Title: Peach Fuzz

Paring: Danny Rand X Reader

Warnings: fluff, cutesy couple stuff, mentions of dead parents because it isn't a marvel comics fanfic if there isn't at least one dead parent whelp there it is

Spoilers: None? I mean, I've only seen three episodes so far, so I can't spoil stuff I haven't seen yet...

Dedicated to: MyCookiemonster95 who asked for some Danny Rand. Sorry it took so long to write up your request, and I hope you like it!

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In the mornings, it was dark. It was that side of daylight savings, and you didn't like to pay for dimmers in the apartment because who the freaking hell has that kind of money to burn? The alarm clock said it was a decent hour, anyway, and living in a cramped apartment in the city was never going to be a walk in the park. You worked for the one and only Dr Bruce Banner, as a sort of lab assistant, transcriber who deciphered his little notes and scrawls left around the place and made them legible to be published for scientific papers. It was a good job, complete with job security and healthcare and holidays whenever your boss had to be out of town for his own reasons (read: becoming the Hulk).

You'd get out of bed and off to do your job, but there's an arm that's wrapped around your waist, and doesn't seem to want to let you go.

"Quit it, Rand, I need to go to work," you moan, trying to twist from his grip. But he's the Iron Fist, and you're just ______ _______, and while he kicks butt for a living alongside The Defenders, you're a regular Pilates goer, and actually want to be paid to turn up to make science with Dr Banner. "Danny..."

He moans, but does not relent. "You don't have work today, today's Sunday..."

"No, you don't have work today," you retort, squirming. "I do. I work every day, from eight to eight, and have paid for everything in this apartment!" You huff, and twisting to turn on a bedside lamp, you turn to look at Danny.

Apart from being the publicity child (aka, the orphan who was adopted by the Rand family to improve the Rand company's promotional value), you were just an ordinary kid. Your birth parents had worked for government in sanitation and assisting the mayor, and it had been a great life before they both died of pneumonia that their healthcare didn't cover. And when Mr. Meacham had visited you in the child services, you'd just thought they were there for something else. Not to take in little nine-year-old you, and raise you alongside their son and daughter.

But of course, that didn't go well either, and you were passed on to the next set of arms to cast you aside, until you basically lived out your life in the New York foster system, studied your ass off to get a free ride through college, and were where you were now. Stuck in bed, looking at your dumbass superhero boyfriend.

"I bought the rug," he reminded you, staring at you with those eyes of his. Damn those eyes. He could turn water to crystal, could charm a bear (read: you) with those eyes. "Babe..."

You sigh. "It is a pretty nice rug. But rugs don't compare to the bills, and groceries...c'mon, Danny, let me go..."

You'd been young when you met Danny – you'd play a little when the Meacham and Rand kids would come together. You hated Monopoly, though, going for Operation, or Connect Four. Those memories were old, though, and sooner than you'd think, the Rand family died in the plane crash, and Danny went on to became the Iron Fist. While rugs were pretty nice, you weren't sure he had a real idea of what real life was like, you know, as an adult who had to pay for things and take care of people beyond yourself. If there was a place that taught life lessons in the city, you'd sign him up in an instant (read: too many times had gone by at the supermarket lecturing Danny on how instant noodles and sugar worms isn't a balanced diet).

"Danny," you grumble. "You're being a jerk."

His lips quirk under the peach fuzz on his face, "I am so not a jerk." He protested.

"Please, c'mon, let me go?" you beg once more. "Fine. I will take your phone, and call Daredevil to whoop your ass and let me go to work," you don't blink, delivering the threat just like you've seen plenty of other Avengers in the Stark Tower on the phones to the SO's. Nat Romanov is a darling once you get to know her, but she sure knows how to frighten the jeepers out of anyone who crossed her. "I'm so not bluffing."

You're not Nat Romanov.

He giggles, something that suits him and doesn't all at once and you can't help but grow a smirk at the sound of it. "It's hard to take you seriously with that bed hair, ______," he grins, reaching to you to tuck some of it behind your ear. "Please don't call Murdock. I still owe him the bottle of Jack Daniels I accidently broke." (Read: I still owe him the bottle of Jack Daniels from when I accidently broke into his place.)

You nod. "When it's payday, I'll make sure to wrap one up and send it to Nelson and Murdock, 'kay?"

Danny Rand bobs his head, agreeing, and leaning across the bed, he plants a little kiss on your nose. "Hope you have a good day at work today."

"You're sappy, you know that?" you laugh, but before Danny can dodge it, you kiss him right back on his nose. "Don't break too many bones kicking ass."

In the mornings, it was dark, and that might be because you lived in a crappy place which had skyscrapers blocking out sunlight from view. It was also that side of daylight savings, and you didn't like the idea of having to pay for dimmers in the apartment because who the freaking hell has that kind of money to burn?  Well, not you and Danny Rand, for sure (even if he is technically worth a butt-load of money). And well, that was okay.