Logan Howlett/Reader, Lobo/Reader, Hal Jordan/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader, Bullseye/Reader, 2.4K
a/n: someone requested Bullseye with pregnant!reader and it got out of hand
cw: smut/18+ ONLY, toxic relationships, refusal of commitment, reader is pregnant but referred to in gender-neutral terms
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
You really know how to pick 'em.
DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader (18+)
Logan Howlett:
Logan’s been offering to help a lot lately, and it worries you. Because there are other people all around the mansion that are eager to help. To lend out their services and have for the past nine months as you weathered the storm alone.
And considering that he had strolled out the door after your one-night stand for reasons unknown—missed the birth of your child—sauntered back into your life a few weeks after the birth—
Well, your expectations were low. Quite low, in fact.
But the way that he stands on the balcony of your room that overlooks the expansive lawn as you watch, your child sleeping in sturdy bassinet beside you—
It’s a reaffirmation of something. A reclaiming of territory, if you will. There’s no other way to describe the way that he leans against the banister of the patio, sans shirt. How it lets you see the fine hair that coats the flex of those impressive muscles.
The way that those jeans have sunken quite low on the v of those powerful hips, framing mouthwatering thighs. Those hands that held you that fateful night clutch in tight knuckling over the railing.
Not to speak of the way that he’s allowed his eyes to rivet you to the spot, expression neutral—no. That’s too sedate for Logan. It’s restrained.
“Y’should let me move into your room with you.” He states in gruff manner—you don’t resist the way your eyebrows jump up your head. This isn’t the proposal that you expected.
“Why? You can come find me anytime,” You return, crossing a leg primly over the other. He makes a grumbling that settles low in his chest.
“How else’m I gonna help take care of ‘em?” He asks, nodding his head in the direction of your—his—slumbering child. And now you don’t resist the disbelieving chuckle that breaks free—though his expression remains stolid. Grows more steadfast at this.
“Didn’t picture you for the child-rearing type,” You respond back with glib humor as you angle a glance down your baby.
“‘S our kid.” He returns in such stark manner, though you don’t look up until he says, “Gonna take care’a you both.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” You return back with cavalier ease as you lean back against the back of your chair. He crosses to you with such alacrity that you’re almost stolen of breath—all you can do is watch him lean down to cage you in with the grasp of his hands, letting you breathe in his scent. Apprasise the stare of those wanting, determined eyes.
“Don’t make a habit of keepin’ secrets from me, darlin’,” He huffs through gritted teeth. “‘F you told me you were pregnant—I woulda come back.”
“On hands and knees?” You ask, still choosing to take refuge in audacity. You’re rewarded with a taut smirk—there’s a reason why he chose you, after all.
“Don’t think I’ll have to beg,” He says, and his hand is familiar pressure as it drapes up your arm. Taking you close as his breath issues in short chuff against your lips.
“Then you’ll have to get back into my good graces somehow,” You return with playful cant. From the way that he chuckles against your mouth, the way that he leans over you—it’s clear he understands exactly how he’ll do it, with great relish.
Lobo:
Honestly, given his track record, you’re surprised that he’s stuck around for so long. Stuck around is also doing a lot of heavy lifting—he’s been waltzing in and out of your apartment as he pleases to check in on you. And ‘check in on you’ is also another phrase with loose interpretation. He’s been sauntering into your shared space to admire the swell of your belly. To press the spread of those massive fingers over it to feel your baby kicking from within.
“Got a fighter in there,” He grins down at you with those eyes that seem to cut through you in such iridescent quality. Those teeth make a ravenous display as he looks down at you.
“Guess they get that from their dad.” He chuckles throatily at the compliment that he pays himself.
“And what do they get from me?” You ask wryly as you look up at him, crossing your arms over your chest. When his eyes drift down to admire the way that your arms push your chest in more appealing display, you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.
“Think I’m a better shower that I am a teller, babe,” He leers as he leans in to press his arms around you, bringing you close. You’re not surprised as you feel the claw of his hands against the curve of your ass—though you are disappointed for the way that you lean into it. For the way that you let a smothered groan eke out against the inside of your lips.
“Why don’t we get in more practice for number two?” He asks you, as his touch wanders further down, igniting desires that are hampered by your belly.
“Hear that it’s good to relieve pain from gettin’ knocked up,” Lobo tacks on for good measure.
“And who knocked me up?” You ask with a dubious look. But your hands, as they drift up the plane of his chest, are telling a different story.
“You mean, who’s gonna knock you up again?” He asks. You barely have enough time to laugh before he takes another kiss from you, the heat of his mouth giving way to another one that ignites between your legs.
Hal Jordan:
“She looks just like you,” Hal says as the two of you lie on the bed, with her in between you, demarcating both union and divide. The summation of something beautiful but emblematic of what has fallen apart.
“She’s got my eyes,” You comment, running the pad of your finger down the velvet-soft apple of her cheek, shifting on your elbow to look at her sleeping form. She took her nap at opportune time, so you had to put her down on the bed. It’s a bed that used to house a different pair than you and she, but try not to think about it. Much
And when Hal sidled on the other side of her to join you both, you didn’t stop him. Even if you should have. But how could you deny a father who looks at his newborn daughter the way that a blind man regards the sky for the first time?
A man draws his eyes up to look at you with a desire communicated beyond the space of verbalization.
“You should let me come back, angel,” He says softly, that familiar siren’s croon that’s seduced you so many times before. You purse your lips, and make the first good decision you can: you rise in slow, careful meter from the bed to avoid waking your daughter.
“You can’t commit to anything, Hal,” You respond with a firmness that is already eroding from the inside-out. To your dread, knowing what it means for you—you hear his easy tread approaching from behind.
“I have two reasons to commit,” He explains with a casual surety that has you turning round to him. To look at the caramelized eyes that are so easy to wear down your willpower, the crooked smile that leaves your gaze loitering on its winsome quality.
“For how long?” You ask, as his hand knuckles at the full of your chin, giving you cause to share the intensity of that stare. The way he communicates volumes that he’ll never say.
“As long as you want me, honey,” He murmurs against the full of your lips—but not crossing the meridian to you. Putting the ball in your court.
“I’m yours.” He continues, his voice ambered honey as it makes frisson down your spine, “Always.”
You should say no. But Hal’s mouth as it presses against the seam of your lips, as his tongue makes entry into the wet heat of yours is oh-so-convincing.
And you let him back in.
Matt Murdock:
“We should get them christened when they’re born.” Matt announces as he paces through the entryway. He’s been taking measured regard of you reclining in pregnant repose on the couch, his eyes darting around the details his perception affords.
But you have different reply prepared in your arsenal as you lean on the couch’s arm.
“Aren’t those for couples that are together?” You inquire casually—without malice, but good humor —“—Instead of ones making children out of wedlock?”
There's a beat of silence that endures as he crosses the room to you. Whatever retort he formulates, you’re unaware until he says it as he stands before you.
“Who says that I won’t make an honest person out of you?” He asks, letting his finger brush against the ridge of your knuckles, hand balled up in defense.
“Think I would have seen a ring on my finger already, Murdock.” You return with good cheer: not that you care, truly.
He’s the one with the Catholic sensibilities, after all—but you can’t resist the chance to rib him. Don’t they have a strict code of morals to adhere to? Though you suppose vigilantism also breaks several of those codas.
“Maybe I’m waiting for the opportune time.” He says, and you shrug with intention to play the game. Perhaps he can tell from the upward tick of your heart for he squares his shoulders, fights a smirk taking root on his expression.
“Maybe you’re just trying to string me along.” You hum, leaning sidelong in the chair to ease the way the baby’s turned in your belly. Kid leans to one side rather than walk the straight-and-narrow. How fitting.
“String you along for what?” Matt asks with dubious, breathy laughter at the very notion.
“The tax benefits, I’m assuming.” You provide him with cavalier shrug, though you feel a smile mirroring his making way.
Matt schools himself directly in front of you, taking bended knee. Though, of course, he lacks the other accessory that would make this moment perfect.
“You assume wrong. I love you—”—And even a cynic couldn’t doubt the verity to his words—“—I want you to live with me—but I’m—”
Words falter, fade, before the most mollifying alternative is provided—“—A liability.”
An excuse that you’ve heard in multitudinous rendition; it almost takes concerted effort to resist rolling your eyes. But the way that he looks up at you with such despondency does while away at any anger you might rightfully feel.
“That pretty face won’t save you from everything.” You take aim with your hand to press against his jaw. His own meets yours halfway to guide it to the finish line.
“Here I thought it was my excellent cross-examination skills.” He smiles, letting the syllables hum through the grasp of your fingers.
“That wasn’t what got me pregnant, Murdock.” You can only supply dryly. He laughs, a note of pure clarity.
“No—”—He admits, and his eyes shine as they stare in the direction you lie before him—“—Maybe it was me saying I love you.”
“And do you still?” You ask, cocking your eyebrow though he’s unaware of the minutiae your face makes.
“Always.” He says with utmost sincerity, though he has yet to commit the ultimate act of doing so. So you settle for second-best.
“Prove it then.” You say, and let your legs tick wider to allow him entrance if he wants. And from the way that his Adam’s apple bobs with tight swallow—he does.
“As you wish.” He says with roguish smirk. Those broad hands spread the ample flesh of your thighs apart so he can make his way to the promised land.
It’s not enough—but for now, it’ll do.
Bullseye:
He’s a very present baby daddy, you’ll give him that. You don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to get out of his sight, once. You don’t know if you’ve escaped the press of his fingers, once. He’s always got to have a hand on you—always has to keep a grasp on you to avoid you from moving out of reach.
“I’ll be fine,” You reassure him as he keeps a hand over the swell of your ass, his fingers sinking in with proprietary clutch. “I’m not going to break.”
“Don’t want you gettin’ away,” Is all he gives you in measured reply. From anyone else, it could be interpreted as innocent, loving response. But not with him: it’s a promise. A threat if you try to test it.
But you don’t want to. In fact, you ejoy way that he gravitates around you, as though he is caught in rotational orbit. The way that he soothes those fingers that are so used to killing in measured way to roll the pain from your back, your shoulders—
You’re surprised, genuinely. The way that he lets his hand rest idly on your stomach when you both retire to bed—a reassurance of safety. Of protection.
You think it might be compensatory, because he has to still work. Someone’s gotta provide while you’re out on leave—he doesn’t make you feel bad for it, surprisingly.
But when he comes back in the early hours of the morning as the shadows still cling to your room, marking everything in dim obscurity—he’s starved. You find yourself awakened by the crude grasp of hands that are pushing your legs apart, by a rough tongue that laps at you, groaning with a necessity to taste you.
You have to clutch into the sheets as he works the cruel pump of his fingers into you. As he summons salacious, obscene noises from you that fill the electric air of the room. As he fucks you into the bed until the sun makes perpetual ascent above the horizon, illuminating that wild cant to his eyes.
He takes his fill, leaving you to carefully hold your belly as you gasp for air on the bed. But he’s quick to lunge across the sheets, to press his mouth against your pulse and suck a bruise into the skin. To take deep breath of his scent commemorated on your collarbone.
To grunt into your skin, “Mine. You’re never leaving.”
A threat if you test it. But you don’t want to. You love him too much. So all you do is let him take his handfuls of you as you smile.
“Never. I promise,” You say—and receive a rugged snarl from your weapon of choice, held close in the span of your arms.
dividers and banners made by me :)
anyways, lmk if i should do a best baby daddy version lmao
Summary: Adrian Chase has a crush. Everyone knows. Well, everyone but you, the object of his affection, who seems completely oblivious to it all. When the rest of the 11th Street Kids finally reach the end of their respective ropes, they decide to step in.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Adrian is kind of a creep, Okay a little more than kind of but we love it, Adrian is head-over-heels obsessed (and so so awkward about it), The team is exhausted with it, Chris is really bad at advice, Mentions of semi-public sex, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this! This dorky killing machine is so fun to write. As always, please let me know what you think!
-
“Holy shit.” Chris says, watching as you dodge one blow and land another with terrifying precision. A butterfly's head is blown clean off in a single shot, and you seamlessly dodge another attack to slam the blade of your knife into the eye of your next attacker.
“Holy shit.” Adrian echoes, but there’s a breathless, dreamy quality to his voice that makes Chris raise his eyebrows.
“Dude, I know she’s hot, but this is turning you on?”
“What? No! I mean, of course not. She’s just…” he trails off as you grab one enemy’s arm, spinning into the man’s chest and firing his gun from his own hand into the forehead of the man across from you. You spin out, and finish off the first guy with a swift kick to the chest.
“Holy shit.” Adrian says again, even more breathless than before, and he’s fucking smiling now.
“Oh God, I think his eyes just turned into cartoon hearts.” Adebayo nearly groans. This time, Adrian doesn’t answer.
And just like that, the entire team watches Adrian Chase fall in love.
And just like that, it becomes everyone else’s fucking problem.
-
He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.
It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.
You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.
And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.
And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.
-
Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.
“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”
“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.
“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”
Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.
“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”
“Your screensaver is her face.”
“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”
Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.
“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”
“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”
“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything bad!”
“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”
Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.
So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.
-
The briefing the next day is weird.
Very weird.
When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.
He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.
“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.
Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.
That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues.
“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”
Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”
“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”
“Thank you?”
“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”
“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”
“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.
“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.
He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.
“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”
“You said to neg her!”
“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”
“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.
“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”
Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?
“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”
“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“
“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”
He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”
“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”
And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.
-
You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.
He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.
And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.
Okay, step two.
Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.
You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.
You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.
His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.
And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-
A throat clears.
When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.
“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.
“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.
“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.
-
He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.
And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.
This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.
You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.
Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.
“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“
He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.
The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.
And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.
For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.
“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.
“They are covered in blood.”
“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”
“I’m not going anywhere near that.”
Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.
“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”
Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.
They thought Adrian’s crush was annoying before. Now that he has you, he is so much worse.
A/N: incubus!remy, 18+f!reader, friends-to-lovers, when remy quite literally needs to eat pussy🙂↕️
There is a quiet truth within the halls of the X-Mansion, an unspoken affliction that one of their own carries quietly. Something old as time, something older than mutation, that is using Remy LeBeau as a host. Somewhere deep beneath his easy grin and Cajun charm something ancient still feeds.
At first, Remy used to blame exhaustion. Then stress. Then the way the mansion has been too quiet lately — no danger, no distractions, no touch. That deep, quiet ache beneath his ribs, not physical, not exactly, was all too present lately. Remy would dismiss the ache time and time again until the Professor helped him pin point it in his ancestry. The same ache that used to vanish after a night spent tangled in laughter and warmth and whispered promises he never meant to keep.
He hadn’t noticed how long it had been. No stolen glances. No fleeting encounters. No one drawn into his orbit close enough for the quiet exchange that always left both parties breathless and oddly lighter. And now nothing inside him seemed to ignite.
His incubi nature doesn’t replace his mutation. It fuels it. Each charged object, each explosive burst of pink light was backed by vitality. Each impossible feat of kinetic manipulation was drawn from the same well. A well replenished not by rest, but by connection and closeness. By the quiet surrender of vital warmth shared in moments that left hearts racing. This transfer of energy was never stolen as some myths claimed, never forced. Just exchanged.
Now, it’s been months.
Months since Remy last fed and recharged himself. His kinetic energy is dimmer and dimmer by the day, taking more toll from him than when he is at full charge.
Usually he has time between sexual trysts before his kinetic energy begins to deplete. Given that he has been jet-setting around on the Blackbird with little time between missions for a recharge, he feels it more now than ever. His cards fizzle faintly, it takes more effort from him to charge larger objects, he feels drained, and it’s almost humiliating for him to be in such need.
Cursing his incubi bloodlines, Remy rolls out of bed a little after dawn and heads down the staircase to the kitchen hoping to sate his hunger with a snack or a drink. As he pours himself a glass of water, he hears a light yawn behind him and turns to see you. You’re dressed for your pre-class jog, but still very much waking up as you rub your eye.
“Mornin’.” You say, offering him a sleepy smile as you lean into him and greet him with a side hug while grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet.
“Mornin’, petite.” He says, handing you the mug you’re reaching for and you thank him. “Sleep well?”
You look over, noting the tension in his shoulders and the restlessness of his eyes. “Better than you, it seems. You look tired.” You say casually as you pour coffee from the pot into your mug.
“Tired’s too polite for what Gambit is right now.” He smirks tiredly while you grin and offer to make extra of your own breakfast to which he nods appreciatively as he watches you move with cat-like enthusiasm around the kitchen.
The friendship the two of you share has always been comfortable, uncomplicated, and honest. There is a mutual attraction, of course, biology wouldn’t be doing its job without a little sexual tension. But now with you standing in front of him while his main source of energy is drained, Remy realizes something unsettling. Your presence doesn’t just feel pleasant, right now it feels steady and charged. He chalks it up to his current state of being, he only feels like this because he knows he needs to feed and you just happen to smell really nice and look so pretty with your hair tied up and your tight leggings.
Is nothin’, surely, Remy tells himself as he takes the plate you hand him and sits across from you at the island.
Being good friends, you noticed how dim he seemed lately, however. You noticed how he had started looking at you — almost like he wanted to ask you something constantly, but just didn’t know how. Or couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Rem?” You ask one evening when he’s in the greenhouse with you helping you pick out herbs for dinner.
Remy gives you that charming grin, but you can tell it’s a little forced. “You worryin’ ‘bout Gambit, cherie?” He asks with a smirk. “Mighty sweet of you.”
“I’m serious,” You laugh softly, turning to him and crossing your arms over your chest. “You don’t seem like yourself. I just want to make sure you’re good.”
He hesitates just a moment. “Is jus’ biology,” He says with a deflecting wink. “Nothin’ for you to worry ‘bout.”
At that you scoff a little. “Of course I’m going to worry, Remy. You’re my friend, and it’s clear you haven’t been yourself.” You pause, not wanting to come off pushy and take a step closer to him. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”
Remy says your name with a small, nearly defeated laugh and shakes his head. “Is too complicated.”
“Rem, we’re actual mutants. Complicated is wired in us, come on.”
After a moment, he lets out a small sigh and nods like he’s convinced himself it’s better to have this conversation than to keep you in the dark. “I ain’t fed in a lil while, cherie,” He says with a small shrug as he hands you a small bushel of fresh rosemary. “Gambit’s energy gettin’ too low to charge.”
“Fed?” You ask curiously and then it clicks. Right, you think, He’s part incubi. “Oh.”
“Oh.” Remy smirks.
You know, everyone knows, everyone just has enough decency and respect towards Remy to not bring it up in everyday conversation. But now your friend is slowly dimming and it’s because he hasn’t had the sexual encounter required to keep himself charged. And if the Gambit can’t charge anything, that’s dangerous for himself and others in the field.
“Well,” You begin, busying yourself with the parsley and trying to sound more casual than you feel about this topic. “Have you made some calls? You know, find yourself a hot date.”
“Shoulda few weeks back,” Remy sighs, rubbing a gloved hand over his face with mild relief now that everything is out in the open between the two of you. “‘Fraid Gambit might take too much now.”
And then, just because you’re the kind of person — helpful and empathic — you ask. “What if I helped?”
Dinner that night is normal. Jean and Scott wrangle the younger students into the dining room, Logan barks at Bobby and Pietro for goofing around in the kitchen while he’s trying to hand out bowls of his hearty soup. Ororo is easily guiding the teens in from the rec room for mealtime.
You and Remy, however, are both quiet. Quieter than usual for either of you. Not in a bad way, just pensive. Your face is warm and your hands anxiously tremble whenever you pick up your spoon. While Remy can’t stop trailing you with his dimly glowing eyes, his mind wondering curiously about tonight. All through dinner, the conversation in the greenhouse plays on repeat in your mind.
“You ain’t gotta help Remy, cherie.” He had said, though his eyes didn’t shift off of you not one fraction.
“I hate seeing you walking around so dull, Rem, it can’t possibly end well.” You rationalize, more for yourself than him. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, let me just…help a friend out.”
Remy had chuckled. “Mighty kind friend you are, petite.”
And you had rolled your eyes before saying, “Tonight, yeah? Meet in my room after dinner.”
Your room is familiar to him in the way that most of the mansion is familiar — he’s been in and out of it enough times over the years to know the layout without thinking. The stack of books and small gathering of coffee mugs on your nightstand. The window you leave cracked regardless of season. The way it smells like you, something warm and faintly herbal that he’s never examined too closely until now. You close the door behind him and turn to face him with that expression you get when you’ve decided something and aren’t second-guessing it.
“So…” You say, a bashful tint on your cheeks as you watch him take us space in your bedroom with a very different energy than usual.
“So,” Remy agrees, extending a hand out to you in a very gentlemanly fashion. You laugh a little, which breaks whatever formality was threatening to form, and then you close the distance as he tugs you into him for a kiss. It’s easy the way things between the two of you have always been easy. He threads a hand into your hair and you make a small sound against his mouth that sharpens his attention considerably. He can feel you smile against his lips. “Something funny, cherie?”
“Mm-mm,” You hum, still smiling smugly, and you kiss him again before he can respond to that. “No.”
Remy walks you back toward the bed with his hands at your waist and you go without resistance, pulling him down with you when the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He carefully settles his weight over you and you look up at him in the low light from your bedside lamp, your hair fanned out beneath you, a bright and curious glint in your wide eyes. His eyes, dim for weeks, are already beginning to warm at the edges, you notice.
“There you are.” You say quietly, your fingers brushing along his sharp jaw as you smile affectionately up at him. Remy kisses you before he can think too hard about how that landed.
There is no rushing, no desperation to reach the fun part. You both take your time with it, unhurried in the way that familiarity allows, trading kisses that grow progressively less casual while your fingers work at the collar of his shirt and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, the soft place beneath your ear that makes your breath hitch and your chin tip back. Remy takes his gloves off because bare hands matter here in a way they don’t always and he feels your breath catch slightly at the deliberateness of it.
“Remy.” You moan softly.
“Cherie.” He praises reverently. He works your jeans and underwear down your legs with patience that seems to genuinely surprise you. He slowly presses his mouth to your hip, kissing the inside of your knee, and you watch him the entire time with that particular feline attention — sharp and a little amused and underneath it something that is neither of those things.
“You don’t have to make a whole production of it.” You tease in an attempt to remind yourself this isn’t a big deal, even if it’s starting to feel like it is, even though your voice has lost some of its usual certainty.
“Non,” He agrees, and looks up at you from between your thighs, thumbs brushing gently over your soft lips and parting them gently, “but Gambit gonna anyway.”
You laugh softly, and then his mouth finds your warm center and the laugh dissolves into a shaky inhale. The sound you make goes through him like a current finding ground, his kinetic charge pulses in waves within his bones. He knows immediately that this is different, that you are different. He can sense it the way he senses latent energy in objects, that particular aliveness and willingness to charge.
And what you’re feeling is genuine and warm and directed entirely at him. Your arousal is tricking through your folds as his tongue flattens against you, it feeds him differently than anyone he can recall. Richer and more specifically tailored to him definitely having to do with the bond you share.
Remy’s already charging back up and he could stop here if he wanted to, if you asked him to, but he doesn’t stop. You try to muffle yourself with the back of your hand and he pulls it away from your mouth with a firm patience, pressing it flat against the mattress instead.
“Non,” He says against your mound, his tongue flicking teasingly at your sensitive bud. “Let Gambit hear you.”
“You’re terrible.” You breathe, your back arching as he passes his tongue over your slit, searching a little deeper for that sweetness that fuels him.
“Oui.” He agrees, and gets back to work.
You give up on quiet after that. Your free hand finds his hair, your thighs bracket his shoulders, and he can feel the tension building in your loins, the small involuntary tremors of your legs, the way your breathing changes register with him in a way he doesn’t usually pay attention with someone else.
When your first orgasm crescendos to its peak, you says his name in a way you’ve never said it before, drawn out and unguarded, and your nails catch against his shoulder with an unconscious sharpness that he doesn’t think you notice, but he notices. His tongue burrows deeper, circling slowly as he drinks you in and feels his energy refilling slowly. A soft groan escapes him and he keeps going.
“Tu es parfait, si bon pour moi.” He murmurs, his hands subtly sending a charge through your skin as he refuels.
He takes you through the second release with more deliberate attention, learning what undoes you specifically and applying it with focused patience. You whine he focuses on your clit, sucking softly on the bud until your legs threaten to close out the sensation. You’re warm and restless and completely present and he is — for perhaps the first time in longer than he’d like to admit — entirely present too. Not performing, not managing the encounter from a careful distance…just here.
By your third orgasm, he’s lapping like a man no longer dying of thirst, but rather possessed by hunger, holding your thighs wide open to fight against your impulse to close them. You’re laughing breathlessly, helplessly, between the moans you can’t quiet, one arm flung over your eyes, your whole body flushed and trembling.
“Remy - okay, Remy, I’m - can’t, please - mercy!” He chuckles and presses one last unhurried kiss to the inside of your thigh before letting up. He looks back up to find you staring at the ceiling with the expression of a person who has been completely taken apart and is taking stock of the damage.
Remy’s been fully recharged for a little while now, but he doesn’t regret going overboard when you look this soft and happy. He settles beside you on the bed and you turn your head to look at him, your hair a disaster, your expression open in a way you probably aren’t aware of. His eyes are fully warm again, properly his, the dullness entirely gone.
“Merci, cherie,” He says, and means it in more ways than he’ll name. “Owe you my life.”
You exhale a breath that’s almost a laugh and look back up at the ceiling, loose and wrung out and completely unbothered. “Any time.” You say offhandedly like it costs you nothing.
Remy looks at you for a moment longer than he should, the low light illuminating your dewy skin, the warmth of your vitality still sitting in him like a coal, the careless generosity of those two words, and then he looks away. His arm wraps easily around you and you sigh softly as you rest your head on his chest to catch your breath.
Any time.
He’s going to have to think very carefully about that.
This is a little AU I have been working on just because I got really into mythology all of a sudden😂 Let me know what you think, kind readers!
Hiii <33 can I request Adrian x reader where the reader jokingly tells Adrian he’s out of her league since he’s muscular, handsome, and good at his job but deep down she’s actually insecure about that and feels undeserving and he clocks it right away and reassures her ?
Leagues
A/N: Ohhhh this eats…this prompt eats hard. Thank you for the request this one was fun to do!
Masterlist
___
Being a part of the 11th Street Kids came with a lot of pros and cons.
A major pro being that she no longer felt alone. Being in the black ops field it was hard to make friends and even though it was still hard to call these people her friends in the start it had grown. She wouldn’t go as far as Ads did and call them a family, but she felt it.
One con, being that they were all insane to various degrees…some much more than others. One of those being her lovely boyfriend.
Her and Adrian, or as she met him the Vigilante, had been dating for a little over six months with a surprising amount of success. She had never had much luck dating in the past because people who worked outside of black ops had a really hard time understanding the job and people who typically worked black ops…well she wouldn’t typically date them either.
To be fully honest, she still wasn’t sure what Adrian even saw in her. When he first tried (awkwardly) showing that he was interested in her by speaking loudly about things they both enjoyed, complimenting the weirdest things about her, and just…always hanging around.
She kicked herself for weeks, he was attractive and he did make her smile, but the 11th Street Kids felt so…real and permanent. She’d never forgive herself if she slept with him and then he ditched her and she just had to pretend like everything is normal.
But at least so far, it hadn’t been like that…he had been sweet. He brought her flowers, held doors open, and followed her around like a lost puppy.
Unfortunately it didn’t stop the fear of the other shoe dropping.
She really tried to keep it in and away, trying to enjoy her time with Adrian, but when they were alone and just spending time together one on one it was hard to let those thoughts sit.
Tonight was no exception. She had invited Adrian over for dinner and they had been taking turns showing each other movies that they liked. She was sprawled out on the couch, her legs in Adrian’s lap as he rubbed her calves absentmindedly, humming softly as he focused on the movie. Tonight it was her pick on movie and Adrian’s pick for dinner.
And it didn’t take long before she started to regret her choice of 10 Things I Hate About You the moment the similarities began to arise in her mind.
“They’re so dumb,” Adrian complained halfway through the movie and she paused it, looking over at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they clearly like each other! Plus he’s getting money and he can use that to spoil her, as he should,” he said firmly and she let out an awkward laugh.
“I mean…this is a real fear people have,” she said gently.
“That someone is paying their partner to date them?” he asked, tilting his head as he looked at her.
“Not just paying, just that there’s an ulterior motive.”
“That’s fucking dumb,” he said with a huff.
“It’s a real fear,” she said firmly, feeling her nerves raise.
“It shouldn’t be.”
“I mean, I’m shocked you haven’t left me for someone better,” she said, trying to keep her tone light and teasing but there was an edge to it that he seemed to pick up immediately as his brow furrowed. “This is a fear I have, just like the movie,” she said, trying to get him to see her point.
“What?” he said, face dropping.
“I mean, Adrian come on! You’re strong, handsome, and kick ass at your job. You’re like a million leagues ahead of me! I’m still surprised you even approached me first and wanted more than just like a little fling.”
She watched her words hit him as he shuffled on the couch, pausing the movie. First moving her legs off his lap staring forward before looking over at her, his mouth opening and closing as he tilted his head frowning. Then he stood up and started to pace, pausing so often to look at her and point and then keep walking.
“What is happening right now?”
“I’m sorry, I’m trying to think of a polite way to ask if you’re the dumbest person alive,” he said, stopping in front of her.
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked, eyebrows raised and panic took over his face as he shook his head.
“No! No, sorry! I don’t mean it like that! You’re not dumb that’s the point,” he said, watching her closely. “You’re like…oh my god you don’t even realize that I’m the reacher and you’re the settler!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You! Holy shit, you’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re so fucking badass. Like I still don’t fully understand why the hell you even give me the time of day!” he said, sounding genuinely upset that she wasn’t seeing what he was saying. “You’re just…like I told Chris the day we met that you fucking walked out of my brain! You’re literally my dream girl come to life but better because you’re real and you like me!”
She watched him as he finished, his chest heaving hard as she sat on the edge of the couch. Adrian’s hands fidgeting and pulling at his hair, his whole body seemed in distress. When she didn’t say anything Adrian kept going.
“I love you, you’re amazing and gorgeous and literally deserve someone way better than me and I’m just now realizing that is the first time I’ve said I love you and we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months,” Adrian rambling, eyes wide behind his glasses as she blinked at him, finally standing up. She took a step towards him and he took a step back.
“You love me?” she repeated, voice soft and face neutral as his eyes seemed to search for any sign of discomfort.
“I do,” he said finally after a beat, his words soft and gentle. “I really do. You’re amazing and it…it hurts me to think that you don’t see what I see and I’ll do anything to get you to see it.”
“Adrian…” she said gently, her nerves melting as she cupped his cheek and kissed his other cheek. “I love you too.”
“Really?” he asked, sounding like an excited puppy being told their favorite words.
“Yes, I do,” she repeated. “I really do love you.”
“That’s good, really good because that was going to be really awkward if you didn’t!” he said laughing brightly as he swept her off her feet as she squealed, her arms flying around his neck as he spun her and peppered her face with kisses. “I can’t believe you think I’m hot! And you thought I was hotter than you!” he said laughing hard as if it was the most ridiculous thought on the planet.
“Okay, you doofus, put me down. We still have to finish the movie,” she said, slapping his back gently as he sat her down, moving them back on the couch, this time much closer.
“I will, only because I love you and you’re beautiful,” he said. “And I’ll start the movie again because I love you and you’re awesome.”
Something about gaz having erectile dysfunction after his RTI training....
And it's embarrassing, right? He's not even thirty and has a difficult time getting it up, what kind of person would want to sleep with him? Much less date him?
But he just....can't. No amount of the hottest porn or vain attempts to pleasure himself go anywhere, and the doctors tell him it's purely psychological but if he goes to psyche for that then he's surely getting benched from the field.
So he just...ignores it. Even when he meets you.
You're the hottest thing he's ever met, and everyday gaz wakes up astounded that you actively chose to date him. You don't push him to perform in bed, though not for lack of desire for him if the sloppy make-outs and rough grinding in supply closets is anything to go by.
You just seem to know, and the thought of that stresses him out even more.
It's not until he confronts you, asks why you never pressure him for anything more than the hand and mouth he's willing to offer, that he calms down. Because you just shrug and say "we all have our things, kyle. Honestly you could just be in the same room as me and I could get off."
Then, you pause and narrow your eyes "...Is there something you want to try? To help you get off? Or something you miss?"
Which is how gaz ends up wearing a silicone 'sleeve' over his soft dick, one you had helped him pick out to most closely resemble what he looks like hard.
You're lying on your back for him, too excited to see the joy on his face at finally being able to fuck you properly to go for your usual face-down preference. The sleeve is textured enough he can vaguely get some stimulation, but he's more focused on changing his angle until he hits that spot that makes you tense and moan.
"Fuck, love, I've been dreaming about this since I met you," he confesses, eyes glued to the sleeve— no, his cock— thrusting into your entrance. Voice warm and thick with arousal.
He's soft the entire time, but that only means his stamina is as long as he can keep moving, fucking you into overstimulation because he's missed this so much. Sex like this is such an intimate act he hadn't realized he'd been missing.
Afterwards, when gaz snuggles up to you in bed, all his focus is on you. For once, he doesn't feel broken.
tit obsessed mommy kink adrian who absolutely goes insane when he finds out you're pregnant????
"But I'm still the first one to call you mommy, okay?"
he'd massage your sore body and kiss his way across-
and when you start to show? bubble wrapping you but also wanting to show you off- it's a hard line for him to walk on. he wants you in bodycons to show everyone that that's HIS baby in his baby- but he also wants no one to look at you because you're his!!
your boobs grow and he salivates every time he looks at you.
he already loved to suck on them when you jerked him off or teased and edged him but now? now it's a whole different ballgame. your belly his pressing against his face, and he sucks with his big needy eyes on your face and stream down his face as you play with the tip of his dick-
he knows if he was to ever break the law, it would only be for you- because you are geniuenly divinity made flesh for him.
and when the baby comes? oh no-
"Can I have a sip when the baby's done? Just a little taste?" then he goes ham on your boobs, massaging, sucking, drinking like no tomorrow- thankfully you have a good supply-
SYNOPSIS — you have a thing for adrian in his glasses
CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | dry humping, oral sex (both receiving), fingering (very brief), breast play, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), belly bulge, creampie. i think that’s it but let me know if i’ve missed anything!
WC — 6.7k
NOTE — this is my first ever fic! i hope you all enjoy it lol
MASTERLIST
The others had gone out hours ago—all off on some mission that didn’t require a second vigilante or the person Adrian Chase currently could not stop staring at. You.
You were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, lazily scrolling through your phone while the dim lamplight flickered across the peeling walls of the safehouse. The air smelt faintly of gun oil, stale pizza, and whatever cheap air freshener Harcourt had pretended not to buy.
Adrian sat on the opposite end of the couch, a little too upright, his mask sitting crooked on the coffee table beside a half-empty can of coke. He drummed his fingers against his knee like someone who’d never been left alone with their crush before—because, well, he hadn’t.
He cleared his throat once. Then again. Then again, louder.
Nothing from you.
“So, uh,” he started, voice a little too bright, “did you know that jumping spiders do little dances to impress mates. Like, actual dances. With their legs and everything.” He mimed an awkward eight-legged wiggle. “And they’re really good at sneaking! Are you good at sneaking? You seem like you’d be good at sneaking. You’re quiet. Like—” He squinted. “—really quiet.”
Still nothing. Just a faint hum of acknowledgement as you scrolled.
Adrian smiled nervously, like a kid trying to fill a silence that wasn’t asking to be filled. “I mean, that’s cool. Being quiet. People like that are mysterious. You’re probably mysterious. Do you have secrets? You totally do. Everyone does. Mine’s that I once cried during Shrek 2. Donkey’s friendship arc really got me.”
You glanced up then—just for a second—and he brightened immediately, grinning as if that brief flicker of eye contact had powered him back on.
“Yeah, you laughed, I saw it!” he said, pointing triumphantly. “See? You get it! You’ve got great taste. I can tell. You’re, like, the kind of person who doesn’t need to talk a lot to make an impact, you know? Like, if you do say something, it’s probably really smart or funny or both, and then everyone’s like, ‘Wow, what a legend.’ Meanwhile I’m just over here talking about tactical capes for ten minutes straight.”
You gave a faint smile, just enough to make him light up again.
“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Adrian said, scooting forward slightly. “Tactical. Cape. It’s like a regular cape, but with utility. Hidden knives, smoke bombs, maybe a snack pocket. Because, like, fighting crime burns calories, and no one ever thinks about mid-battle hunger. I could keep a granola bar in there. Or a Pop-Tart. Pop-Tarts are top-tier fuel for justice.”
You huffed a soft laugh through your nose. Adrian heard it like a victory fanfare.
He leaned back, more relaxed now, rambling freely. “I’ve been thinking about new gadgets, too. Maybe something like Batarangs, but sharper. Vigilant-er. Or a grappling hook that doubles as a taser! Oh, and I saw this video once about a guy who made armour out of carbon fibre—actually, you’d love it. You seem like you’d appreciate cool tech stuff. Do you?”
You looked up again, meeting his gaze briefly. You didn’t answer, but there was a softness in your expression, something patient. He smiled faintly, words stumbling to a slower rhythm now.
“I like that you listen,” he said quietly. “Most people don’t. They tell me to shut up. Which, you know, fair, because I talk a lot. But you don’t. You just… listen. And I guess that’s kinda—nice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks a little pink beneath the warm light. “I don’t really know how to be quiet around people I like. I just start talking and… keep going.” He chuckled nervously, then looked at you again. “It’s weird, right? The more I like someone, the more words fall out of me like a busted vending machine.”
You tilted your head slightly, eyes flicking up from your phone. There was the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. “People you like, huh?”
Adrian froze.
“Oh—uh—yeah! Like… like, you know, people in general,” he said quickly, words tripping over each other in a frantic stampede. “Friends. Teammates. Uh, colleagues. People with… good moral compasses. And cool hair. Not that your hair isn’t—wait—”
He winced, realising he was digging himself deeper, hands flailing helplessly. “I mean, your hair is great! Not that I look at your hair, like, a lot. I mean, sometimes. Not in a creepy way! Just in a… observational way? Like—scientific!”
He was unraveling fast. You set your phone down, eyes glinting with amusement. “So you like my hair?”
He stared at you, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open. His face went redder, if that was even possible. “I—uh—no! I mean yes! Not like that—well, not not like that—oh my god—” He buried his face in his hands with a groan.
You laughed softly, a quiet, melodic sound that sent colour rushing up his neck.
“Oh my god, I sound like a lunatic,” he muttered, half to himself. “Why am I still talking? Stop talking, Adrian. Stop—talking—Adrian.” He actually smacked himself lightly on the side of his head for emphasis, groaning.
You only stared back at him, perfectly calm, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re cute when you panic, you know that?”
“I just meant,” he said in a rush, hands flapping like he could physically wave the embarrassment away, “that you’re—uh—you’re nice to be around! Yeah! That’s all I meant. You’re quiet, and calm, and not a jerk! And sometimes you smile at me, which is… kind of the best thing ever, honestly—wait, that sounded weird again—”
You let him flounder for another moment, quietly amused, until you leaned back with an innocent expression. “So… you like me?”
His brain short-circuited. There was a beat of silence where his mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a confused goldfish.
“I—uh—what? No! I mean—yes! Wait, no! I mean—” He pressed both hands to his face, muffling a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a squeak. “Oh my god. I’m so bad at this. Forget I said anything. Just, uh, delete that from your memory. Men in Black style. Flashy thing and everything.”
You couldn’t help it; you laughed—properly this time, shoulders shaking.
Adrian peeked through his fingers, expression mortified but also faintly hopeful behind his slightly crooked glasses. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”
You shrugged lightly, smile still lingering.
He sighed dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “Great. Fantastic. Adrian Chase, master vigilante, feared by criminals, brought down by one quiet person with a nice smile. Classic.”
Your chuckle softened into something gentler, and his shoulders loosened a little. You didn’t speak, just watched him ramble, his words tumbling out in anxious bursts. The more he talked, the more flustered he got—cheeks flushed, glasses sliding down his nose, hair sticking up from where he’d run his hands through it too many times.
And yet… there was something oddly magnetic about him like this.
His glasses had slipped a little to one side, catching the light. They framed the warmth in his eyes—eyes that, despite his nervous fumbling, held nothing but sincerity. His words might have been tangled, but his feelings weren’t.
You found yourself smiling without meaning to.
He noticed immediately. “Oh god, now you’re smiling. Is that good? Bad? Are you laughing with me or at me? Because I can handle either, honestly, I just—well, actually, I’d prefer ‘with.’”
You gave a small shrug, the tiniest nod—as if to say, with. He let out a long, shaky breath, like he’d just defused a bomb. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. With is good. With is great. I can do ‘with.’”
A moment passed. His rambling slowed, the energy around him softening. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—almost shy. “So… yeah. That’s me. The guy who can’t shut up around people he likes. Wait! Not like-like —”
You tilted your head, feigning a frown. “So you don’t like me?”
Adrian’s entire body went rigid. “What? No—I mean—yes! Wait—not no yes, but yes yes! I do—like you—but I didn’t mean to say it like that, because it sounds, you know, serious. And not that I wouldn’t be serious if you wanted serious—oh my god, stop talking, Adrian.”
He physically winced, clapping a hand over his mouth. His other hand waved frantically as though he could swat his own words out of the air before they reached you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying hard not to laugh. He looked so hopelessly frazzled—his glasses sliding further down his nose, eyes wide and bright and completely out of his depth.
“Okay, uh,” he continued weakly, voice muffled through his hand, “just to clarify, I absolutely like you. Probably too much. Like, it’s getting medically concerning. I think about you a lot, which isn’t creepy—well, maybe a little creepy, but in a cute way?”
You stood. Adrian blinked up at you, mid-rant, tracking your movement like a confused cat. His head tilted to one side, brows furrowed as you crossed the short distance between you.
“Wait, are you—are you leaving? Please don’t leave. I swear I can be less weird if given, like, a five-minute reset. I just need to—”
You stopped right in front of him. He looked up, words dying instantly in his throat. Without saying anything, you reached down and adjusted his crooked glasses, straightening them gently on the bridge of his nose. His breath caught—sharp, soft. The world seemed to freeze around that small touch.
His voice came out barely above a whisper. “Oh.”
You smiled faintly, your hand lingering for a second longer than necessary before you lowered it. Then, with quiet confidence, you moved—settling yourself down onto his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Adrian went absolutely still. Every muscle in his body locked up like someone had hit the emergency brakes.
His eyes darted between your face and the wall and back again. “Uh. Okay. Cool. Yep. This is—wow. This is happening. You’re—you’re sitting on me. That’s new. Not bad-new! Great-new! Like—best-day-ever-new!”
You didn’t say anything. You just watched him, amused, while he tried very hard to keep breathing normally.
His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure where they were allowed to go. “Is this—are we—do I—should I—”
You leaned in slightly, just enough for him to swallow his next half-formed sentence. He blinked, looking at you like he was trying to solve a riddle written in an alien language.
“Adrian,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
He blinked rapidly. “Yeah?”
“Breathe,” you smiled, gently cupping his jaw.
“Oh. Right.” He took a quick inhale, a little too fast, coughing once before exhaling. “Okay. Breathing. I’m breathing. Definitely not dying of happiness. Nope. Totally fine.”
Your hand fell from his jaw and brushed his shoulder, and his entire face went a shade deeper. You could feel the nervous energy humming beneath his skin—the kind that made him fidget and ramble, but now it was channeled into stillness, anticipation.
For once, he wasn’t talking.
You smiled, tilting your head. “You were saying something about liking me?”
He made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, I, uh… I still do. Like, like-like. Just—just to clarify. In case that wasn’t obvious by, you know…”
He gestures vaguely at the entire situation and you laughed quietly—the kind of soft, genuine laugh that made him melt.
He grinned helplessly, eyes shining behind those now perfectly straightened glasses.
“I… have absolutely no idea what to do with my hands,” he admitted, voice small.
You reached down, taking one of them in yours, resting it against your knee. He looked at it like it was a miracle. Then, after a beat, he looked back at your face, his grin returning—softer now, still a little shaky.
“Just so you’re aware,” you whispered, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that your lips brushed against his ear. “I like you too. Like-like.”
Your confession hit him like a flashbang. His mouth fell open—no words, no jokes, not even a nervous laugh. Just shock. You pulled back and saw how his pupils were dilated, how his breath stuttered, and how, for once, Adrian Chase—the man who could talk through gunfire, chaos, and a nuclear countdown—was completely, utterly speechless.
You tilted your head, amused by the silence. “What’s wrong? Did I just break Vigilante?”
He blinked twice, a quiet, breathless laugh finally escaping him. “I—uh—no, I’m fine. Totally fine. Just—wow. You—uh—wow.”
You smiled. “You say that a lot.”
“Yeah, but—” He shook his head, a dazed grin spreading across his face. “This time I actually mean it. Wow.”
He looked at you for a long moment, wonder softening every sharp edge in him. Then, almost timidly, he whispered, “You really mean that?”
You nodded. “Every word.”
Adrian let out a shaky breath, his laugh breaking halfway through it — part disbelief, part joy. “Okay. Cool. Great. Totally normal reaction. I’m just gonna sit here and, uh, internally combust for a bit.”
You smiled and rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper. “You talk too much,” you teased.
He grinned, dazed and glowing. “Yeah,” he breathed, “but apparently you don’t mind.”
You smiled and leaned closer. “Hmm, I suppose not,” you whispered, placing your hand at the base of his neck, gently scratching there.
Adrian shivered slightly at your touch, eyes widening as he caught your gaze. Your lips hovered for a moment before connecting with his.
His hands froze midair, unsure where to go, and then settled tentatively on your waist as if trying to anchor himself to the reality of the moment.
When you pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his, he let out a breathless laugh, cheeks flushed. “You just kissed me.”
“Did I?” you feigned shock, tilting your head, eyes wide as if the idea were utterly scandalous.
Adrian’s entire body froze. His hands hung awkwardly in the air for a second before settling back on your waist, almost as if holding you in place might stop the world from spinning. “Uh… well… yeah! I mean—wow—yes! You did! That’s… I don’t—”
You pressed a finger lightly to his lips again, cutting off his panicked ramble. “I’m messing with you, you dork,” you whispered, a small teasing smile tugging at your lips.
“Right,” Adrian mumbled behind your hand. “I knew… I knew that.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head and letting your hand fall from his mouth and onto his shoulders before leaning back in and connecting your lips once again.
This time, Adrian didn’t just pause to savour it—he leaned into it with way too much enthusiasm, tangling his fingers in your hair as if he was afraid you might vanish. You gently tilt his head back, deepening the kiss.
His tongue slid tentatively against yours, and he made a soft, muffled noise of delight against your lips. Your body shuddered, allowing him to explore and taste every inch of your mouth.
Adrian’s hands moved down to your sides, holding you just a little too firmly, his mind racing faster than his mouth ever could. He instinctively pulled you closer causing you to grind down, feeling his cock throb against your core through the layer of his jeans.
You pulled back from the kiss, a heavenly moan eliciting from your lips. Adrian dropped his head onto your chest, slowly losing himself to the pleasure. One of your hands settled on the back of his head as the other gripped the couch behind him.
His palms hesitantly glide up and down your thighs, gripping them ever so slightly. The both of you wanted more, neededmore. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension building between you like a storm about to break. Your body begged for it as his thighs trembled while you circled your hips.
“I’m so turned on right now,” he mentioned breathlessly, his lips moving up to graze your neck.
“That’s kind of the point, Adrian,” you rasped, grinding down onto his crotch again.
No matter how good the friction felt—it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. You huff, pulling back and getting to your feet. Adrian stared up at you, furrowing his brows and wondering if he had done something wrong.
Before he has a chance to open his mouth, you take a hold of his hand and head to your room. He stumbled a little, his mind a mix of disoriented surprise and genuine anticipation. Adrian gave you a sidelong glance as you led him inside and locked the door behind him.
“Why are we in here?” he asked, his gaze settling on you once you stepped in front of him once again.
“Sex, Adrian,” you deadpanned, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t particularly fancy anyone catching us in the act, do you?”
Adrian froze, completely taken off guard. His face flushed a bright red, the colour spreading over his ears and neck. He stumbled over his words, his brain short-circuiting for a good few seconds.
“W-what?” he finally managed to croak out, his voice a little higher-pitched than usual. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” you whispered, going on your tip toes to brush your lips against his ear.
You trail a finger down his chest, feeling the contours of his abs before settling on the waistband of his boxers. You slowly pull at them before allowing them to snap back at his body.
Adrian let out a small, weak groan. His heart hammered against his ribcage, his breathing shallow. You grin, pulling his top up slightly and exposing his slight happy trail. Adrian gulped, trying to regain his composure. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, a mixture of uncertainty and overwhelming desire.
“Take this off,” you murmured, gently tugging at his top.
His breath hitched at your command and the need to feel more of you, to be skin against skin, won out. His fingers curled around the hem of his top, and he tugged it off in a swift, nervous movement.
His chest rose and fell with each laboured breath, the muscles under his skin shifting with every movement. His heart beat faster under your gaze, anticipation mixing in his eyes.
Adrian’s breath hitched as your hand rested on his chest, his skin burning under your fingertips. He swallowed, the muscles in his chest tensing beneath your hand. His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixated on your face.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from you, trapped in the intensity of the moment. His own hand unclenched from his side and moved higher, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the underside of your breast.
“Watch it,” you teased.
His fingers halted immediately, his cheeks flushed scarlet. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with the movement. He tried to maintain a façade of aloof assurance, but the rising colour on his face and the slight quiver in his voice betrayed him.
“I—er—” he started to say but his voice caught in his throat. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, but his fingers flexed involuntarily again, his touch still lingering too close to your breast.
“I’m joking,” you laughed softly, running your hand over his shoulders.
A puff of breath escaped him, half a sigh and half a nervous laugh. His shoulders relaxed under your touch, the roughness of his skin contrasting with your soft fingers.
Adrian could feel the warmth spreading from the places you touched, the goosebumps erupting where you absentmindedly trailed your fingers across his skin.
His hand on your waist inched up a little more, the tips of his fingers grazing the underside of your breast again.
“You can touch me, you know?” you smiled, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.
A shiver ran down his spine at your words, heat spreading across his face. He gulped, the sound loud and audible in the silence between you. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, his fingers twitching against your skin as his hand moved higher, his thumb now grazing the nipple underneath your shirt.
He swallowed, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.
"You... you mean it?" he asked, his voice a whisper, his body stilled with hesitation and hope.
You nodded and his hand moved again, fingers grazing over your nipple intentionally this time. He couldn't tear his eyes away from your face, his breath hitching as he watched your reaction to his touch.
His fingers closed around you, squeezing your flesh slightly. His eyes darkened with desire, his heart pounding in his chest.
"God, you're gorgeous," he murmured, his voice rough with a mix of awe and yearning.
"You're not too bad yourself, handsome,” you panted, arching your back into his hand.
Adrian’s heart raced, his whole body feeling taut with anticipation. He couldn't believe this was happening, that you were allowing him to touch you like this. But he couldn't resist the temptation, not when you were offering yourself to him. His fingers flexed again, this time squeezing your breast more firmly. His eyes locked onto yours, a mix of awe and hunger in his gaze.
His breath hitched as your fingers brushed against the waistband of his sweatpants once again, his eyes widening in surprise. His grip on your breast tightened reflexively, squeezing your flesh between his fingers.
His heart raced, his body tense as he tried to hold back the rush of desire that swelled within him. You smile at his reaction, your hand moving to gently palm him. His body tensed under your touch, his eyes closing involuntarily as he fought off the urge to roll his hips into your hand. He bit back a groan, his fingers clinging to your breast like a lifeline.
"F-fuck..." he hissed, his voice a rasp. He tried to steady his breathing, but it was difficult with your hand palming him through his jeans. He felt himself growing harder under your touch, his heart pounding in his chest at a dizzying pace.
"Someone's excited," you purred.
Adrian was lost for words, his eyes dark and dazed with want. He swallowed, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. His brain couldn't conjure up a coherent response, his mind fuzzy with the mix of nervousness and desire. All he could manage was a small nod, admitting to the truth in your words.
You chuckle, undoing the drawstring and sinking down onto your knees. You pulled down his sweatpants and boxers in one go. His cock springs free, the head already slick with precum. He’s bigger than you expected, much bigger.
“You… you don’t have to…” Adrian stuttered, his eyes clouded with residual desire.
"Do what?" you raised a brow, running your tongue up his cock.
He let out a strangled moan, his eyes closing again. His body trembled as your tongue traced a path up his cock, his breathing quickening with anticipation. He tried to articulate his thoughts, but his mind was a fuzzy mess of pleasure.
“T-that…” he gasped, tilting his head back when you took his tip into your mouth.
His hands clenched at his sides, trying to ground himself.
He swallowed, trying to find his voice as he whispered, "You... you're really doing this."
"Hm,” you hummed, pulling from his cock with a wet ‘pop’. “You're a lucky boy, aren't you?"
Adrian's mind was a dizzying haze of need, his heart pounding like a drum inside his chest. He tried to form a coherent thought but all he could manage was a rasp.
"Please..." he whispered, his voice roughened with want.
"Please what?" you taunted, your hand slowly stroking him up and down.
His voice was a rasp, rough and low as he managed to stammer out, "Please... just..."
He swallowed, unable to put into words the things he needed you to do to him. His eyes pleaded with you, silently begging you to understand his unspoken pleas.
"I need words, Adrian,” your thumb ran over his slit, collecting some precum and smearing it over his cock.
He struggled to find his voice, his mind a blurry mess of desire. His eyes searched yours, trying to find the elusive words he needed. His breath hitched as he managed to whisper, "I need your mouth."
The words were out, the barrier broken. Adrian could see the satisfaction in your eyes, the hunger that matched his own. One of his hands tangled in your hair, gently guiding you as you took him in your mouth once again.
"You're killing me," he rasped, his words a mix of longing and need. "It feels so good."
Your tongue moved to his tip, swirling it in your mouth causing Adrian to moan softly. His head rolled back as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him, leaving him breathless and trembling.
You took more of him into your mouth and Adrian’s eyes widened. He tilted his head back down and watched you bob up and down. Adrian felt as though every nerve in his body was on fire as the tension in him built.
“Don’t stop,” Adrian moaned, his voice rough with yearning. “F… fuck…”
You gagged slightly, feeling his tip hit the back of your throat. Adrian’s eyes widened with worry but you just hummed around him, the vibrations making goosebumps rise on his skin.
He tried to form words, but all that came out was a string of uneven breaths mixed with hushed gasps. "Oh... God... please..."
You sucked harshly and Adrian let out a guttural moan. His grip on your hair tightened, his hand trembling with anticipation.
His eyes rolled back in his head, his mind a blur of unbridled pleasure. His whole body tensed. His eyes flickered open, locking onto yours as he tried to form words, his voice a strained rasp.
"Oh... oh God... I'm..." He gasped, his hazel eyes pleading.
His body trembled, his words catching in his throat as he fought to keep control. He tried to pull you off him, but his grip was unsteady, his whole body tension-laden and on edge.
It was as if something snapped inside Adrian, the tension coiled deep in his core exploded in a wave that sent white-hot pleasure coursing through his entire body. His release spurted down your throat, the taste salty yet satisfying.
After swallowing every last drop that he had to offer you, you pulled back, kissing his tip with swollen lips and standing with a smug smile.
Adrian felt completely boneless, every muscle in his body felt like jelly. He was spent, his body undone from the pleasure you had bought him.
“You okay there, space cadet?” you whispered teasingly as you adjusted his glasses.
Adrian gulped, nodding dumbly in response as he didn’t trust his words.
“Good,” you murmured, slowly pulling him over to your bed.
You crawled on the bed, leaning back against the pillows and noticing Adrian staring at you—his gaze hungry yet nervous.
“Are you sure everything is okay?” you wondered, tilting your head.
Adrian’s heart thumped furiously against his ribcage, a shiver running down his spine at your words. His eyes darkened with a mix of nerves and excitement as he swallowed hard.
“Can I…” he stuttered, clearing his throat before starting again. “Can I make you feel good?”
“Of course you can,” you chuckled, gesturing him over.
He settled down onto the bed and you pulled him over you. For a moment, he froze—his weight balanced carefully on his hands, hovering above you like he was afraid to get too close. His breath came in shallow bursts, eyes flicking between yours as if waiting for permission to breathe.
Your hands slid gently to his shoulders, grounding him. “Hey,” you hummed, “it’s just me.”
Something softened in him then. The tension in his jaw eased; the tremor in his breath steadied. Slowly, cautiously, Adrian leaned in—his forehead brushing yours before his lips found you in a tentative kiss.
It wasn’t practiced or smooth; it was unsure, sweet, and full of quiet longing. The kind of kiss that said I’ve wanted this for so long, but I don’t want to ruin it by wanting too much.
You smiled against his mouth, feeling his nervousness melt into something gentler. One of his hands came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and a little dazed. “I, uh… that was… wow,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.
You laughed softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “You’re allowed to do that again, you know.”
A small, crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding.
He let out a shaky breath—part relief, part disbelief—and leaned down again, slower this time, his lips finding yours once more.
The second kiss lingered longer than the first, a little deeper, a little braver. Adrian’s fingers trembled where they brushed your jaw, his thumb tracing slow, uncertain lines across your skin. The closeness made his heart race—every exhale caught between you, every tiny movement magnified until the world felt impossibly small.
You felt him start to relax, his lips moving with more confidence now, though his breath still hitched whenever your hands found their way to his shoulders. The tension between you grew, not in haste but in warmth—like a match catching slowly, carefully, before the flame took hold.
You shifted beneath him, and his breath stuttered again. His body went still, hands hovering as though the wrong move might shatter the moment. “Wait,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and uncertain. “Is this—am I going too fast?”
You opened your eyes to find him staring down at you, worry etched into his features. For all his bravado, for all the sharp edges that came with the name Vigilante, this was Adrian—unmasked, terrified of doing something wrong.
“Adrian,” you said, reaching up and cupping his jaw. “Your cock was in my mouth five minutes ago, if anything you’re going too slow.”
A deep blush creeped up the back of Adrian’s neck at your words and you chuckled softly at the look of pure shock on his face. You sit up on your elbows, nipping his jaw teasingly. You keep your eyes on his and slowly pull your top over your head.
His gaze drops from your eyes to your breasts and he has to bite the inside of his cheek from letting out a groan. You lean back into the pillows, taking a hold of his hand and placing it on the valley of your breasts.
“No bra?” he whispered weakly, staring at you in awe.
“No bra,” you repeated, your voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Adrian gulped, moving his hand and cupping your breast. You tilt your head back in pleasure, moaning softly. He alternated between each breast, giving them his utmost attention.
As amazing as his hands felt on your breasts, you needed more. Slowly, you reached your hand up and curled your fingers around his wrist. Adrian paused what he was doing and furrowed his brows.
You paid his confusion no mind as you slid his hand down your body and into your panties. He froze when his fingers came into contact with your core.
“You either move your fingers right now or I’ll do it myself,” you huffed, bucking your hips into his hand.
Your words seemed to snap Adrian out of whatever trance he was in and he gently trailed his index finger through your folds, gathering your slick before plunging his finger deep inside you.
You let out a lewd moan, tilting your head back. Your reaction seemed to spur something inside Adrian and he repeated the action again—this time with two fingers.
As Adrian pumped his fingers in and out of you, his lips trailed kisses down over your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone, over your breasts and further down your stomach before pausing at your pubis.
Adrian tilted his gaze up to you and you locked eyes with him, giving him a small nod of approval. He let out a small grin, slowly undoing the button of your jeans and pulling them down with your panties.
His gaze roamed hungrily over your body. The sight of you, bare and vulnerable, was enough to make his breath catch in his throat and heart race. He threw your clothes into some corner of the room before reaching his hands out to touch your hips, gripping them tightly as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
"You're so damn beautiful," Adrian whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "So perfect."
He goes to take off his glasses but you stop him, your hand catching his wrist mid-motion.
“No…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Leave them on.”
Adrian nodded, taking a deep breath to try and calm the nerves that were fluttering in his stomach. He ran his hands up and down your thighs, his touch gentle and reverent. He leaned down, his breath hot against your skin as he slowly kissed his way up your sensitive inner thigh.
Shivering at the feeling, you watched as he slowly moved to your core. He licked a long stripe up your slit, locking his mouth around your clit and sucking.
“Fuck,” you choked out, your fingers coming to his hair.
He continued to suck and lick, his movements slow and deliberate. His need to make you feel good grew even more at the sound of your moans.
He pulled back for a moment, looking up at you, his mouth wet and shining in the low light.
"Am I… am I doing good?"
You laughed a little at his eagerness to please and the way his mouth glistened with your slick, “mm-hmm, so good.”
Adrian felt a rush of pride, knowing that he was doing what you liked. He dived back in, his tongue flicking out against you as he continued to pleasure you with his mouth.
He was determined to make you feel good. Your head was thrown back now, your fingers tangled in his hair. His glasses fogged up from his breath as he continued to please you.
One of his hands splayed over your stomach, holding you down, as the other stroked his cock.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, "I.... I can't get enough of you."
You whimpered slightly at his words, pressing his head down into your cunt, needing to feel his tongue again.
Adrian’s breath hitched in his chest as he felt you pushing his head back down, his mind clouded with desire. He buried his face in you, licking and sucking, as he tried to give you as much pleasure as he could.
Your fingers tugged at his hair, your head thrown back against your pillow. Your body arched and your legs trembled and despite every cell in your body protesting, you pushed his head away and pulled him up so you could kiss him.
Adrian hummed against your lips, his tongue sliding into your mouth so you could taste yourself.
“Why’d you pull me away?” he asked, pulling back from the kiss to nip and suck at your neck.
“I need you inside me,” you panted, your nails scratching down his back.
Adrian’s eyes widen when he feels your hand slide between your bodies and line him up, rubbing the head along your wet folds. You’re soaked. Arousal slicked your thighs as you finally aligned him with your entrance.
Unable to control himself, Adrian snapped his hips forward and immediately thrust into you. The intrusion makes you gasp but you gladly take every inch of him, slowly accommodating to his size.
“A little warning next time would be nice,” you groaned softly as your eyes fluttered shut.
“M’sorry,” Adrian rasped, his head lolling onto your shoulder. “I couldn’t wait… you—fuck—you feel incredible.”
The feeling of his breath tickling your neck and the way he was deep inside you made your brain go blank. When Adrian finally moved, your hips rolled in time with his thrusts, feeling every inch and ridge drag inside you.
The sounds the two of you made were completely unholy. It was wet and obscene as skin slapped skin. Adrian gathered you up gently, your knees folded up toward your chest. The stretch burned in a perfect way. He was nestled so deep inside you it was almost impossible to form a single syllable.
“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” Adrian murmured, his voice full of aching intensity.
He braced one hand beside your head—the other, warm and slightly calloused, splayed over your stomach to keep you in place. Your nails dug uselessly into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
He doesn’t flinch, in fact, he welcomes the pain. He kept you there—folded open, your body twitching under the weight of him. The length and thickness of him sinks through you—the drag of every thrust giving your belly the faintest swell each time he bottoms himself out.
“I'm not gonna... I'm not gonna last," he gasped, his words hushed. "I need... I need you to..."
You managed a weak, “Adrian…” before he rolled his hip deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur.
Another moan escaped you and it encouraged him to keep going. He leaned closer, his forehead touching yours. The hand on your stomach pressed down lightly, feeling the way he was filling you up.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow, taut circles and it's enough to send you over the edge. You moan his name, clenching around him as you finally reach your high.
Adrian’s hips stuttered and he followed your release a few thrusts later, whimpering your name into your ear as he pumped his cum deep inside you. He let out half a moan and half a chuckle as he looked down and watched as both yours and his release leaked out of you and around his cock.
After a few seconds, Adrian pulled out of you and flopped onto the bed beside you. His shoulder nudged yours and you hummed softly in response. His chest rose and fell quickly, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to breathe properly again. His glasses were slightly askew, fogged at the corners, but he hadn’t moved to fix them yet.
You turned your head toward him, smiling lazily. “You okay?”
He blinked, as if your voice had pulled him back to Earth. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, totally. I’m… good. Great. Fantastic, even.”
The words tumbled out too fast, too loud, and he immediately winced. “Sorry, I just—wow, that sounded weird. I didn’t mean like fantastic in a braggy way, I meant in a ‘holy crap, that just happened’ kind of way.”
You laughed quietly, the sound making his face turn a deeper shade of pink. “Adrian,” you said gently, “breathe.”
He did—one big, exaggerated inhale, then a shaky exhale that made you laugh again. He grinned sheepishly. “Okay. Breathing. Nailed it.”
For a moment, he just stared at you—hair mussed, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tiny post-smile that always gave him away. His hand moved hesitantly, brushing a thumb along your cheek, tracing the outline of your jaw like he was committing it to memory.
“You’re looking at me like I’m gonna disappear,” you murmured.
He swallowed, his voice quieter now. “Just making sure you’re real.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something big—something that scared him—then closing again. He just sighed, tucking you closer instead, his nose brushing your hair.
He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, still blushing, still grinning to himself like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. And then, after a pause, you felt his chest shake with a quiet laugh.
“So…” he murmured, tilting his head so he could look down at you with that mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “You have a thing for my glasses, huh?”
your fingers accidentally touch and his laugh is gentle. when he looks your way, there's a sparkle in his eye and you just have an instinct. an inkling.
pairing: adrian chase x reader
summary: a party at Harcourt’s house gets you on the dance floor… and stirs feelings that had long been buried.
tags: friends to lovers, tension, unresolved feelings
note: this is the first time I've written anything; English isn't my first language, so please forgive any mistakes.
It was past 3 A.M. and you were still on Harcourt’s rooftop. It had been a surprise when she called you, inviting you to a party—and even more surprising when she said it would be at her place.
You never thought Emilia would let any human being into her house, but here you were, holding your fourth beer, sitting on a beach chair while listening to Chris tell yet another story about his disastrous missions.
The alcohol was already kicking in, making you feel lighter, more relaxed. You were usually always on alert, ready in case something happened. It had been a while since you allowed yourself to have fun. But after the success of Project Butterfly, you deserved a break with your friends.
— And that’s when this idiot showed up and almost shot me — Chris pointed at Adrian, making everyone burst into laughter.
— I thought you were one of the dealers with that ridiculous shirt — Adrian laughed, making everyone laugh even harder.
He was sitting next to you, like he always did since you met. No one really understood how two people with such different personalities became friends—and honestly, neither did you. But you liked Adrian’s company. His talkative nature, the way he made you feel more comfortable than anyone else. You thought it was cute how his glasses were always dirty, his messy hair, the way his eyes closed when he smiled—just like now. Yes, you had a crush on Adrian Chase. And no, you were not going to tell him.
You were afraid he wouldn’t feel the same and that it would ruin what you had. It wasn’t worth the risk. So you pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the conversation. The music blasted loudly around you as everyone switched between drinking and talking. That’s when a random electronic song from Leota’s playlist started playing.
— Dance battle! — Economos shouted, getting up. He was definitely the drunkest one there.He moved to the center and Leota followed. You and the others laughed as they gave their all with moves only they understood. Then Leota came over and grabbed your hands, pulling you up as everyone cheered behind you.
You started dancing along to the beat, laughing at their chaotic moves. You looked back at the others, calling them over. Emilia shook her head with a laugh, while Chris quickly got up. Adrian stayed seated, laughing at Chris. So you went to him.
Maybe it was the alcohol, but you liked the idea. You smiled at Adrian, taking his hands and pulling him up. He looked surprised, but didn’t resist. He set his beer down and got up, awkwardly moving his shoulders to the rhythm—which made you laugh. He started dancing in a goofy way, and you burst out laughing.
Adrian smiled proudly. He loved seeing you laugh like that. Actually… he loved everything you did.It was getting harder and harder for him to hide how in love he was with you. Chris had told him countless times to stop being an idiot and just confess, but Adrian was sure you wouldn’t feel the same. And he couldn’t handle losing your friendship. So he kept it to himself—even though he was terrible at keeping secrets. But tonight… he couldn’t take his eyes off you.He didn’t know if it was the beer, but everything about you seemed to glow. His heart raced the moment you arrived, and he barely tried to hide how completely gone he was for you.
The song ended, and soon a reggaeton beat started playing—your favorite. You looked at Leota.
— You killed it, girl! — you said, and she raised her beer in thanks. You closed your eyes and started moving to the rhythm, your hips swaying in a way that completely mesmerized Adrian. He looked at you like you were a goddess.
Your movements were effortless, hypnotic. Everything else around him disappeared. His focus was entirely on you, the most perfect person he had ever seen. You opened your eyes and caught him staring. But instead of getting shy like you usually would…you let the alcohol take over.
Still dancing, you turned your back to him and pressed your hips against his. Adrian froze. Completely. Panic set in as he started to sweat, unsure what to do. You noticed how tense he got and gently took his hands, placing them on your waist. One on each side. You had never been this close before. And it made him nervous. But he didn’t want to move away.
So he gathered what little courage he had left and let you guide him. He would do anything you asked. You kept moving, and he followed, holding your waist tightly, almost afraid to let go. You felt his uneven breathing against your neck, and in a bold moment, you reached back, sliding your hand into his hair. You had been wanting to do that ever since he cut it and this was the perfect excuse.
A shiver ran down Adrian’s spine at your touch. He had always wondered what it would feel like. He didn’t usually like being touched… but you were the exception. He wanted you to touch him. He didn’t want you to ever stop.
When you tugged lightly at his hair, his breath hitched. In response, he tightened his grip on your waist, and you let out a soft gasp. His hands were strong. Skilled. And you couldn’t help but wonder what else they could do.
Unfortunately, the song ended. You turned to face him. He looked completely dazed and confused. Adrian opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of Economos vomiting near Emilia’s plants.
— Fuck, Economos! — she exclaimed, rushing over. You turned back to Adrian, and he gave you a small smile before heading over to help. He and Chris took Economos inside while Emilia held the door open.
You sighed and exchanged a knowing look with Leota before helping clean up the mess.
* * *
About half an hour later, everything was clean. You and Leota went inside, finding Emilia washing dishes while Chris dried them.
— Where’s Economos? — Leota asked.
— Bathroom. Adrian’s helping him throw up — Chris replied.
You decided to check on them. You knocked and heard a response before entering. Adrian was sitting shirtless, wearing what you assumed was Harcourt’s robe, on the cabinet in front of the mirror. Economos was passed out in the bathtub.
You only noticed Adrian was shirtless the second time you looked.
— Where’s your shirt?— Economos threw up on it. Figured I’d take it off — he said casually.
You couldn’t help but notice his arms, his toned torso, the scars scattered across his skin, reminders of missions. You knew he was fit, but not that fit.
— Is he okay? — you asked, trying not to stare again.Adrian let out a short laugh, running a hand through his damp hair.
— Yeah… I mean, relatively. He’ll survive. I think.
You nodded. But didn’t leave. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable like before. It was different, heavy, charged.
You leaned lightly against the door, arms crossed, trying to look casua, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. To the way his chest rose slowly. To the water still trailing down his neck. To the way he was looking at you… without looking away this time.
— You were… different out there — Adrian said quietly.
For someone so talkative, that meant a lot. You raised an eyebrow.
— Different how?
He hesitated. For the first time in a long time, Adrian Chase didn’t know what to say.
— You know — he muttered.
But he didn’t look away. You stepped closer. Then closer again. Slowly. Like you were testing how far you could go before everything broke.
— What about you? — you said, stopping in front of him. — You were different too.
Now it was impossible to ignore. The proximity. The heat. The silence between you. Adrian swallowed hard.
— I’ve always been like this with you.
It came out faster than he meant. More honest, too. Your heart started racing. Because now…there was no going back.
— Then why didn’t you ever do anything?
Your voice was low. Almost a challenge. He let out a nervous laugh.
— Because I’m not completely stupid.
You tilted your head.
— Debatable.
That made him smile. And then, you moved.
No overthinking. No planning. No giving him time to run.
You cupped his face.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Firm.
Certain.
Adrian froze. Completely. Like his brain shut off for a full second.
— If you won’t do anything… I will — you whispered.
And he didn’t stop you.
The kiss started hesitant.
Like a question.
But it only lasted a second.
Because then everything they had been holding back crashed all at once. His hand went straight to your waist, pulling you closer without realizing the strength behind it. You let out a soft breath against his lips, and that was enough to break whatever control was left.
It was different, not just desire. It was built-up tension. Weeks. Months. Maybe since the beginning. He pressed you lightly against the wall, still like he was afraid of doing something wrong… even though he clearly didn’t want to stop.You grabbed the collar of his robe, pulling him back when he tried to pull away for a second.
— Don’t stop now — you whispered. And that was it for him.
Adrian let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.
— Wasn’t planning to.
The kiss deepened, more intense, more urgent, but still with that hint of him… slightly lost, completely fascinated, like he still couldn’t believe it was actually happening. And deep down…neither of you wanted to think about what came next.Just that moment. That mistake. Or maybe…the best decision you had ever made.
synopsis: Adrian has spent his entire life thinking he's a Beta. Then one traumatic mission turns his life upside-down, and he realizes he might finally get to have the one thing he's always wanted: you.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics (talk about mates, heats/ruts, etc), alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, medic!reader, 11th street kids is a pack, mission gone wrong, reader injury (bullet wounds), desperate and needy and protective Adrian just the way I like him, (I have never written omegaverse fic before be nice to me lmao)
word count: 5k
notes: It is finally here thank you so much for your patience I know I have been teasing this for weeks lmao I am anticipating around seven parts to this one!! MAJOR thank you to @embeanwrites and @snowyathena for the beta read and all their help brainstorming and editing <3
Masterlist | part one | part two | part three
The 11th Street Kids are not your typical pack.
Chris and Emilia, two bonded Alphas that butt heads as much as they care about one another. Ads, John, and Adrian, three Betas who gladly follow their lead, even when things get messy. And you.
Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.
“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”
And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.
Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others.
Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.
But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.
“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”
“We need you here.”
“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”
“Hey!” John protests.
“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.
“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”
You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him.
If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.
Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”
“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”
“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”
“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.
“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.
He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.
Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.
But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.
“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.
He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy.
Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.
Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—
He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.
“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”
“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”
He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.
Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.
Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you.
“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.
“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”
“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”
“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”
So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.
There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.
Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.
Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock.
Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.
The transformation happens in an instant.
Adrian goes fucking ballistic.
Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.
His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.
No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—
“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”
“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.
“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—
“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.
“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.
Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”
You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.
“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”
Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.
“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.
Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.
Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.
“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”
“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.
“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”
“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.
“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”
But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.
“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”
His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.
“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.
“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”
As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.
When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.
“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”
“What—”
“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.
Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.
Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”
“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”
“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”
Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.
“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt.
“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”
You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”
Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”
“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”
“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”
“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”
“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.
“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”
“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”
“What do you mean? He’s not?”
“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”
You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.
“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”
Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.
“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”
“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”
“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”
The girls are quiet.
“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”
A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.
“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”
“Listen—” Emilia starts.
“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”
Emilia stares at you.
“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”
You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?
If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—
“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.
“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.
It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.
“I want to see him.”
“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”
“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”
“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”
“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.
“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.”
It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.
“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”
“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”
You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.
When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?
“What the fuck,” he pants.
“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”
“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.
Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.
“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”
“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”
Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.
“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.
“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”
Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”
“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”
Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”
“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”
“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”
“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”
“I am thirty-four! I would know—”
But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.
And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.
“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”
“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”
“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”
“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.
“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”
“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”
Chris puts the phone on speaker.
“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least.
It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.
“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.
“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”
“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”
“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”
“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.
Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.
“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.
“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”
Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.
“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”
“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”
Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”
“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”
“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”
“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful.
“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”
“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”
But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.
Alt Adrian calling himself Adrie........ ohhhh my god I'm going to explode. There's just something about it idk i'm going insane
she called him adrie when they were little....
When Adrian was 18, you packed everything into the trunk of your beat to shit Suzuki, packing it so tight that you had to sit on the lid to get it to latch. Your nails were no longer painted, instead bitten to the quick and scabbed in the corners.
"Where are you going?" Adrian fiddled with his glasses. His mom was probably already pacing the floor, checking the window for his return home. After Gut died, his mother had lost a bit of her mind, coddling Adrian more than he ever needed.
"I dunno." You adjusted your bra and top. Low rise jeans were in style and Adrian hadn't missed the strip of skin between your shirt and pants. "Not here."
Gut's death weighed heavier on you than on most. At some deep point in his mind, Adrian probably missed his brother, but you most certainly did not. Still, the bags under your eyes grew deeper.
"I have things I can offer," you sighed, leaning against the car. It squealed under your weight. "Good things. Things that aren't-"
You trail off.
"Stripping?" Adrian finished bluntly. Usually, people yell at him after he makes a blunder like that, but you just nodded. It wasn't really a secret anyway; word travels fast in small towns and the word was that you danced on the weekends, late at night, with private sections in the back. The men weren't supposed to touch you, but Trent Palicisky got to suck on your tits for an extra 100 dollars.
Adrian would be okay with the touching if it wasn't blatantly against the rules. He had no delusions of ownership, understood bodily autonomy, but he didn't understand why men thought they were entitled to you. Bribery, it could be called, because lording and withholding money in a capitalistic society-
"I could be a superhero if I wanted to. Like, really could be."
That knocked Adrian back into reality. He leaned on your porch -an unfinished thing that surely would rot away in the next rainy season. The trailer you had rented is only a couple down from Peacemaker's.
"Like, I could be on the Justice League! Or I could be a doctor! Or a professor, or, or, or-- I dunno, an engineer, " you said, arms hugging your own stomach as if seasick. In the evening dim, a hawk called in the distance, echoing through the forest behind you. "I really could. Everyone always underestimates me, but I'm being serious, I could. Just because I'm a dancer doesn't mean..."
"Do you wanna do those things?" Adrian asked, earnest.
You looked into the sky, chewing on your response and your index finger's nail.
"All I wanna do is be happy."
Adrian steeled himself with a lopsided smile. He looked at you, next to your peeled paint car, entire life crammed into the seats, and really drank in your bare skin, bits of acne on your chin, undone hair knotted from sleep. You were beautiful, as always.
"I could make you happy," Adrian offered in a gentle tone. You eyes widened, surprise smearing itself over your face. Before you can speak, he continued.
"Like, actually. I'm funny. Super funny. People are always laughing around me. And I got a job delivering pizzas for the summer, so I could help you pay bills. And! And High School's doneso, so-"
"Adrian..." you sighed, turning away from him.
"I'm not a kid anymore. I'm an adult-- legally." Adrian took a couple steps forward, closing the space between you. He was an adult; gone were the days of lanky arms and cracked voices, replaced with thickening muscles and a deeper voice (that never really got where he wanted it to, but that's fine.)
You pressed a hand into his chest, but he didn't move away. Your fingers closed around the fabric of his shirt and it made his heart feel funny for a long moment.
"I'm four years older than you."
"That's fine!' he laughed. "I think it's kinda cool and subversive!"
You sighed again and closed your eyes.
"Listen, you're going to fall in love with some other stripper that didn't blow your brother."
"Probably not: I've never been to the strip club, so I don't even know the other girls." "Well, I know other girls that Gut had sex with and a lot of them suck severely. Like, this one girl stole from our parents and-"
You gave him a look through your eyelashes. Not glowering, not annoyed, just a simple look, and he understood to stop.
"Really," he sombered. "Really, I wanna make you happy."
Your eyes bounced between his and, for a moment, he thought he had won. After puberty, he had grown taller than you, tall enough that, when he tipped his head down, his forehead could rest right against yours.
"I wanna have a chance."
You were quiet for a long moment.
"Fine." You backed away from him, turning into your car. You fumbled through the front seats until you pulled out a pen and half a receipt for Dairy Queen. In dying ink, you wrote out a number.
"Here's my cell. If you still care in four years, call me and buy me a drink."
Adrian snatched the paper up as if it was gold.
"I'm going to tattoo this on me,' he marveled.
"Phone numbers change."
"So, what am I supposed to do if yours changes?"
You tossed your things into your car, then yourself, not buckling your seatbelt before you started the engine. It idled awfully loud as you gave him one lady look.
Adrian nearly forgot about that receipt. It was pinned to the partial board in his room, half faded in the corner. It's not that he didn't care anymore: life just came fast and hard, then stopped being super normal all together. He fights now, uses the shit Gut taught him for good and then improves upon it.
He's a good guy. He's a hero.
Adrian notices to paper when he's sticking himself up. The needle and thread is still dangling from his arm when he lunges for his own phone and dialing the number in a panic.
It rings three times.
"Hello?"
It shocks him how clear your voice sounds on the line and suddenly it all comes flooding back, all those memories of puppy love and want. He's not a kid anymore, but he lights up like one.
It's a rather stupid chain of events. The receipt lived in his car, right in the glove box, where light wouldn't fade the numbers away.
He's going to call on his birthday, the day he turns 21.
But, today, a hero is bleeding out in his passenger seat.
"Holy shit-" Adrian is too joyous for this. "Peacemaker! How cool is this?"
"I'm dying in a fucking corolla, so not fucking cool."
Peacemaker is bigger up close, biceps nearly the size of Adrian's head. The lens inside his hero mask needs to be prescription, he's decided. Makes driving in the dark hard.
"But we killed those guys!" Vigilante beams. "Like, the whole cartel! Like, blam! You and that pencil? That was crazy! That guy with the cocaine? Wow."
"I need a piece of gum to grind my teeth on." Peacemaker groans. "Think I'm high as balls."
"Might be the blood loss. I never understood the term 'high as balls' because balls really aren't that high? They are two feet off of the ground-'
Peacemaker roots around in the glove box. Half of the shit falls to the floor, then other half gets blood stained.
"Dude! My registration!"
When they arrive at Peacemaker's place, the older man rolls out of his seat, papers sticking to his blood soaked boots. In the morning, he'll notice an old, ripped receipt and chuck it out without a second thought.
On Adrian's birthday, there's no sign of the paper, just rusty fingerprints oh his old registration.
love how much of a yapper you made sokka. could you write another smut fic where you try and shut him up by sitting on his face, but he just dosent stop talking?
A/n: I love Sokka so much xD he's so cute and he's 100% a fucking yapper during sex and oral. I have another oral one coming ( hehe ) where he rambles to his wife about having more kids
Warnings: Oral ( Fem Receiving ) , Sokka not shutting the fuck up when he's eating out his wife's pussy
Sokka had been talking for twenty minutes.
Not normal talking. Not casual conversation.
No, this was full, unstoppable, excited Sokka rambling, complete with pacing, hand gestures, and at least three different “this is genius, trust me” declarations.
“…and then....then..we attach a pulley system, right? So if someone pulls the rope, no, wait, wait—what if it’s pressure-activated? Like, you step on it and...boom!!!!fish flies up instead of down!!!!"
You were lying on the bed, watching him.
Blinking slowly.
“…Sokka.”
“Yes?” he said immediately, not even pausing his pacing.
“You’ve been talking for a very long time.”
“I know, isn’t it amazing? I’m on idea number six—no, seven!! actually, this might be eight if we count the soup launcher—”
“The what?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s still in development.”
You sat up and he kept going.
“…and I’m just saying, if I can refine the angle of trajectory, we could—”
“Sokka.”
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
That got his attention.
He turned, eyebrows lifting slightly, curiosity already flickering in his eyes. “Oh? You finally want to hear about the fish-launching mechanism—”
You grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the bed.
He stumbled a little, surprised but not enough to stop talking.
“Okay, see, now this is a good sign, this means you’re engaged—”
You pushed him down onto his back.
He blinked up at you. “…I wasn’t done explaining—”
“Good,” you said, climbing over him. “You don’t need to be.”
“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Oh this is a different kind of interest, I like this—”
“You’re still talking,” you pointed out.
“I always talk.”
You rolled your eyes and then, without another word, you shifted forward and sat over his face, your thighs pressing around his head.
That finally got a reaction, there was a brief pause.
A very brief pause of the room finally being quiet until he finally spoke.
“…wow,” Sokka said, voice slightly muffled but very much still going. “Okay. This is...this is new. I mean, not new new, but like, strategically new. I feel like I’m being silenced—”
“You are,” you said, tilting your head back slightly. “So stop talking.”
“No.”
You let out a breath.“Spirits, you’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told,” he replied easily.
And then finally, his hands slid up your thighs, warm and firm, holding you in place as his mouth actually did something useful.
Your breath caught. “…oh.”
“Yeah,” he said, the word brushing against your pussy, making you shiver immediately. “That got your attention.”
“Yes, so maybe focus on that instead of talking—”
“No, I can multitask.”
“You absolutely cannot—” You cut yourself off with a soft gasp.
Because he started moving.
Slow at first, like he was testing, like he was enjoying the way your body reacted to every small motion. His tongue dragged against your pussy with a deliberate ease, and your hands immediately tangled into his hair, your hips shifting before you could stop yourself.
“There it is,” he murmured, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s the reaction I was looking for.”
“Sokka....” your voice wavered slightly. “You’re still...nng...talking—”
“And you’re still responding.”
He wasn’t wrong.
And he knew it.
His grip tightened just a little, holding you steady as his mouth moved more purposefully now, more confident, drawing soft, uneven breaths from you that only encouraged him further.
“You’re trying to shut me up,” he continued casually, like he wasn’t currently buried between your thighs. “But honestly, this feels like a reward—”
“You are not supposed to be enjoying this—”
“Oh, I’m absolutely enjoying this.”
You let out a shaky breath as his tongue moved faster, your body reacting immediately, your hips rocking slightly against him.
“See? You’re doing that thing again,” he added.
“What thing—”
“That thing where you pretend you’re in control.”
You swallowed a sound as he shifted, adjusting just enough to make your breath catch harder.
“…I am in control—”
“No, you’re not."
“You’re under me—”
“And you’re melting.”
You hated that he was right.You hated that he sounded so smug about it.
But you couldn’t even argue properly, not when his mouth was working you higher, faster, your grip in his hair tightening as your breathing grew uneven.
“Sokka—” you whispered, your voice breaking just slightly. “If you don’t stop talking—”
“What?” he asked, voice low now, more focused despite the words. “You’ll make me?”
“…yes.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Your hips moved again, more desperate this time, your body reacting instinctively as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach.
“There it is,” he murmured. “You’re close.”
“No, I’m not—”
“You are.”
His tongue didn’t stop, not once.
And neither did he.
“You’re gonna say my name,” he added, almost absently.
“No—”
“Yes.”
You couldn’t even finish arguing.
Because the feeling hit fast.
Sharp.
Your body tightening as your breath caught, your fingers gripping his hair as a soft sound slipped from your lips.
“Sokka!!'n”
“Told you so...” he said immediately, sounding entirely too satisfied as you came, your body trembling slightly above him.
He didn’t stop right away.Of course he didn’t.
He dragged it out just enough to make your thighs tense, your breath uneven as you came down slowly, your hands eventually sliding from his hair to his shoulders.
“…you didn’t stop talking,” you managed weakly.
“Nope.”
You shifted slightly, still catching your breath, looking down at him with narrowed eyes.
“…you’re the worst.”
He grinned up at you, lips wet with your release as he then gave your ass a squeeze. "And yet you're the one that sat on my face."
You groaned. “Sokka—”
“What? I’m just saying...if you wanted me quiet, you picked the wrong strategy.”
You groaned as you fell backwards on the bed, Sokka giving you a smug grin kissing your hips.
A/n: It took me longer than I'd like to admit to get these screen shots for my thing cause Tiktok is a pain.
The first time you see it, you genuinely think it’s a rock.
Not even a nice rock. It wasn't smooth or polished or even remotely symmetrical...just… a lumpy, uneven piece of stone hanging from a leather cord that looks like it lost a fight with a dull knife. One side is thicker than the other, the edges are jagged in places, and there’s a very obvious crack running through what was probably supposed to be the center.
You stare at it.
Then you blink.
Then you look back up at Sokka.
He’s standing there in the middle of your shared apartment in Republic City, shoulders squared like he’s about to go into battle, hands awkwardly shoved behind his back like he doesn’t trust them not to betray him, and his face. His face is so serious it almost makes you laugh.
Almost.
“…what is that?” you ask carefully, tilting your head.
Sokka immediately bristles. “Wow. Okay. Great start. Love the enthusiasm. Really feeling the support here.”
“I’m asking,” you say, stepping closer, squinting at the object in his hand. “Because it looks like something you dug out of the street...."
“It is not from the street,” he snaps, offended. “I went all the way out past the lower ring to find that rock.”
“…you’re not helping your case.”
He huffs, dragging a hand down his face before thrusting it toward you with a kind of stubborn determination. “It’s a betrothal necklace.”
You freeze then suddenly the air shifts, just slightly but it's enough that everything suddenly feels heavier, quieter, more real.
Your gaze drops back down to the necklace in his hand, and this time… you look properly.
Really look.
The uneven carving suddenly makes sense. The shallow grooves, too shallow in some places, too deep in others, form a pattern you don’t recognize at first… until you realize it’s meant to be flames. Crude, messy flames curling around the center.
Fire.
You swallow.“…you made this?” your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
Sokka exhales sharply, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean...obviously. You think I’d buy one? That’s not how it works.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “The guy’s supposed to carve it himself. Tradition.”
You step closer.
Carefully, like approaching something fragile, even though the stone itself is anything but delicate.
“It’s…” you pause, choosing your words very, very carefully. “…very handmade.”
“Wow,” he deadpans. “I’m framing that compliment.”
“I’m serious!” you protest, though a smile tugs at your lips. “It’s just....Sokka, this is terrible craftsmanship.”
“I KNOW,” he blurts, throwing his hands up. “Do you think I don’t know that? I broke three tools, I almost lost a finger, and some old guy tried to charge me extra because I was ‘butchering the art of stone carving.’ I get it, okay? It’s not perfect.”
You’re laughing now, unable to help it, but there’s something warm blooming in your chest, something that makes your eyes sting just a little you had to blink a few times.
Because you can see it.
Every uneven line.
Every mistake.
Every stubborn attempt to keep going anyway.
“You made this,” you repeat quietly.
“Yeah,” he mutters, glancing away. “Spent like… two weeks on it. Which, for the record, is two weeks of my life I will never get back.”
Your heart squeezes, a few tears slip free.
“And,” he continues, voice dropping just slightly, “you don’t have to take it. I mean...obviously. No pressure. It’s just a thing. A tradition thing. Cultural. Symbolic. Not a big deal.”
You step into his space, close enough that he finally looks at you again.
“It is a big deal,” you say softly.
His breath catches.
You reach out slowly, taking the necklace from his hand. It’s heavier than you expected, rough against your fingers, warm from where he’s been holding it.
“The design,” you murmur, tracing the uneven carvings. “It’s supposed to be fire, right?”
He nods, a little sheepish. “Yeah. I figured… you know. Firebender. Flames. Symbolism. I’m very deep like that.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head.“It’s crooked,” you add.
“I know.”
“And uneven.”
“I know.”
“And I think this side is thicker than the other.”
“I—yes, okay, thank you, I’ve noticed—”
“And I love it.”
He stops, completetly still now. “…what?”
You look up at him, smiling softly, eyes bright, tears gathered in the corner. “I love it,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “Because you made it. Because you tried. Because you kept going even when it was hard.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the stone. “Because it’s yours.”
Sokka stares at you like you’ve just hit him with a brick.
Emotion flickers across his face. Shock, disbelief, something softer underneath that he doesn’t quite know how to handle. “…it’s still really ugly,” he says weakly.
“Yeah,” you agree immediately. “It’s awful.”
He lets out a strangled laugh.
You step closer, lifting the cord slightly. “Put it on me.”
His breath hitches, eyes wide watching you.“Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly serious again, searching your face. “Because once I do this isn’t just....this means—”
“I know what it means,” you interrupt gently.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything unspoken and then slowly he nods his head.
His hands are careful, so much more careful than you expected from someone who just admitted to nearly losing a finger as he reaches behind your neck, tying the leather cord securely into place. His fingers brush your skin, warm and a little rough, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
When he pulls back, the stone settles against your collarbone.
Heavy.
Real.
Yours.
You glance down at it, then back up at him.
“Well?” he asks, suddenly nervous again. “How does it look?”
You tilt your head thoughtfully.“…like a rock.”
He groans. “I walked right into that.”
You grin, stepping forward and grabbing his tunic, pulling him down just enough to press a quick, firm kiss to his lips.
When you pull back, his brain is very clearly not functioning.
“It looks perfect,” you murmur.
And this time, he believes you as he leans down to pull you in for another kiss.
you dread the day eren got that stupid ass camcorder. you can’t do anything normal because he will not stop shoving it in your face. he for some reason feels the need to document every single thing you do. date night? recorded. bowling with friends? recorded. dinner at his moms house? recorded. he even bought the damn thing to the grocery store.
you truly cannot understand his fixation for this chunk of metal but it makes him so happy you can’t bring yourself to say anything negative about it to him. it’s like his baby, he even ordered a shitload of stickers for it saying he wanted it to feel like his own. whatever that means.
“look at the camera baby- that’s it, there she is.” he coos down at you peering through the lens. he is so unbelievable! here he is stuffing you so good, so full, with this camera shoved in your face!
“eren, watch out with that shit, seriously!” you grit through your teeth trying to be stern, but the way he pressed himself oh so deep has you wavering. his shallow thrust puts tears in your eyes captured by the blinding light of the flash.
he just laughs adjusting the camera settings until he finds the perfect one. “but you look so sexy like this princess. i think this might be my favorite video.” he says starting a new tape.
“let’s do it like.. this uh huh.” he’s more so talking to himself than you but you can’t find it in your heart to care. not when he takes a warm hand and bends one of your knees up to reach places only he can. he watches in awe as your face screws up with pleasure, camera capturing it all. it pick up every sound you make, every bounce of those pretty nipples rubbing against the fabric of your pajama shirt, every single chant of his name as he thrust.
“shhiittt baby! baby- eren!” you moan for him life his personal little slut and he drinks it all up relishing in the way your pussy clamps down on him hard. “that’s right cum on your dick for the camera.” he grunts, never stopping even though he’s fighting the resistance of your walls.
he zooms in on the way your cream has coated the entire length of him. with the hand holding your leg he brings it down rubbing fast tight circles on the button of your clit. you jerk trying to scoot away from the overstimulation he causes your body. it’s pathetic how wet you are right now pussy just gushing and gushing for him.
he has this sexy evil grin on his face, but you can tell by the it faltered when he bites his lip, or the way his thick brows scrunch he wants to cum so badly.
“tell daddy how much you love cumming on him baby, please? i wanna hear it, we wanna hear you.” he groans bringing his attention back to your pretty ass fucked out face. “tell me, baby. don’t leave me hanging.”
you can barley even form two thoughts, so cock drunk all you can muster is a weak “i—i love,” letting out another whine before cumming on him again. he lets out a satisfied hum pushing deep into his defaulted position; tucked in your cunt kissing your womb.
taking his sticky cum covered thumb he brings it to your mouth pushing his digit between glossy lips letting it rest on your tongue while you absentmindedly suckle. he truly doesn’t think he can be any harder than he is right now. it hurts so good he feels himself pulsating wanting to fill you so badly but he clenches every muscle in his body to stop himself from doing so. he knows how other worldly this will be for him when he gets what he wants.
“what do you love, dollface? tell me.” he slurs behind the camera. he thumps it twice with his fingers. “look here and say.”
his thumb pops itself from your mouth his hand holds your cheek almost as if he’s keeping you on earth. he guides your gaze to the camera and you mewl softly. with glassy eyes you bashfully look into the lens.
“i love — i love cummin’ for you daddy, love it s’much.”
he pulls out before you can even register what’s going on. you sob over the loss of contact feeling so empty. you find the camera discarded on the bed and he looms above you, tummy dipping in and out with a strong veiny hand squeezing the thick cream coated base of his dick.
your poor baby is so over(under?)stimulated his tip is nearly purple. it doesn’t even bob down like it normally does, literally rock hard. the fog clears slightly being drawn from that headspace when you hear how sexy and pitiful he sounds trying to keep himself on the edge. he grunts and groans damn near growl not daring to move an inch.
“w—why didn’t you give me that, e?” you muster up the voice to talk to him. he glares at you brows furrowed deep like he’s in pain (the good kind) and huffs finally letting go of himself.
“i’m gon give you everything in a minute i jus’ need you to flip over.” he says softly like if he talks to loud he’ll be done for. you roll over hesitantly flat in your stomach per his request and you hear behind you the camera jingling while he fools around with it. you’re semi annoying again cause there’s no way he stopped just to fuck around with that?
it’s now that eren shoves it in your hand, the lens and the screen both facing you showing you its point of view. you peak over your shoulder questioningly before gazing back into your own expression. two strong arms plant themselves right by you head and you feel the weight of him on you. all of him. he drags his tip through your folds hissing at your pussy trying to suck him in.
“get us both in there okay? you’re my camerawoman now.” he tells you bringing his face by yours pressing cheek to cheek. he enters you fully with a hiss, pathetic pleasure written in his face when he taps your cervix. your wrist feels weak the camera suddenly weighs a ton and it wobbles in your hold. his thrust have no rhythm, he just fucks you however feels good chasing his own high. chocolate brown locks tickle his shoulders and fall down by your faces. every moan spurs him on he feels the burning pleasure in his gut.
“cum in me ren, please! i need it so badly, so so so— hmph!” he shuts you up with a kiss all tongue and teeth. he’s moaning, cheeks flushed pink so horny he can’t even think.
“told you i would,” he grunts thrusting on last time before he stills completely. it’s very rare to seem him in this fucked out state he’s usually the one keeping his composure but the way you let him use your cunt has him in a drunken state. hot thick globes of his cum fill you deliciously you feel hot everywhere.
he rest all his weight on your back, snuggling into your shoulder not even daring to pull out. you’re such a little asshole while he’s in his headspace you shove the camera in his face capturing that glossy eyed gaze he can’t control. he groans in annoyance before tucking back in your neck and shoulder.
“don’t be camera shy now, e. show me your face.” you chuckle giving him a taste of his own medicine. he absentmindedly reaches up snapping the screen shut and snatching it out your hand, tossing it somewhere at the foot of the bed.
“not right now sweetheart please, just let me,” silence.
tags & content: NSFW, rape/non-con, sexual content, female reagent reader, physical assault, pussy slapping, rough fingering, impaled (by the drill), minor gore, size difference, (implied) reader death but it’s very much open ended
With each task you completed, blood slick with fingers, you could always tell when Mother Gooseberry was nearby. The incessant drilling noise punctuated the air like an alarm, your ears often shifting focus to strain for how close she was. It almost seemed like mannequins leered at you when you tore their bodies off after releasing the mechanism, faces splattered with blood and paint worn off over time.
It was difficult to get a good grip on them when your fingers were covered in blood, their heads twitching and twisting and calling out with their shrill, high pitched voices.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Your breathing deepened, navigating through the thick fog of darkness. Complete stealth was never an option during these types of trials. If the child mannequins weren’t spitting out deranged remarks, they were screaming out garbled, shrill laughter, their voice boxes crackled and piercing.
The pig tailed mannequin’s mouth dropped open erratically. “Help me! Over here!”
With a sigh of relief, you make it into the light, though you’re not stupid enough to drop your guard. You peer cautiously over the wooden railings, eyeing the two sets of staircases that would lead to the fabricated garden outside. The awaiting van’s doors are cracked open, waiting for another child of God to be dropped into its empty space. You suck in a sharp breath.
Just one more child, and you’ll be free of this trial. The child’s head snaps past your shoulder.
“Yeah, get ‘em!” It screams, its voice elated and shrill. “Kill ‘em!”
You know their movements are automated, but it’s the sudden change in tone that makes your hairs stand on edge immediately. The drill seemed to erupt with piercing noise beside your ear, a shadow falling across your form before you can realise what’s going on. Your heart leaps into your throat, thoughts bouncing at a hundred miles per hour.
How? How did she move so quietly—
“You wicked child!” Gooseberry yells in a ragged gasp, and you feel the firm smack of the Futterman drill bash into the side of your face. The sharp metal of the sides of the tool instantly cuts open sharp scratches on your face, the force from her arm alone sending you flying. Pain erupts in your temple as you land head first, a shocked choke tearing from your lips.
You can barely hear the shrill, nasally voice of the Futterman drill barking insults. “Watch where you swings me, you daft cow! I’m dizzy!”
The mannequins clatters hard to the ground somewhere near you, erupting into glitched, manic giggles and laughter.
Blood pools near your lips, breaths coming out in short puffs. The impact from hitting the floor had knocked the wind out of you, pain spiralling up your arm as Gooseberry’s fingers pinch into your limb, twisting you roughly onto your back.
Blood trickles back into your nose, and you splutter.
“Oh, Daddy, the children!” She cries, her voice filled with horror. You grit your teeth and buck, but Gooseberry’s sheer size makes moving her a difficult task, only serving to create a series of dark, purpled finger prints against your arm in the future. Her grip is like iron. “My sweet, poor children!”
“Let me at ‘em, Phyllis, let me at ‘em.”
Your head is pounding, but your struggles turn into cowardly shrinking when the bill of the Futterman drills snaps open with a crazed laugh, the bloodied tip hovering near your face. You let out a frightened shriek, snapping your eyes shut as your blood runs cold. No, please. Not like this.
“Right through those fuckin’ eyes! Cleans ‘em out from the inside!”
“No,” you plead, your chest collapsing inward. You told yourself you’d stay strong, that you could cling onto any shred of bravery or courage you forced yourself to harbour, but it was all collapsing in on you. You’d end up like one of those corpses in the orphanage, a gaping hole in your skull. “Don’t, please…”
Your pleas fall on deaf ears, with Gooseberry too deep in her emotions towards the children, and now, the apparent wrongdoing of Futterman.
“Daddy, language in front of the children!”
The drill’s eyes even narrow in contempt, swinging round to look at Phyllis with a harsh, flapping mouth. The mannequin is still sprawled out on the floor, giggling more softly now.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The air races from your lungs. In the short window you have before Futterman is drilled through your eye socket, you reach blindly for the brick you had carried around, bloodied fingers clutching it tight. Gooseberry hardly has a moment to realise what you’re doing before you swing as hard as you can, the weapon smashing against the side of her face.
She let’s out a guttural scream, her form jerking off of you and releasing the death grip attached to your arm. In an instant, you scramble to your feet, throwing yourself down the stairs. Your legs had gone weak in seconds only, knees sweeping out from under you. You just barely manage to catch yourself against the wall on time before you’re flying down the last set of stairs, shoes slapping against the ground.
Gooseberry’s anger simmers, you can tell, flying into an enraged state. She screams as she stomps down after you, following your darting form deeper into the orphanage.
“You lets ‘em get away, you stupid bitch!” You can hear Futterman berating, his words harsh and spiteful. “Charge! Faster!”
Disorientated in the dark, your hands are shaking so fiercely that it’s difficult to get your night vision goggles over your eyes. By the time you do, legs stuttering as you register where you are, it’s too late. Fingers twist violently in your hair, yanking your head back with enough force to make your neck ache. You cry out, hands flying, but the position leaves your feet scraping for balance, and you know you won’t be able to get the upper hand.
With a final, rough tug, your tailbone hits the ground with enough force to send a painful shock wave up your spine.
“Bad girl,” Gooseberry pants, her voice a ragged, mocking coo. “Very, very bad girl.”
Your teeth clench, legs kicking uselessly as she drags you into the light by your messy tufts of hair. The strands tug painfully at your scalp, a searing pain making your expression twist. When she dumps you unceremoniously onto the ground, you can’t muster the strength to run again. Your body throbs in aches and pains, trying to press your spine flat into the grimy floorboards instead.
“Bad children need punishment, don’t they, Doctor Daddy?” She murmurs, those sickly eyes surrounded by her flesh mask glancing at the puppet perched on her hand. “Oh, what should we do?”
“Drills her fucking teeth in!” Futterman roars, bobbing in glee. Gooseberry’s lips purse in a mocking pout, considering the suggestion with a calmer temper than she’d had just moments ago. Her hand is already reaching for your hip, and you feel her fingers tugging incessantly at the fabric.
You gasp, your squirming instantly jump started.
“Mother thinks we should learn together,” she hums in delight, shifting over you so she can easily manhandle you back into the ground. Your hand grasps at her wrist, nails digging in, but it doesn’t stop her from tearing your trousers and panties down to your ankles. “You just need a lesson in good behaviour, child. Don’t you? I’ll forgive you. You just need correction. Yes, correction. Like all naughty children.”
Humiliation burns your face. You keep trying to close your legs, to stop yourself from being exposed, but you always underestimated just how strong this deranged woman was. You shriek, arms shaking from the exertion of trying to push her off. Your mind suddenly flashes with rationality.
For a second, you think, is this better? Is this the alternative to being drilled full of gory holes, to spend your last living moments with the agony of a drill driving through your guts? The thought of enduring something like this in exchange for your life makes tears track freely down your bloody cheeks.
Futterman glares wearily at her. “Phyllis, you fucking slut.”
Sensing your moment of hesitation, Gooseberry clings onto the fantasy that you’re coming around, her head nodding vigorously. Her palm suddenly slaps your exposed pussy, and you let out a shocked yelp. Your legs automatically try to snap shut, fire burning along the back of your throat.
“No, no,” you beg, trying to wiggle out of her grasp. “Please, stop. Please, I’m sorry. I won’t do—”
With a frustrated grunt, Gooseberry buries the whirring drill straight into your inner thigh. The scream that erupts from your lips is so loud it makes your ears ring. She pushes her weight hard into your thigh, keeping it spread as sticky blood pools around your impaled flesh and drips onto the floor; she’s hovering over you in a way that makes it impossible to close your other leg, rendering you at her mercy.
The stars don’t leave your vision, ragged sobs tearing from your burning lungs. Gooseberry’s head tilts, letting out a mocking coo. The drill isn’t spinning; you’re not sure when it stopped.
“See? You should listen to Mother. Mother knows what’s best.”
“Tastes like dirts and grime! Yuck!”
“Daddy, don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Another slap against your pussy snaps you back from your growing daze, vision lighting once more. She exercises no restraint with the force of her hand, palm striking your sensitive flesh and sending fresh, wilting stings through your firing nerves. The force is so hard that it sends painful vibrations straight to the drill embedded in your thigh, the impaled flesh flaring with agony.
Each slap makes your body jerk, your breath hitch, her hand rising and falling in a brutal rhythm.
“My beautiful babies did nothing wrong,” she gasps. “Mother just wants to look after them! Protect them!”
Her eyes are glued to the space between your legs. Each hard smack hits your clit, and your eyes squeeze shut from the continued pressure. You weren’t even sure it would be possible to feel anything when you’re drowning violently in this much pain. Shame bubbles in your throat when the next slap makes you jolt, hitting your clit just right. An involuntary moan escapes your lips. Whether of pain or pleasure, you don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.
Gooseberry’s eyes crinkle in delight. “Oh, naughty little girl. Mommy knows, Mommy knows…”
Her fingers poke and prod at your flesh, as though she’s assessing the damage. Your pussy is red and sore, and each shift of your body presses the drill against impaled flesh, and your whole body lights up with tension. The lights shining above you are becoming streaky and blurry. It’s like torture, the pain lulling you deep into unconsciousness, only for Gooseberry to drag you straight back up.
A sobbed moan releases from your lungs when she forces her fingers inside of you. She doesn’t care for your comfort, roughly plunging them in and out in a relentless, jarring rhythm. The lack of lubrication makes your eyes widen; it feels like she’s trying to tear your dry walls apart. You realise she’s not doing it for you, though. Her own chest is rising and falling erratically now, her body shuddering subtly as though waves of pleasure are wringing through her.
You hate the way she’s eyeing you, with depraved lust in her eyes, and she finally pushes her fingers as deep as they can go, until her knuckles press against abused flesh. Her sigh is ecstatic, trembling through her, her eyes fluttering shut weakly. Tears blur your vision, and when you blink hard, it doesn’t seem to go away.
With a wet squelch, the Futterman drill is mercilessly ripped out of your flesh, the overwhelming pain sweeping you under almost immediately. Wet blood slicks your skin, a sticky pool that fills the air with an acrid, metallic scent. In your fuzzy ears, just before you lose your strength, it’s Futterman’s shrill voice you hear for the last time.
“Let me in that whore’s cunt next, Phyllis, I gots to clean all that nasty rot out! Grimy fuck.”
