superhots

Hazy

Hazy – Pietro Maximoff x Reader

A/N: This has been out and about on different blogs, but I think this is a good home for it.

Summary: Reader discovers that adhesive bath mats are a good thing and must be rescued from her own clumsiness. Warnings include accidental injury, pain medication-induced stupidity, and problematic nudity.

The best thing about this place, aside from the amazing magic girl across the hall that you might actually be allowed to call your friend, and her superhot brother, was the shower. Oh what a shower. You’d gotten your hands on one of those rainwater shower heads and it made the whole bathroom steam up with the amount of hot water it could produce. Oh shower, you thought, only you understand me.

You were singing along to a specifically made shower playlist, scrubbing your new shampoo into your hair (“Jasmine scented?” you’d thought as you bought it, “Yes, please!”) and were just beginning to wonder whether to cook something or order takeout when it happened.

You took a wrong step backward, your ankle suddenly twisted, and the next thing you knew your feet were in the air and you were falling. Your shoulder collided with the shelf of the shower and your head banged hard against the wall. Your shoulder made a terrible popping, crunching, tearing sound and it hurt so bad that you actually screamed. Your face wash even added to the calamity, dive-bombing your face from a higher shelf.

“Owww!” You wailed.

Okay, something was definitely broken. You tried to move, but the small attempt sent a wave of nausea-inducing agony from your shoulder through the rest of your body. It made your head spin more than the crack against the wall had. You had only one thought: get the water turned off.

Getting up was apparently not an option, so you tried scooting down the edge of the shower and across the floor, lifting your leg up to flip the shower handle to the “off” setting, whimpering and cursing the entire way. Once the shower had stopped spraying in your face (oh shower, how could you betray me?), you concentrated on fishing a towel into the shower, reaching out toward the towel bar with your good arm. You gave the fluffy pink monster off a towel a swift yank, and it collapsed on top of you, covering you. Okay great. Now what?

“[Y/N]?” a familiar voice called from the living room.

It hadn’t occurred to you how much noise you’d been making, but now that you had a second to think about it while you were lying in the shower covered in a slowly dampening pink towel, it did seem inevitable that somebody would have heard the thuds and the screams. Of course, you really would have rather it be literally anyone else that had heard said screams. It couldn’t be Wanda, or Nat, or even Steve. No. You couldn’t be that lucky.

“Pietro?” you yelped, “I’m in the bathroom!”

“Are you okay?” his voice was getting closer and you could tell he was just outside the bathroom door.

“I fell,” you explained, feeling increasingly foolish with each word, “I think I dislocated my shoulder,” you paused, really really really not wanting to say what you’d just realized you’d have to say, “I – I need your help.”

He edged the door open and the steam disappated. It was much easier to remark on how tall he was from down here on the floor of the shower, you thought as you gazed up at him. Wow he was pretty. Just so very pretty.

“Hi…” you said awkwardly.

“Hi,” he responded, taking in what you assumed to be your pathetic form.

“I can’t move,” you said sheepishly.

“I see that,” came the answer, “Which shoulder?”

“My left,” you answered, trying and failing to roll over slightly so as to cover more of yourself with the towel.

The movement jostled your shoulder and you gave a little whimper. Pietro, now looking more concerned than anything, knelt down next to you.

“Can I…?” he trailed off, holding out his arms to indicate that he wanted to carry you.

You winced at the thought, but nodded.

“We can try,” you answered.

It hurt. It hurt a lot. After a some embarrassing squirming and a lot of whining from you, and a little effort and a lot of evading of eyes from him, you were wrapped in a towel and sitting on your bed, cradling your left arm across your chest. Pietro was sitting next to you, looking your shoulder over.

“I think you have done some serious damage,” he said solemnly.

“Oh,” was about all you could say to that.

“We should get you to the medical bay,” he continued.

“Right.”

“So…we should go to the medical bay?” he phrased it as a statement, but it definitely came out a question.

“Yes,” something snapped into place in your brain, “I need clothes”

Pietro looked, if anything, exasperated.

“You can go in a towel. I’ll carry you. No one will see,” he insisted.

“I…no! I am not crossing the compound in a towel! I need clothes!” the pain was starting to make you snappish.

Pietro sighed, and crossed to your dresser, producing an orange tank top and a pair of pink shorts.  You shook your head, wrinkling your nose.  He sighed again.

“These are clothes, no?” he insisted.

“They don’t go,” you answered.

“Oh for…we are going to the medical bay. The clothes are purely to cover you, not to make you look fashionable,” he snapped.

“But… okay fine,” you conceded

You stood, good hand still clinging to your towel. Pietro stared at you. You stared back.

“I can’t do it by myself,” you finally conceded.

Another Sokovian sigh was the only response you got to that. He approached, but you stopped him.

“No,”

“What?” he was definitely exasperated now.

“You can’t look,” you pouted.

“I…what do you mean I can’t look?” it would have been fair to say he was losing patience.

You just looked up into his eyes. This catastrophe was not at all how you had envisioned him seeing your naked body. You were hoping for something pleasant, possibly even sexy, something that, at the very least, didn’t involve that terrible orange t-shirt he was holding.

His face softened.

“Okay, I’ll close my eyes,” he offered, holding out the shorts.

It was a complicated operation. You managed to climb into the shorts without too much trouble, holding onto a closed-eyed Pietro as you stepped into the shorts he was holding out. But the shirt proved more complicated. You tried to wiggle up into it from the bottom as he held it out, but ultimately your bad arm just got stuck in the sleeve, your feet managed to tangle around each other, and you faceplanted directly into his muscular chest. The contacted jolted his eyes open as you whimpered into his shirt.

“We need to get you to medical bay,” he repeated, murmuring into your hair.

“Okay,” you said into his chest. You’d had enough of trying to get dressed anyway.

He scooped you up, bridal style, and before you even had time to be self-conscious, he was setting you into a chair in the medical bay.

The doctor on duty stared at you, from your mismatched outfit, your chicken-wing-like arm that was wedged into your t-shirt sleeve, your still wet hair from the disastrous shower, to Pietro, who was naturally standing before her like some young god.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

They’d given you enough pain medication to sedate a baby elephant, which thankfully had dulled the throbbing in your shoulder. On the other hand, it also made you incapable of monitoring what was coming out of your mouth.

Pietro had been incredibly sweet as he’d sat with you, held you when they reduced your shoulder, and carried you out of the medical bay. You arm was bound up in a sling, which made clinging to him extra hard, but that didn’t matter now. You weren’t actually aware of any problems right now.

“…and I really don’t understand how the hammer works, I mean, does it decide who’s worthy? What does worthy mean? Can you be a little bit worthy? But not all the way worthy? Can an inanimate be object worthy? So many questions….” You babbled sleepily.

Pietro just smiled, bemused by your ramblings. The medication seemed to have an odd effect on you, making you far more prone to saying whatever came into your head. He wondered if this explained your friendship with his sister. Wanda could pull this information out of you without having to experience you on pain medication.

You arrived at your apartment, you still babbling on about the physics of Thor’s hammer. Pietro set you carefully on your feet. You wobbled dangerously.

“I think I need to take you to bed,” he observed as you struggled to stay upright.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” you answered.

What the hell?

Did you just say that?

You reached out absently with your right hand in an attempt to grab the words and stuff them back in your mouth.

You looked up at him, trying very hard to focus on his face. Warm blue eyes, mildly surprised.

“I…” you couldn’t think of what to follow that up with.

“Come on,” he said, trying to brush off the strange wave of warmth that had washed through him at your comment.

He scooped you up again and walked you to the bedroom, depositing you on the bed. You wrapped your good arm around him and refused to let go.

“[Y/N]…”

“I like this,” you purred, your fingers tangling gently through the silver curls on the back of his head.

His blue eyes seemed strangely celestial up this close, like the clarity of the sky in May. There was so much in his eyes; you were easily mesmerized. Sadness and a sort of permanent pain, but also warmth. Warmth that you’d never experienced, that you’d always craved. His fingers lingered along your throat, gently brushing their way up to your jaw. He cupped your chin gently in his hand. You leaned closer, trying desperately to close the distance between you.

And suddenly he was gone. He’d untangled himself from you arm and shot across the room before you could blink. The chill that lingered on your skin at his lack of presence made you shiver.

“No,” he said firmly.

That no, that one little syllable, translated into your foggy brain as a complete, utter, total and irreversible rejection. You weren’t sure when you had tears in your eyes, but suddenly you were crying.

“No! No, no, no, no, [Y/N] do not cry, please!” he was back at your side just as quickly as he’d left.

“I thought you liked… I thought you wanted this…?” you sobbed.

“I…” he closed his eyes, composing himself, “I do want this,” he smiled wryly, “I want this very much. But…[Y/N], not like this.”

“Huh?”

He stared at you, shaking his head.

“[Y/N] you are in pain. You are drugged. You are not yourself. You would not forgive me…” he broke off, his expression hardening, “I would not forgive myself if I took advantage of that.”

You stared dumbly at him, your heart thudding in your chest so loudly that you were certain he could hear it.

His blue eyes met yours again, “You understand, yes?”

You couldn’t speak. You simply nodded. He nodded in return, then stood to leave the room. You reached out with your good arm, gripping his wrist.

“No,” you insisted, “Stay?”

He frowned, thinking that you had somehow missed the previous conversation.

“[Y/N] we have just spoken of –“ he began, but you cut him off.

“I know. But stay. Not… not like that. Just stay?” you all but begged.

He looked at you, seemed to size up your motivations, then sighed.

“Alright. I’ll stay. But you must rest.”

You nodded enthusiastically, scooting over to make room for him. He nestled into the bed next to you and you rested your head on his shoulder. The medicine was starting to take you under.

Your last hazy memory was of Pietro, his fingers softly stroking your hair, his breathing a steady rhythm that pulsed you gently to sleep.

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