“(y/n)? Are you awake?”
“Hmm?” you groan, burrowing out your head from underneath the blankets. Blearily, you sit up, and turn the light on with fumbling hands.
You blink your eyes to chase away any traces of sleep, and the first thing they see is Pietro Maximoff bundled in a blanket burrito outside your doorway.
You rub at your eyes furiously. It was probably just Wanda teasing you around with dreams. She’s never stopped ever since you’ve told her your growing affection for her brother.
But when the world grows clear again, the figure of the elder Maximoff remains standing.
He edges a step forward, unsure whether to enter or not.
“May I come in?”
You run a hand through your hair, knowing that it didn’t see a brush in the last few hours. The last shadowy purple remnants of sleeplessness line underneath your eyelids, and you want nothing more than to crash back down to dreamland again.
“Be my guest.”
The Sokovian shuffles forward slowly, dragging the bedsheets behind him. “I couldn’t find a decent place to sleep.”
Despite your weariness, you chuckle, watching his usually agile feet slide this way and that, confused on which direction to move.
“Why not Wanda’s room?”
“She’s not here. Again.” Pietro grumbles, flopping down to sit on your mattress. “That Vision, or whatever he is, he’s making her lose self-control. This isn’t the first time she has snuck out.”
“Mm, you sound like an overbearing mother.” You prop yourself up against the headboard to shake your head at him.
“I’m the eldest!”
“By what, not even a quarter of an hour?”
“Still the oldest.”
“And I’m sure you learned so much more about the meaning of life in that delivery room until Wanda popped out.”
Pietro tries to give you a half-hearted hair flick, but his hands turn back to stifle a yawn.
“Go to sleep.” You order him immediately, bundling the blankets around him tighter.
You sigh, sliding over to the cooler side of the bed to allow Pietro to slip in.
And yet, the kid has the gall to refuse.
“No, no. I’d take too much space, I could kick you when I wake up because I usually don’t…”
You push him down unceremoniously in the space next to you, ignoring his protests. When he runs out of arguments, you fluff his silver-blonde hair and gently place it on your pillow.
He gazes up at you tiredly. “This won’t happen again.”
You cut the apology off with a swift peck on the lips, which effectively shuts him up. Just as quickly, you draw away, hand reaching out to the bedside light.
“Good night, Pietro.”
Crashland Protocol - Part VII [Pietro x Reader]Crashland Protocol - Part VII [Pietro x Reader] by katnisseverdeen4life
WARNING: The usual spoilers for Age of Ultron.
“What have you done to my brother?”
You open your eyes wide in innocence, squinting in the early rays of dawn. “Why, nothing. Showed him a thing or two about manners, that's all. Didn’t taint him, don’t worry.”
Wanda seems unfazed by the attitude. “You know full well that he has shown you compassion. It is peculiar.”
“Compassion? Is locking me in here day and night like an animal something he’d boast about?”
“Now and again, yes.”
You rise, shaking the dust off of your hands. “Well, tell him I’d appreciate it if he’d let me out of this hellhole and then we can talk something about kindness.”
“He has never healed the wounds of anyone.” Here her voice grows darker. “No one but me.”
Ah. So jealousy’s her main cause behind this.
“If you’re going to tell me to stop seducing Pietro, go right
Crashland Protocol - Part VI [Pietro x Reader]Crashland Protocol - Part VI [Pietro x Reader] by katnisseverdeen4life
WARNING: Spoilers, spoilers.
“How’s Wanda holding up?” You ask, chugging down the latest bottle of water.
“She says she’s considering another interrogation because of your behavior.”
“And you expect me to improve how? You know as well as I do that you two deserve it.” The last drops of liquid trickle down your throat, and you throw the bottle away in disgust. It rolls across the floor, the sound echoing off the walls.
A blur of blue, and he’s holding the water bottle to you again, filled to the brim.
“She might do it out of sport. To show you who’s in control.” Pietro watches you shakily take the bottle again and bring to your cracked lips.
“Figures. I’ve got nothing else to offer, anyway.”
An acrid burning smell fills the air, and your mouth twists down in a grimace. A foreign curse from Pietro signals that his shoes are on fire.
“This is getting ridiculous.” he grumbles, stamp
Crashland Protocol - Part V [Pietro x Reader]Crashland Protocol - Part V [Pietro x Reader] by katnisseverdeen4life
WARNING: Spoilers for Age of Ultron ahead.
Time loses meaning now as the darkness from your room threatens to suffocate you. No Avengers come; Pietro and Wanda were right all along. They didn’t really care for you as you did them, never thought to include you in their inner ranks.
It was laughable that you once expected anything more.
Something between a choke or a cough comes out of your throat, small and pathetic in the darkness. Shakily, you set the water bottle down next to you.
Instantly, the sounds of quick feet fill the air.
It's one bizarre system Pietro and you have grudgingly worked out. He'd bring you water, and on rare occasions, food, in exchange for compliance to Wanda's magic.
Neither of you have exchanged a word since the first interrogation.
The now recognizable blur of blue leaves behind a nearly overflowing bottle of water exactly where it once stood empty.
It only takes a few seconds for your eyes to land on the small bowl filled with water
Pietro x Reader - Gotta Go FastPietro x Reader - Gotta Go Fast by katnisseverdeen4life
“Pietro!” you call out, untangling the wires of the grey game controller.
“You called me?”
“Sit down and close the door.”
Pietro doesn’t move, but furrows his brow in confusion. “Am I in trouble?”
“What, do you want to be?”
He smirks at this, leaning closer towards you. “It would depend on what kind of punishment you have.”
“Like you're ever going to get that lucky.” you snort, shoving a game controller in his hands. “I said sit.”
With a flick of your wrist, the TV screen turns on, glowing with the light of a lush and pixelated green hill.
Pietro squints, scooting closer to the screen. “Why is there a blue creature in the corner?”
“You wanted to know why people keep calling you Sonic, right?”
To your utter delight, Pietro’s a complete failure playing Sonic.
“Wait ‘till Barton hears
|Enjoy the randomosity of my mind.|
Warning: Some major spoilers for Age of Ultron below! Read at your own risk.
“(y/n). (y/n). (y/n). (y/n).”
“What, what, what, what, what?” you answer without batting an eye, grabbing his wrist before he can poke you and say your name again. He, on the other hand, blinks, looking impressed that you could catch him before he sped off.
“So am I. Wait ‘til dinner.”
“I can’t wait! There are four hours, twenty-five minutes, and forty-five seconds before it.”
“…are you seriously keeping track?”
“Forty-four and counting down. Forty-three. Forty-”
Might as well give up. “Fine. We’ll go out to the cafe, but if you don’t eat all your dinner tonight, consider yourself starving for the next month.”
“Shut up, I’m just as old as you are.”
Pietro looks straight at you, a unnervingly attractive smirk growing on his face. “Does that not make me your husband, then?”
“In your dreams, Maximoff.” You duck your head so your blush can’t be seen. “All right, let’s…”
A strong pair of arms scoop you up without strain, and you’re already outside by the time you get to finish your sentence.
You yelp, and throw your face into his chest to avoid the air ripping your skin. He chuckles throatily, and the sensation vibrates in your ears as you press against him to block out the screaming of the wind.
Hopefully you’ll survive without imploded eardrums. If he breaks the sound barrier again…
“This is where you want to go?”
The heavy disgust in his voice makes you chance a look to see the secluded cafe in the corner, looking well worn down with its chipped paint and dusty brick walls curving inwards.
You clumsily wiggle yourself out of his arms; a feat easier said than done. “Come on, Pie! They sell homemade pastries. Their Tarte Tatin’s their signature one."
“You’ll be eating your words as soon as the first forkful passes your lips, mister.”
“Mmm.” he groans later, practically sagging into his chair with delight. “Delicious.”
“And you didn’t believe me.” you smugly finish off the last remnants of your own treat - strawberries drizzled with honeyed syrup and midnight chocolate.
“Wherever did you find this place?”
“Natasha.” you simply say, savoring the taste of the fruits by sucking the last juices off their skins. “She spoils Clint’s kids rotten by taking them out to eat, and they occasionally take their trips here.”
“Laura must hate her for doing that.”
“Surprisingly, it’s usually Clint that’s the one throwing a temper tantrum over his kids’ appetites.”
“The overprotective bird parent instincts at work, hmm?”
“Meh. Nothing compared to you for Wanda.”
“You’re not wrong. I am ten times anything the old man’s got.”
You flick the strawberry leaves off your damp fingers after a while, scraping your chair back to get up.
Before you can do so, Pietro suddenly stabs the last bite of his Tarte Tatin with his fork, and leans forward to you. “Open.”
You stare incredulously, watching the caramel gleam on it in the late afternoon light. “Wasn’t I supposed to be the mother in the relationship?”
“Change of heart?”
“Knowing you, you’d yank it from underneath my nose and gobble it up.”
“We’ve known each other since - what, since Ultron attacked? - and you don’t trust me still?”
“This coming from the guy who somehow manages to steal my wallet every Saturday to buy new sneakers that burn out weekly?”
"I always give it back."
"And who forgot to tell us that he 'walked it off' in Sokovia, and triggered a telekinetic explosion from his sister he forgot to warn?"
Pietro twirls the last forkful of Tarte Tatin and examines it mournfully. “Suit yourself. Such a pity that a pretty treat should be gone in a few bites.”
“Pity is never invited at the dinner table.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.” He guzzles down the remains in one huge bite, just before you put a hand on his arm to warn him.
“Careful, you’ll chok-!”
A blue haze flashes by your wrist, catching and holding it up so you’re forced to see his face, which now has an overblown grin on it.
“You better not have swallowed it.” you warn.
“No.” he mumbles, mouth still chock full of the tart. “But if I have to eat slowly, then next time, I get first pick on where we go.”
“What, you’re still hungry?”
He finally swallows, directing a cocky smirk at you.
“Not for food, no.”
Amongst the Moon and Frost: Chapter 5Amongst the Moon and Frost: Chapter 5 by LegendofFullmetal
It was getting uncomfortable.
My mother and I had just shared lunch at a local burger restaurant. It was delicious. The food, I mean. The conversation was far less…flavorful. Nothing aside from the usual check-up on school that happened every time I saw her.
We had nothing else we could talk about, anyway.
I rolled down the car window. A small smile found its way onto my face as a soothing breeze caressed my cheek, making my hair dance ever so slightly as it forced the sweat threatening to form on my brow to retreat.
My mom repeated her question. She was getting impatient.
“What do you want to go do?”
“Well,” I began, still staring out the window, “I thought we were going to go see a movie.”
She rolled her eyes. I could tell that a movie was far from her first option. She wanted to do something that involved more conversation, more “bonding,” something more out-of-the-house-to-enjoy-the-weather. Not sitting side-by-side in a pitch
|Flawless, breathtaking, inspiring, peculiar, funny, curious, these artworks are one of a kind.|
The scratching of your delicate reed pen drowns out the sounds of your thoughts, a soothing noise that breaks the stifling silence of the room.
“Why would such a child be awake at a starless dawn?”
You do not flinch at the cold tone the voice carries, only keep your eyes fixed steadily on your paper. One jump of the hand, and you could have made an ugly slash across the parchment.
“You should be sleeping, my lord.”
Thranduil glides without a sound into the room, as always, dressed in robes of sewn starlight, with the ever-present crown spined with rowan berries. “As should you. No one should be up so late when the moon dies for the sun.”
The tip of your pen scrawls out a particularly long flourish, a trailing path of glowing ink. “But I am no king of Mirkwood.”
To this, your superior has no answer.
About five minutes pass when he begins to talk again. Thranduil’s bone white fingers dance across the pages, flitting from one parchment to another. An elegant twist of the wrist, and he has one of your written papers in his hands. His eyes scan the ink with the indifferent demeanor he always possessed. “Your writing skills are exquisite. Some creatures’ penmanship - a rare few, luckily - are nothing short of atrocious.”
You duck your head back into the massive pile of documents, trying not to make eye contact with those piercing blue pupils. “You’re too kind, my lord.”
“No, merely speaking the truth.” Thranduil answers silkily, tilting his pale face to you with a unfathomable expression.
A faint smile that doesn’t quite touch your lips forms on the mouth. The smile instantly vanishes as you stab yourself absentmindedly with the pen, puncturing through paper and skin alike.
You exclaim a little, watching small droplets of blood mix in with the handwriting you’ve just so carefully scrawled. A quick glance at your hand shows that your hand’s in no condition to write anymore, expanded twice their size and bitten red. You abruptly wipe away any smears, pressing your palm to the seat, out of sight.
Unfortunately, Thranduil notices this, and his brow furrows slightly.
“How long has it been since you started your work?”
“It is of little importance.” you hastily answer, trying to formulate answers off the top of your head.
Your hand lifts up on on its own accord, and you glance surreptitiously upwards to find the cause; it’s held at the edges delicately by a pair of milky fingers.
“You cannot carry on writing if your fingers are swollen.” the King remarks, and you wince as he presses down on a tender spot on your palm. “Not even an incompetent calligrapher would be able to write this way.”
“I assure you, My King, I am capable of doing my duty. You should not care for such a lesser being than I, least of all a scribe.” You murmur in protest, keeping your eyes fixed at the insurmountable number of scrolls you had left.
Goosebumps erupt over the exposed patch of skin between pen and sleeve cuff. This time, you turn, startled, to Thranduil, who now brushes a bloodless pair of lips across your wrist, looking at you with cool blue eyes.