( &. I have about 5 fanfictions of these two just waiting in my drafts to either be finished or uploaded. But I can't seem to be able to do either. I just don't feel like they're worthy of being posted. Now this one is no different but I decided I'd give it a shot anyways. If you guys don't like it, I'd fully understand. :D But if you do, eyy that's great! I hope you enjoy anyways and as always I am sorry for my suckishness and all the grammar mistakes I might have made. P.s. No idea how I came to this idea... (I mean yes, the title is a little based on this one sentence I read in a thundercest fic here and it's mentioned a few times but eh, still not sure where it came from tbh.) )
She comes home, tired groan slipping past her lips. He's somewhere thudded down on the couch-slumbed forward, his head throbbed back, eyes closed. Along it all, they pry open lazily. Slightly. He closes them within an instant at the sight of her. Almost. Not caring enough. (Maybe just avoiding all the familiar things that rush through him whenever he knows she's wearing shorts.) It's though, until he spots blonde. And he's somewhere to clumsily sitting up in a second. His brows quirked and a gaze a little dumbfounded. It's only when she notices - His burning eyes surging through - she rolls the darkness of her hues, pretty little legs moving past to the kitchen. As if though there's nothing.
And for a moment-he doesn't move, processing whatever happened. He remembers along the lines of it all, she muttered something about a role-part, project. He doesn't know-he doesn't care. There's something itching and he fucking hates it. She's blonde. - He's suppose to like blondes. He's been chasing them since-He doesn't know. Not that it matters. (oh he knows, he knows all too well.) And somewhere in his mind it's all too wrong.
He finds himself moving to her anyways. Such familiar smirk curving onto his rough mouth.
"Looking good, Pheebs. Never thought you'd go to such extreme lengths to get my attention." They scream-loudly. Jumbling through his head, he ignores them. He's just teasing-he's just being him. (But wheres the line between brotherly and all the rest?) "Ha ha, Max." She deadpans. Sarcasm dripping venomously off her tongue. She sweeps on a little. "I wore it for the play-the one I told you about? I forgot I still had it on after and walked home like this. Turns out you get a lot more whistles when your blonde." She murmurs the last thing a little lower. Little more silly. He finds himself thinking she should get whistles anyway. He finds himself thinking he likes her brunette strands more, too. (He's always loved brunettes.) "Yeah, I don't care." It's such a Max reply and she rolls her eyes once more. He slips past- Hovering over her small form, grasping for a glass. - So fucking close to her. - He pretends he didn't feel her body shiver against his own.
He's at the fridge, cursing himself before he knows it. It's just the wig-He likes blondes. It's just the wig. "You gonna take that thing off?" He mutters. It's suppose to be within amusement. Though he grumbles it out. "I thought you liked it?" He swears she's the one amused in this. He smirks anyway, grasping for a bottle. (He doesn't even use the glass.) "Yeah, just not when you wear it." It's mocking. Brotherly. (He forgets what he had said early. But that was teasing, right? That was mocking too, right?) She huffs out, shaking her head scarcely. Fingers busy with whatever it is she's making. And he swigs the bottle to his mouth as he stumbles away... -
"Hey Pheebs." He mutters then and she turns slightly, gazing upon. "Blonde doesn't look that good on you." He's already stated that-He means it this time. He's always loved the brunettes.
( He drags another blonde into the supply closet the next day, anyway. Though all he can see is his pretty little sister bobbing up and down. He fears he's gonna have to chase redheads now. )