Minerva smirked, retaking her stance. As she lifts her hands, cosmic energy around her consorts to physical matter, taking the shape of a spear and shield in either hand. Wide eyes take over the Thunderbolts.

“Woman, you want me, give me a sign. And catch my breathing even closer behind. (Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do)”

“Wow,” Justin exhales. “In touch with the ground. I’m on the hunt, I’m after you.”

“That’s so cool,” Yelena muses, others muttering in agreement. “Smell like the sound, I'm lost in the crowd. And I’m hungry like the wolf.” Keeping his admirations to himself, Zemo watches the scene unfold in silence.

“First one to step or get thrown out of the square loses,” Bucky shouts over the music, “Ready….” Walker clutches the strap of his shield, Minerva twirling her spear once, “Fight!”

“Stalked in the forest, too close to hide,” Walker lets out a cry, charging at the Goddess. “I’ll be upon you by the moonlight side (Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do,” Minerva blocks his attack, pushing back slightly only to crouch to swipe at his legs, “High blood drumming on your skin, it’s so tight,” Walker dodges her spear, but fails to avoid her kick to his chest, sending him backward. “You feel my heat, I’m just a moment behind.” He brings his shield up in time as her spear barrels down at him. “Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do.”

They continue their one-on-one for several minutes, both coming close to getting the other out of the square and the song changing to ‘Cherry Bomb’ by The Runaways—a favorite amongst the Guardians. The entire time Zemo was mesmerized to say the least. Every move she made was effortless, showcasing strengths and ability to predict Walker's moves.

He hadn’t felt such attraction to a woman in so long. And here he was experiencing a feeling that was almost unfamiliar.

Ultimately Minerva wins the battle in what one would call a divine move. At the peak of the song, Minerva’s golden eyes glow bright resulting in the eyes of the owl headpiece to also glow and become animated. It takes form, coming to life and soars straight at Walker, throwing him off by covering his face.

“What the—uuugh!!” He’s flying through the air, back meeting the harsh ground with an audible groan. The owl leaves him, returning to Minerva and consorting back into a headpiece. When it does her eyes dim back to their normal hue. Her team broke out into whistles and hollars, meanwhile Walker’s were unimpressed.

“Guardians for the win!” Rocket cheered.

“I am Groot!”

“Never underestimate the power of Duran Duran!”

Minerva helps Walker up, “Not bad, soldier.” As she turns to head off the pad, her eyes lock with Zemo’s and a wink is sent his way. Heat rises in the Baron, glancing away to hide his smirk.

Oh boy, trouble was on the horizon.

Next Yelena went against Nebula. Their fight was even more intense and nearly ended in a draw. Eventually Yelena overpowered the cyborg and got her to step out of the square. It was a tie. Groot and Rocket teamed up against Ross in the form of the Red Hulk—which took a lot of convincing—the two claiming the win after fooling the General. Taskmaster beat out Quill, handing his ass to him which had the Guardians in a heap of laughter.

“I enjoyed that more than I should have,” Minerva teases, crossing her arms as she takes a spot beside Zemo. He glances at her, mirroring her expression.

“Not a common occurrence for your friend to lose a fight?”

She scoffs, “You’d be surprised by his record.”

Lastly Bucky went toe-to-toe with Drax, and of course Rocket had to yell, “Take his arm and give it to me!” And well….it ended with them tackling each other out of the square.They didn’t know who won at that point, so the teams were tied 2-2 initiating a debate on who should be crowned the best.

“Okay, let’s call it a day,” Ross announces, ending the squabbling between the groups. “Night’s upon us and frankly I could use a drink. We’ll return here first thing in the morning—7am sharp to discuss the threat and where to go,” he turns to Quill, “we’ve got sleeping quarters arranged for you all if you please. Otherwise my guess is you’ll remain in your ship?”

About an hour later, after both teams settled for the night, Zemo decided to take a walk around the flight line. It became a habit of his since joining the Thunderbolts. A way to clear his mind after a long day of briefings and training. He basked in the peace that came with being alone, but there were times he felt lonely and longing for company to share the peace with.

Ten years since losing his family and the pain never strayed. Yet, he managed to live with it. He accomplished his goal in 2016 when he tore apart the Avengers. Likely is to blame for the loss against Thanos resulting in half of the universe’s population turning into dust for five years.

Did he feel remorse for the consequences of his actions? Possibly. Did he regret it? No. At this rate he’s accepted the reputation he painted himself to be.

“Zemo, correct?” The sudden intrusion spooked the Baron, jumping slightly by the glowing eyes in the darkness. A moment later Minerva stepped into the lighting, eyes dimming to normal. She was still in her suit, though her hair was pulled back, white streaks seeping through the natural color.

“Yes, but you may call me Helmut,” he replied, nodding in greeting to the Goddess.

“Helmut,” she tests the name, “like the headwear people use when they ride bikes or spacesuits?”

“That’s one way to look at it, but yes I suppose so.”

“Interesting. What brings you out this late in the evening?”

He shrugs, “wanted to get away from the constant complaining of my comrades,” eyes go to the sky, “and I like to admire the stars.” Minerva moves to his right, glancing up as well.

“They’re much more incredible up close.” He peers down at her, not bothering to question her judgment. She lives in space after all.

“I bet so. I’m sure the view from here is nothing compared to what you’ve witnessed.”

She shrugs, “These stars you don’t even know if they’re still alive. It took years—possibly millions—for the light to reach Earth.” Zemo looks back up, focusing on the North Star.

“For all we know they burnt out ages ago.”

Their eyes connect, Zemo feeling a weight on his chest by the intensity of her gaze. It’s followed by unease when she says, “Natasha told me about you.”

Instantly he looks away, feeling an unfamiliar wave of dread. “Ah.” Here was a discussion he was not expecting, nor willing, to have.

But Minerva didn’t show criticism. In fact, her gaze and tone resembled understanding. “How do you do it?” The question took him aback.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Align yourself with people who go against what you stand for?” Minerva’s tone wasn’t condescending at all, only curious. “Most of your team are enhanced individuals—two are super soldiers to be exact. You went to many lengths to disband the Avengers and put an end to superheroes,” there’s a slight tilt of her head, eyeing the Baron with intrigue, “but you join a group consisting of people who fall between the spectrum of hero and villain where most are the exact thing you wished to eradicate. Not to mention led by two people you wouldn’t say you share similar moral values with. Why join them?”

For the first time in his life, Zemo was at a loss for words. Not a single word uttered as he tried to comprehend what Minerva had just confronted him with. How could he explain? Hell, he didn’t even know the real truth other than wanting to stay out of his cell. A big price to pay in exchange for freedom.

Minerva spoke again before he could respond, “I once committed an act similar to you,” the surprise is evident on Zemo, “Vengeance against those who were responsible for the death of my loved ones. It’s why I was exiled,” a frown appears, her attention returning to the stars. “So I understand you, probably better than anyone here. Understand why you committed those acts to destroy the Avengers. I don’t fault you for what you did—if I did it would make me a hypocrite. You’re not the villain Ross and the Avengers made you out to be.”

“How so?” His voice is strained, “what have you lost?” He didn’t mean to come off as defensive, but the conversation was bringing up emotions Zemo didn’t want to face.

“As Goddess of War all I knew was bloodshed. How to prevent it and how to fight it. Battle strategy was my domain, and the High Council knew better than to question my judgment,” she releases an exhale, “but Mars, the God of War and my brother, was my ultimate rival. He hated how much our father doted on me and agreed with plans I coordinated. It made him feel inferior. He’d do anything to prove himself.” Her tone remains neutral despite the painful memory surfacing.

Zemo remained quiet, picturing the scene as Minerva relayed it. Though stoic the Baron could see the pain and sadness lurking behind her eyes. Managing it as best she could for the sake of her friends. Who knows how many years it’d been since she lost whoever it was close to her. But the hole would always remain.

“To put it short,” she started again, bidding a glance, “Our home was under attack and his rash decision to slow down the enemy led to the death of my family—my husband and children.” Sympathy arose in the Baron, understanding her anguish, “An intentional move on Mars’ part because he believed I wouldn’t be fit to remain on the High Council after stuffing such a loss, therefore he would take my place as Head Commander of our armies and my father’s second Command.”

“He wasn’t exiled?” The question left Zemo before he could stop it. Confused by how the God avoided persecution for his crime, Minvera was shunned. “Your family was targeted.”

Minerva’s smile was bitter, “because their deaths were a result of war, the High Council viewed it as collateral. They failed to see Mars’ responsibility, believing he didn’t intend to kill them. So, I took it upon myself to bring justice. Not only to Mars but also the High Council.” Her smile fell once more, “I made sure they would pay. And they did, but it was far from over after finishing the job. Those who survived didn’t hesitate to throw me out to the wolves once I was contained.”

Zemo nods his head, “where did you go afterward if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was imprisoned on Xandar for some time,” well they certainly had some things in common, “Once I escaped I became what your people would call a bounty hunter. Where it led me to meeting those clowns I now call my family,” she pauses before adding, “and escaping prison for a second time. Only it was to save the Galaxy.”

The laugh that escapes Zemo surprises him, “I guess it all worked out then.” Once more they lock eyes, twinkling against the stars shining down above.

“I suppose it did.”

Three Years Later

Zemo raced out the door the moment he awoke to rumbling that shook the foundation of his home. After three years he’d recognize the sound in an instant, only this time it was without warning.

An action that rarely occurred.

Throwing on his coat and house slippers, the clock read 2:30 am, flooding the Baron with worry. ‘What is she doing here at this hour?”

Usually when Minerva drops in she gives Zemo a heads up. A day or two’s notice, but recently he couldn’t get a hold of her and passed it off as the Guardians on a job. With the unexpected visit, so late at night, Zemo instantly knew something was wrong.

Hurrying out to the front lawn right as her ship landed, Zemo jogged to where the stairs extended. When they did, the doors revealed his Goddess, still wearing her suit, standing before him. Zemo noted the exhaustion painting her demeanor. Dark circles beneath her eyes, which appeared dimmer than usual, and scars indicating recently healed wounds.

His arms are around her the moment she’s within distance, her own around his neck, “This is a surprise.”

“Sorry I didn’t call,” the exhaustion was evident in her voice. Barely above a whisper causing Zemo to tighten his hold.

“It’s alright, darling. I’m just glad to see you are okay,” his hand runs along her hair, “wanna tell me what happened?” He hears her sniff, increasing his dread, “Close call?”

“Too many,” her voice cracks and there’s a pause. “We almost lost Rocket. We saved him thankfully, but then we nearly lost Peter. And I almost—,” she stops short, not wanting to relive her near death experience. “This was…it was too much for all of us, Helmut.” A kiss is pressed to her head, offering comfort.

“Let’s get you inside, mein schatz.” Zemo leads Minerva into the home, sitting her in the living room while he goes to put a kettle on the stove. Filling two cups of cherry blossom tea, Minerva’s favorite, he joins her in the living room.

After taking her first sip of the brew, Minerva removes the headpiece from her hair and makes herself comfortable before giving Zemo a play-by-play of the past three days. He stays quiet, listening intently but visibly reacts with each awful detail Minvera relays to him. From the unexpected attack from Adam Warlock, to the disgusting abuse Rocket endured at the hands of the High Evolutionary, to Quill nearly imploading in space had it not been for Adam’s change of heart.

Zemo’s knuckles turned white when Minerva spoke of what happened to her. Anger consumed him and he wished he had been there to protect her. Seeing his distress Minerva placed her hand on his, gently squeezing, “I’m okay, Helmut. I’m here now and we all made it out. There were many close calls, but we’re all alive and that’s what matters.”

Taking her hand, Zemo brought it up to brush his lips against her fingers, softly kissing her knuckles. “I don’t know what I would've done if I lost you, Minnie. I—-,” he stops himself to exhale, squeezing his eyes shut, “I would’ve found a way to fly across the galaxy to avenge you.”

“I know you would,” she murmurs, removing her hand but positioning herself in his lap. Arms snake around his neck, pulling him so they were inches apart. “I’d expect nothing less. Also I’d be a hypocrite considering I would do the same for you.” A playful smirk formed, “I was already plotting when Ross let you get captured by those bastards last year. Had it ended any other way, Ross would cease to exist.”

Zemo snickered, “I see we haven’t really changed completely despite our friends believing the opposite. Neither of us hesitating to return to old ways if it comes down to such circumstances.”

She smirks, “No, I don’t suppose we haven’t.”

“What a pair we are,” leaning in, his lips meet hers in a soft caress. Warmth seeping through his veins. That effortless high he believed he’d never have again after the loss of his family.

But he found it with a Goddess in the stars. Where love swept across the galaxy.

When they pull away after a moment, Zemo keeps his forehead against hers. Gold meeting brown. “I’m not sure I can let you go now, liebling. At least not for a while.”

“You never have to anymore,” her words have him startled, the man pulling away slightly to get a better look at her.

“What are you saying?”

Minerva’s gaze turns soft, though there’s slight nervousness, “After everything we all realized something. We found the family we were searching for, but some of us needed to find ourselves. Peter’s here on Earth to find his grandfather. Mantis is off on her own adventure. Drax and Nebula are on Knowhere to help raise the children we saved from the High Evolutionary. Rocket and Groot are leading a new era of the Guardians. And me,” she stops, emitting a gaze full of love that takes Zemo’s breath away. “I’d like to be here. With you, Helmut. If you’ll have me.”

If his heart could explode from the happiness Zemo was feeling it would. Tears were threatening to prick his eyes, the Baron willing himself to remain composed. “Oh, Schatz,” he croaked, cupping the side of her jaw. “I should be the one asking you that. Of course I’ll have you. I love you more than every star in the galaxy.” With that he kisses her, putting all his love and passion it causes her own eyes to water.

“I love you too,” she kisses him again. They remain on the couch, falling asleep eventually curled up in each other’s embrace. Their last thoughts filled with joy as they awaited the new adventure on the horizon.

An adventure just between them. A reinstated Goddess and a fully pardoned Baron opening the next chapter of their lives. Together.

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