If At First We Fail
She had been joking, of course. Mostly joking. One doesn't ask the fastest man alive to go slowly otherwise. Nonetheless, he was trying. It touched her. Pietro doesn't try for just anyone, on a whim. No. He tried for her, for this, their love. Why they were here, someone else's cabin in the middle of Nowhere Maine, to try, try, try again. Day one had consisted of running up, unpacking, dinner, chitchat, and undressing. Then things started heating up and Crystal said, "But Pietro, please, for once, slow down," regretting it ever since.
They started out that way, slow, almost normally. Crystal knows what normal means, because she'd loved normal sometimes too. Probably Pietro had never loved any other, because he lives in his own private state of normal that no one could share with him no matter how they tried, always.
"Can't you control it?" she'd asked once, blithe and ignorant. Other mutants can control their powers, after all. The lucky ones.
If she'd known what to look for, his expression would have tipped her off, the way his eyes sought far away to a nonexistent place where ignorant people don't ask painful questions blithely. He would wear that unfathomable face more and more often as the years went by. People call it arrogance.
"It does not work that way. Not for me." He used to roll his Rs like the vampires in the motion pictures. It used to turn her on like a television set, illuminate all kinds of movement inside. He used to be Rom and she used to be innocent and they used to be in love and when Monogamy then Maximus then Magneto entered the equation it's been nothing but used to used to used to.
She shouldn't have made light, it just put him under pressure to do good, to be slow, to act normally, unnaturally. They didn't need any more pressure on them to get this right, or better, even a little better. She knew better. Articles, books, therapists, wives tales, all agree that no one should be made to feel solely responsible for making things work, for bringing everyone to climax, for getting it right. She shouldn't have made light. What if he thought she was making fun? She should be having fun right now.
"Crystal-"
Close beside her ear, that purr of an R. Sexy. Same with her full name; he pronounces it differently, all instead of al. "You're fine, I'm fine." So he'd believe it, or quit thinking about it, she nibbled on his ear; he liked that, sped up, let go a little. "Don't stop." He liked that too, and groaned, an echo from days when that was still okay, feeling pleasure and expressing it, not some secret weakness to repress. When did he get so defensive? Well, she knows when, and she knows why.
"Crystalia, I-"
"Don't stop, please."
"I must. Sorry."
Still the incredible warmth of his body over hers, he didn't move off, but the wonderful fullness of having him inside her, the thrill, slipped away. How she hated that feeling. Empty. Wanting. Now he was all breath and balance, things he could control, keeping his weight off her, getting his heart rate down. She kissed his neck, shoulder, nudged his thigh (like steel, every inch of him!) with her heel, and reached down between them until he caught her hand.
"Wait. I need a moment. Sorry."
"Don't apologize." 'Not for this, of all things,' she kissed him to keep herself from saying. At first. Then it was all sad hunger and strained passion, the way all their kisses began these days.
He actually smiled a little against her mouth when they finally parted, both short of breath again. "It's been so long. Too long."
"I know." Touching, how aroused he got so soon, how he tried the impossible despite it. Slow. Normal. Unnatural. All for a bad joke. "Feels so good though."
"That's the problem. Just has to be something else for a while. Let me-"
"Hon, no, don't wait for me. We can take our time later, we have all weekend to take our time." A sigh of masculine disappointment. Naturally, he would feel solely responsible for her pleasure foremost; like a fool, she'd put that pressure on him before he'd hardly put his hands on her. "Pietro, please, really. I don't want to see you torturing yourself."
"Oh no?"
At least she wasn't the only one who made bad jokes. "No." She'd make it up to him, resolved to as he filled her once more, with movement and love, tentative. She wouldn't slow him down this time, no matter what. He never had injured her, anyway; almost, slightly, yes, but not often. They fit together perfectly, she'd thought so since the very first time. When she was ready, he could even use his full length. Any longer and it would be too far, would hurt if he thrust as deep as he could, how he likes to at the end. Nearly hurt even so. Soon over.
"Crys! Keep your hands on me."
Oh, that. The Signal. Had to keep her hands on him, at least one hand, constantly, just in case; because she had bled a little afterwards, way back when, and he never forgave himself for 'losing control', never accepted her assurance that sometimes it was normal for a woman to bleed from intercourse. Normal. Maybe that's what had made him so upset.
She uncurled her fingers from the bearskin rug and played with his hair instead. Such fabulous hair that he never lets grow out. It grew long during those months of recovery after the Sentinel attack. With no relatives or healers around to see, she used to sit beside his bed and comb her fingers through his hair as he slept drug-induced, as he dreamt fever-dreams, as he wept insane with agony beyond any sedative save death. "Sorry it hurts so bad. I'm Crystal. What's your name? I think I love you." Ridiculous. That's why no one could be around to hear her.
The scars were under her palms now, some of them, where the plasma beam had impacted, crushing bone and searing through even into his lungs. Lucky to be alive. She spread her hands over the butterfly of pocked, sweat-slick skin, like wings beating under her hands, faster and faster. "Yes," she said, and meant it, and had to, if she wanted to squeeze him but not make him stop, mistaking it for The Signal. Not on the scars, though; he hates that, doesn't even go shirtless he hates it so much. Don't look, don't touch, don't ask, don't tell. People call him prudish.
Unbelievably, the muscles in his arms were harder than before, than usual. "Yes-" so deceptive, the strength this network of lean muscles comprised, the power of the man. "Pietro-" so unlike his father. "I love you-" no cry, no whimper, not on his behalf, barely a sound as he shuddered and lowered gasping against her, less than gasps: long, deep, deliberate breaths, only fast. Control.
Seconds later and he was already back to work, duty unfulfilled. She smiled to spite the wrongness of it. "You know, sweetheart, you can take a break - I won't tell anyone."
A puff of hot air on her kiss-covered stomach; heaven forbid he should laugh outright. "Another, you mean?"
Whatever they were talking about, she forgot. That mouth of his! "Yes-"
"Hmmm... another? Like this?"
"Oh yes, yes!"
"Say no more." There would be no need. He knows what to do, what she likes and what she likes a lot; and Pietro, being Pietro, relishes opportunities to prove what he knows, to demonstrate prowess. Showoff. Control. Truly though, this one thing, they never had arguments over.
No precaution, her hand in his hair now, just her fingers in his softest place and his tongue in hers. "Touch me, touch-!" One hand of his was vitally occupied already; the other snaked from ankle upwards. She arched to suckle his finger first (he liked that and got the hint, started suckling her too), then left him to knead and tease and weave a little hex of desire over her body. Pure magic. Must run in the family. By accident her own fingers brushed over his forearm. Scar there too. Crystal never asked about it, being present when a healer made that mistake once.
"This is a peculiar scar. How did you come to acquire it, if you don't mind?" The healer had just moved an intravenous catheter from one arm to the other.
"I mind," was her future husband's response. Crystal hadn't learned by then what came naturally to him. Sarcasm. Control.
She cried out for her sake and his (since he wouldn't), and collapsed gasping upon the bearskin. Pietro stretched out beside, grinning unabashedly. Beautiful in the firelight, silver glowing golden. Inhuman. Familiar. Somehow she's certain he hates the way he looks, but didn't always, and wouldn't ever admit to either, which hurts her feelings. Somehow.
They lay there a while in comfortable silence. They were expert at that, at companionable silence too, even awkward silence. Crystal hadn't suggested this getaway to pretend things between them were how they used to be.
"Why abysmal, Pietro?"
"Hm?"
"Earlier when you mentioned your childhood. You said it was abysmal."
"Did I? Well, I like that word. Rolls off the tongue. Abysmal. Try it."
"Abysmal. Now be serious."
Hand in hand, they had been tickling each other's fingers, like the timid teenagers they were when they first met. Rolling on her side, Crystal ventured further up, over the wrist Ultron once broke to trace that scar. The shape of an N from her view, a Z to Pietro if he checked his watch. Must have been cut. No, burned. No. How could she know, when he would say things like 'I had an abysmal childhood' but not 'some backwater European villagers get sick kicks by holding down Gypsies to carve Zs in their forearms like the Nazis did with tattoos.' His sister doesn't have a scar like that. People call him over-protective.
Pietro got up to put a couple more logs on the fire, fussing with it longer than necessary and slower than natural. Studying the flames, his voice lost all traces of mirth, "You know what it was like for us back then. Never mind that now."
"Well, I have an idea. You've never really talked about it. But I know what it means to lose your home, to live in exile-"
"Along with your entire family."
Her reaction to the interruption, an all too familiar bristle that she despised but could not repress. "As you had your sister."
"Yes of course, and that is the same. Excuse me."
He disappeared. After a moment the bathroom sink turned on and off again, then suddenly he stood robed before the kitchen window. She went to use the restroom herself, and emerging, set about making hot cocoa while Pietro ignored her. He thought she was cloistered. She thought he was closed off. They were both right - and they had both been wrong so, so many times before. Crystal hadn't suggested this getaway to reenact old mistakes.
"Want some?" She held out her mug, a peace offering.
He glanced over once and immediately again, slower. She was still nude. "No." Blinking away at last. "Thank you."
She took a sip and set the mug aside, shifting her weight to the other hip. Smiling, "How about now?"
Beyond the oning over the window, light snow began to fall outside, the color same as the furthest tips of his hair, bleached white from wind friction. She watched his steel gaze dart from one flake to the next, knowing to his observation they hung near motionless in the air. She could tell when his gaze settled upon her own reflection in the glass, and his eyes softened. Wordlessly, he nodded.
They went back to the bearskin in front of the fireplace and settled down at slightly odd angles from each other, still unwittingly opposed but refusing surrender. Relenting first, Crystal scooted to cuddle up behind him, and sliding her hands under his robe found a tee-shirt and boxers.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"My hands are, a little bit." She pulled off the robe, and snaked her fingers underneath his clothing. "Feel good?"
"Uhn... course."
Of course. In this one way, Pietro was the same as any man. There was a fairy tale about magic genies who lived in bottles - you just had to rub it right to have three wishes granted.
"I've been thinking."
"Hm."
"After this, for our next visit. You should come over and stay a while at the mansion with us, okay? Let's plan it as soon as we can. I'll tell her you're coming."
"Luna?"
"Um-hum. You'd like that, right?" She nuzzled his ear and sped up her massage. "Do you like this?" He nodded against her shoulder where he had leaned back to rest his head. Crystal kissed free the lip he was biting and coaxed his tongue to play with hers. He liked that, didn't expect it, let escape a small moan into her mouth and grew even harder in her hand.
"Hold on. Hurting my neck this way."
Cervical plate, fourth vertebrae. Surgical scar was right under her nose. How could she forget? Lucky to be alive. As he sat upright, she tugged on the shirt. While he removed it, she pulled down his boxers. When her mouth enveloped him at once, he gasped, a quick inward shout.
Johnny had looked strange naked. He has this 'circumcision', a practice unheard of among the Inhumans. Despite being intact, Pietro looked strange in his own way. All muscle, all over, not a trace of fat, like he ran naked once and it all blew off. Better endowed than Johnny, too. Crystal never mentioned that; Pietro boasts enough as is. She'd never mention that he's more sensitive either. Not the sort of thing Pietro would take as a compliment.
"Crys... Crystalia, stop, stop-"
The humming did him in. Or that she caressed his nipples with one hand. Or that she massaged his nethers with the other. She smiled to see him back away to get out of the shorts, then for no reason fold them with the shirt and robe to pile aside. Meticulous. Avoiding eye contact. Pretending not to be impressed, unbalanced. Out of control. She reeled him close and pushed him down, straddled him and kissed him, sheathed him and loved him released them. Freedom. Perfection. Again. For now. May it last.
~fin~
Notes:
Some of these story elements are canonical or logically inferred thereof.
Quicksilver was severely wounded by Sentinels and found by Crystal who took him back to Attilan where he remained for some time, choosing not to contact the Avengers until his powers were restored (early days Pietro and Wanda lost their powers a lot). However, I took some liberties with the nature of his injuries sustained, because running into a wall and breaking yourself to death is kind of lame.
Likewise, since Pietro was raised with his sister among the Roma ('gypsies') in Europe and being otherwise multilingual, him speaking with accented English is no great stretch of the imagination. However, the Z scar (and the implications of its origin) is entirely author-invented.
For any who don't know, a few semi-obscure facts: Crystal did have an extramarital affair (one, at this point in time), Quicksilver went mad courtesy of the mind-controlling Maximus, and Magneto was only revealed as Pietro's father after Luna had been born.
If it's available, I recommend reading the original storyarc's resolution in X-Factor #89 - the ending of this fic was written with that in mind.