You weren’t sure how you weren’t dead yet. Alive for 27 years and getting into all sorts of dangerous predicaments, yet it seems like you’ve got supernatural luck on your side.
Johnny thinks it’s a divine gift from God. You think that’s a load of horse shit.
You’re naturally klutzy—full on tripping on air. It’s gotten to the point to where you’ve been nicknamed “Crash”; you can thank Simon for that honorary callsign.
When they first had noticed it, it started off small. You bumped into desk corners, spill coffee everywhere, trip up the stairs, the works.
“Wee bairn is starting to walk for the first time, how cute.” Johnny would tease.
“Survival instincts of a foal, kid.” Simon had gruffly muttered.
You hardly noticed when Simon started to cover sharp corners with his palm when you would pass by—God forbid you get another hip bruise.
Kyle would herd you like a cattle dog to the middle of the room; the safest place, he’d reckon. Although, he’s sure you’d still manage to get hurt.
John would place his hand on your lower back and carefully guide you when he noticed you were extra off balance that day.
And Johnny?
Johnny is trying his hardest. It’s like giving an egg to a Great Dane to see how gentle it’d be. “Careful, hen!” Johnny would screech, yanking you from the edge of the stairs.
It took some time to get used to but they started to feel like your Guardian Angels.
Hiiii I was wondering that if you have time could you write Damian or dick or Jason(I love them all) with a super clumsy reader. Like she is smart and pretty and kind but she drops everything and trips on air and is always getting hurt because of it? ⭐️
someone has to keep you from breaking your neck
plot! just damian with a clumsy girl and how you two met! (aged up damian ofc)
a/n: thanks for the request sweetie!! i chose damian mostly because i've written the least about him but all bat boys would be so cute to imagine with a clumsy reader!! lmk if you want the other versions!!
The first time Damian Wayne notices you, it’s not because you spoke up in class. Not because of your clever answer that made the teacher blink in surprise.
No—it’s because you tripped.
You hadn’t even been walking fast, just moving from your seat toward the board when the strap of your bag somehow tangled with the leg of a desk. A second later, the whole classroom went silent as you pitched forward, arms flailing, notebook flying out of your hand.
Damian, sitting two rows back, exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. Tt. Of course. He pushed back his chair, crossed the space in two swift strides, and caught you before your face could meet the tile.
You blinked up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flaming red. “Oh my god—I—I’m so sorry—”
“Stop apologizing” he muttered flatly, pulling you upright with a strength that seemed unfair for someone his size. He bent down, scooped up your notebook in one fluid motion, and handed it back. “You’re alive. Barely.”
Your mouth opened, then shut again, words failing under the sharpness of his green gaze. He turned before you could answer, sliding back into his seat with the kind of grace you’d never have.
And yet… when you sat back down, embarrassed and flustered, you caught him glance at you again. A flicker of something unreadable, quickly hidden.
It didn’t stop there.
Two days later, in the school library, you tried reaching for a book on the top shelf. A perfectly reasonable task, except you were standing on the very tips of your sneakers, stretching too far, when your balance betrayed you. The book slipped from your fingers. You flailed, hit the shelf, and somehow managed to send three more books tumbling down like dominoes.
Before the avalanche could continue, a hand shot out and grabbed the shelf steady.
“You are a menace to yourself” Damian’s voice cut low, right behind you.
You froze. “Damian—hi. I was just—uh—” You pointed weakly at the single book on the floor, cheeks hot. “Research.”
“You were attempting suicide by bookshelf,” he corrected flatly. He bent, picked up the book you wanted, and pressed it into your hands. “Next time, ask someone taller.”
You couldn’t help but laugh a little, nervous but amused. “Thanks. You… always show up right when I’m about to make a disaster.”
His brows drew together. “Someone has to keep you from breaking your neck.”
There was no teasing smile, no light tone, just blunt fact. But the way he hovered an extra second, watching as you set the book safely on the table, said something else entirely.
It became routine. You tripped on air in the hallway? Damian grabbed your elbow.
You dropped your pencil case, scattering pens everywhere? Damian wordlessly crouched down and collected them faster than you could blink.
But the time you scraped your knee in gym class, that’s when you saw another side of him.
You’d been running laps, sneakers slapping against the floor, when your foot caught the edge of a mat. Down you went, sliding across the polished gym floor in a mess of limbs. The sting on your knee was sharp, immediate, and blood welled quick.
Everyone gasped. You sat up, embarrassed. “I’m fine, I’m fine—”
“You’re bleeding” Damian said, appearing out of nowhere. He crouched beside you, voice sharp enough to silence the crowd. “Stay still.”
You blinked at him. “It’s just a scrape—”
“It’s still an injury” he snapped. His hand was already tugging a small first-aid kit from his bag. (of course he carried one) He opened it with precise efficiency, cleaning the scrape with antiseptic before wrapping it with steady hands.
His touch was careful. Deliberate. You could feel the warmth of his hand even through the gauze.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels, eyes narrowing. “You have no awareness of your surroundings. Do you realize how easily you could get seriously hurt?”
Your lips twitched. “You make it sound like I’m a danger to national security.”
“You might be” he muttered, but his hands lingered half a second longer before pulling away.
It was weeks later when you finally confronted him.
You’d tripped in the cafeteria this time, nearly spilling your tray. Damian had steadied you again, as always, with a sigh and a muttered tt.
This time, instead of blushing and hurrying off, you looked at him. Really looked at him. “Why do you keep helping me?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Because you’re incapable of functioning without supervision.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly despite yourself. “That’s not the only reason.”
For the first time, Damian hesitated. His lips pressed together, his jaw tightening. His gaze flicked away, then back to you.
Finally, he said, low and reluctant: “Because I don’t like watching you get hurt.”
Your chest tightened. You tried to lighten it, teasing. “So you… care?”
He rolled his eyes, already walking away. “Don’t make me regret admitting it.”
But the faintest color dusted his cheeks, and you knew.
It was early morning in Wayne Manor, and you had decided, against all logic, to cook breakfast for Damian.
You weren’t a bad cook. In fact, you were quite good. The problem was… coordination.
When Damian walked in, hair still damp from training, he paused in the doorway. His sharp green eyes scanned the scene: eggshells on the counter, flour on the floor, a half-filled kettle wobbling precariously on the stove. And you, apron crooked, pan in one hand, spatula in the other, were trying not to trip over your own shoelace.
“Tt.” Damian crossed the room in three swift steps, plucking the kettle away just as it began to hiss. “You’re going to burn the manor down.”
You flushed. “I was making breakfast for you.”
“By destroying the kitchen?” he asked, voice bone-dry. He set the kettle aside and moved past you, taking the spatula from your hand. “Step aside.”
“But—”
“No.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
You puffed your cheeks in protest but obeyed, sliding onto a stool. Watching him move with controlled precision, cracking eggs one-handed, flipping pancakes like it was second nature, you sighed. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“I was trained to survive in hostile environments” he replied matter-of-factly. “Cooking is not difficult compared to evading assassins.”
Still, when he placed the plate in front of you, perfectly cooked, there was a quiet softness in the gesture. “Eat before you injure yourself again.”
You smiled, heart warm despite his tone. “Yes, chef.”
He scowled. “Do not call me that.”
You weren’t a vigilante, not like him, but you’d gotten used to helping behind the scenes, maps, research, strategy. One night, you insisted on joining him on a rooftop for “just five minutes” to see the skyline.
Big mistake.
You tripped over the lip of the roof almost instantly.
Damian’s heart nearly stopped.
His arm shot out, grabbing your wrist in a steel grip and yanking you back to safety. You crashed against his chest, breathless, your heart pounding.
“Are you insane?” His voice cracked sharp with fury, sharper than you’d ever heard. “Do you have any comprehension of what could have happened?”
“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You could have fallen. You could have died.” His eyes blazed, grip trembling just slightly as he held onto your arms. “You do not get to take risks like that.”
You looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Damian… I’m okay. You caught me.”
His jaw clenched. His breath came heavy. Then, without warning, he pulled you tight against him, arms crushingly firm around your back.
“I can’t always catch you” he muttered into your hair, voice low, ragged. “Don’t ever make me test that."
Your throat tightened. You nodded against his chest. “I won’t.”
Back in safer territory, the manor, you still managed chaos.
It happened in the study. You were curled up on the couch with a book when your elbow caught a glass of water on the side table. It tumbled, shattered, and in your panic to clean it up, you immediately stepped straight onto a shard.
Damian’s voice cut like a whip as he entered, only saying your name. In an instant, he was kneeling beside you, taking your ankle carefully in his hand. His thumb brushed against the cut as he examined it, and his lips thinned into a grim line.
“You always act first” he muttered, pulling tweezers from his pocket like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Never think.”
“I was trying to fix it” you said sheepishly, wincing as he pulled the shard out.
“And instead you made it worse” he replied, disinfecting the wound with infuriating precision. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and unyielding. “You have to let me protect you. Do you understand?”
You bit your lip, touched. “Yes, Damian.”
When he finished bandaging, he lingered, his hand still curled gently around your ankle. Finally, softer, he added: “Stop hurting yourself. I… don’t like seeing you bleed.”
It was inevitable, you were clumsy, and he was always there.
This time, you stumbled in the hallway, tripping over absolutely nothing. Damian caught you by the waist, steadying you. You gasped, flustered, hands pressing against his chest.
“Honestly, beloved” he sighed, exasperation threaded with fondness. “Do you fall just to test my reflexes?”
“No!” you protested, cheeks burning. “I swear it’s not on purpose.”
He raised a brow, but before you could say more, you shifted in his hold, too quickly. Your forehead bumped his chin, your nose brushed his cheek, and somehow, impossibly, your lips landed against his.
You froze. He did too.
The world went silent.
Then Damian’s grip tightened slightly on your waist, his eyes dark, unreadable. “You’re infuriating” he muttered, before leaning down to kiss you properly. Controlled, intentional, nothing accidental about it.
When he pulled back, he smirked faintly. “At least this time, your clumsiness led to something worthwhile.”
When you went to med school, half the time you spent studying was in his dorm, with an ice pack on your ankle, or head, or knee. You had the uncanny ability to walk into every wall possible yet somehow still do it accidentally; your ankle was practically always twisted.
Frank had the image of your guilty face knocking on his dorm door memorised. Your voice ‘Langdon, you don’t have another spare ice pack?’ Echoing in his head.
When you joined him at the hospital he thought you’d be better, you’d gotten older, more mature, you’d gained more spacial awareness.
How wrong he was.
Whenever you bent down to pick something up he always found his hand cushioning the table or counter for when you came back up and inevitably hit it. When you were walking and engrossed in conversation with him, he found himself stirring you in the right direction. When you were charting he found himself with a hand on the stool so you didn’t fall off (yes it actually happened once), and whenever you tripped his hand instinctively grabbed the collar of your scrubs to pull you up.
He passed it off as instinct, he’d know you almost forever of course he was attuned to your actions and clumsiness. And he was a doctor, he couldn’t bare watching someone get hurt.
Yet every time he gently stirred you in the middle of conversation, or when his hand cushioned your head; someone’s brow raised.
First it was Santos, then Mel, then Dana, then Mohan, then Robby. Money was already exchanging hands and a secret betting board was in place.
(Santons has $20 on 5 shifts until he kisses you, Mel has $10 on 3 until he asks you out, Dana has $10 on 4 until he kisses you, Mohan (and abbot) have $20 on 8 shifts until he asks you out. Robby pretends he’s bigger than betting on relationships but he has a secret $10 on 7 shifts untill you ask him out.)
Hey, Ozz! I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been catching up on your Yan!School Masterlist (as a lil treat). Have you mentioned a Clumsy!Reader? I’m always full of random bruises lol. I’d imagine that the yanderes would always be stressed out because of it.
The Yandere School students and staff would be so protective. They'd open the door for you, carry your textbooks, carefully aid you in each and every task in order to avoid the faintest scratch.
Then some school competition happens, perhaps another collaboration with Darling Academy, and you're naturally paired up with your best friend, fellow Clumsy!Yandere.
"Leave things to me, you know how clumsy you are," he says with a smug grin.
That's right, he knows you better than everyone else. Those Yandere School fools couldn't even dream of achieving his level of care. Whatever they're doing to keep you out of trouble is mediocre at best, but he-
"(Y/N)?"
He looks around, somewhat baffled. When did you vanish? He specifically told you to wait aside while he finished setting up the trap. It's dangerous, he argued, it can snatch you up in seconds.
Somewhere among the tall branches of the trees, you squirm and tug helplessly at the rope. You'd meant to tell him he accidentally threw a loop around your feet, but he seemed to be lost in thought. When you finally dared to open your mouth, the trap had been activated.
"Oh, well," you mumble to yourself, "someone's bound to find us eventually."
Ah, yes, the deadly duo: a clumsy Darling, and an even clumsier Yandere.
summary: You’re clumsy. Not just a little—like, full-on trip-over-your-own-feet, spill-coffee-on-yourself, break-random-things kind of clumsy. And while you see nothing but disaster and embarrassment in all that, Clark Kent sees something else entirely. Something soft, something endearing… something he can’t stop noticing.
warnings: A whole lotta clumsy chaos (if you’ve ever spilled coffee on yourself, this is basically a mirror 🫠). Clark Kent being stupidly patient and way too perfect (literally). Reader going “oh my god, I screwed up again” about twenty times. Comfort, fluff, a sprinkle of tension, and a warm fuzzy ending.(If your crush doesn’t handle your clumsy disasters like Clark does, babe, find yourself a new crush). Based on this request.
It happens again.
The coffee you were counting on to save your morning before work at the Daily Planet? Yeah, it’s now all over your favorite white blouse. And it’s not like someone bumped into you, or the lid wasn’t on right. Nope. It’s just you. Your natural-born clumsiness, tagging along like an annoying little sibling.
“Great,” you mutter, holding the cup that’s now half-empty, half-soaked into your shirt, sticky warmth sliding down your stomach.
In the building’s glass doors, your reflection looks less like a professional reporter and more like someone who survived a caffeine war.
And then, because the universe apparently has jokes, you hear that voice behind you.
“You okay there?”
You turn slowly, and yep—there he is. Clark Kent. Beige jacket, tie slightly crooked, that boy-next-door smile that could melt the entire state of Kansas.
Your first instinct? Shrink into yourself like maybe he won’t notice you.
“I’m fine. Totally fine.” You take one step back—aaaand of course, you trip over the curb.
He doesn’t even give gravity the chance to embarrass you. His big hand catches your elbow, steadying you like it’s second nature.
“Coffee might disagree with you,” he teases, nodding at the stain spreading across your blouse.
Your face heats up hotter than the actual coffee.
“I’m a complete mess,” you mutter under your breath.
Clark just shakes his head, still smiling, still infuriatingly calm.
“Or just human. One of the most charming humans I know.”
Your heartbeat kicks up like you sprinted up three flights of stairs, and it’s barely 9 a.m.
The Planet is buzzing like always—phones ringing, people typing, printers screeching. You try to stay focused at your desk, but your clumsiness already left its mark: spilled coffee on your blouse, toppled a stack of papers that went flying like snow in July, and now… the plate.
The plate from the break room that was only supposed to hold your sandwich.
You picked it up carefully, swore you had a good grip. But of course, your fingers betrayed you, and the sharp crash of ceramic shattering against the tile floor made the entire newsroom go dead silent for a second.
Your hands start to shake. Anxiety hits you fast, like a wave. Your chest tightens, breathing quickens. Everyone’s staring. Again. You’re the clumsy one. The girl who breaks stuff.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, crouching down to pick up the shards with trembling hands, eyes burning. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
Before your shaky breaths spiral into full-on tears, a larger pair of hands intercept yours.
“Careful, you’ll cut yourself,” Clark says, voice low and steady, like he’s talking straight to your nerves.
He kneels beside you, calmly collecting the broken pieces and placing them neatly on a tray. Like it’s no big deal. Like you’re no big deal disaster.
“It’s fine,” he adds, those ridiculously blue eyes softening when they meet yours. “It’s just a plate.”
But your chest still feels tight, panic still pressing down.
“But it’s always me, Clark. Every time. I break things, I spill stuff, I trip… It’s like I can’t do anything right.”
He pauses, really looks at you, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to read the parts of you you don’t say out loud. Then he smiles. That warm, devastatingly gentle smile that feels like a hug.
“Wanna know what I see?” he asks.
You don’t answer—you can’t, not past the lump in your throat.
“I see someone who shows up every day and tries, no matter what. Even when things don’t go perfectly, you keep going. And honestly? That’s worth more than being ‘perfect.’”
A tear slips before you can stop it, but Clark’s thumb brushes it away before it can slide down your cheek.
“Clark…” you whisper.
“Shhh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, the noise of the newsroom fades out. It’s just his eyes, steady and safe, and your breathing slowly syncing to the calm rhythm of his presence.
Later, after work, Clark insists on walking you to your favorite coffee shop. You argue half-heartedly, but deep down you’re grateful.
Of course, you spill coffee again. This time on the table.
Clark chuckles softly, grabbing a napkin and helping you mop it up.
“You know what I think?” he says, leaning an elbow on the table, watching you with that maddening calm.
“That I should be banned from being within ten feet of anything breakable or liquid?”
He laughs, the sound so warm it makes you forget the mess.
“No. I think your clumsiness is kinda… your trademark. Like a reminder that perfection doesn’t exist. And honestly, that’s what makes you real.”
You stare at him, torn between laughing and crying.
“Clark Kent… are you seriously telling me I’m an adorable mess?”
His smile widens, head tipping slightly, voice low and honest.
“Exactly that.”
Your cheeks flush hot. And yeah, your cup threatens to slip again, but for once, it doesn’t matter. Because when Clark looks at you like that, you know—even if you broke a thousand plates, he’d always be there to help you pick up the pieces.
The night ends with the two of you walking through Metropolis, city lights glowing, a cool breeze brushing against you. You trip over a crack in the sidewalk—classic—but Clark’s hand is already in yours before you can stumble.
“Guess I’ll have to stick close to make sure you don’t hurt yourself,” he teases, smile tugging at his lips.
“Is that a promise, Kent?” you ask, half-embarrassed, half-hopeful.
He squeezes your hand gently, like sealing it with more than words.
“Yeah. It’s a promise.”
And in that moment—between laughter, clumsy chaos, and long glances—you realize that even the messiest hearts can feel safe… when Clark Kent is the one holding them.
i got reminded of your “you bruise easily and caleb marks you with love bites” blurb and i was thinking… what about other instances where you bruise easily?
like you have random bruises on your arm from playing a sport or working out. or you hit your thigh against the bed’s edge and now you’ve got a giant bruise on your thigh.
i think reader would never hear the end of it, truly 😭
hehe yes that’s so true!!! i think they would slowly become more chill about it once they’re more accustomed to seeing bruises on you, but i don’t think they’ll ever fully be nonchalant about seeing the evidence of your pain…
(clumsy, gn, mc reader!) wc: 770
❄️
As your primary care physician, Zayne likely knows about your proclivity for clumsiness and the bruises that often follow. But once you grow closer and he starts seeing you more frequently, he definitely starts to fret more. He gently pulls the affected limb closer to his gaze during a quiet moment, the slight furrow of his brow betraying his concern. His voice is soft when he speaks, and there's a thoughtfulness in his tone that you pick up on due to being by his side for so long.
"What happened? Did you fall again?"
He hums as you sheepishly explain, examining your injury.
"Since this happened several hours ago, have you iced it?"
He knows very well that you haven't, and scolds you for not being vigilant about your health as he prepares an ice pack with his Evol and some cloth. You try to complain that it's just a minor injury, but he's Not having it. You will follow doctor's orders, especially since he's here to supervise.
🍎
Caleb is a similar case to Zayne, since he's also known you since childhood. He has many, many memories of helping you up after you tripped and skinned your knee, or fell off your bike, or bonked your head on a shelf, wiping your eyes and rubbing your back as he helped to patch you back up. He would still nag at you a bit when you got hurt in high school, but he begrudgingly let you brush it off if it wasn't too serious.
After the explosion, however, he can't bring himself to be so relaxed any longer. He had to endure months and months of watching you stumble and fall through his network of security cameras, wobbling back up to your feet all alone, and being completely unable to patch you up properly or offer comfort. Watching as injuries that he could have helped heal cleanly end up leaving behind a scar as you neglect your own health.
Now that he has you close again and is more aware of all the potential threats to your safety, he's more protective than ever before.
"Hey, pips, c'mere, what happened?"
He pulls your injured limb a bit closer, nodding as he listens to your tone while you explain, incredibly attentive as he checks for missteps in your speech that indicate you're lying or minimizing the injury. He palpates the bruise, gentle but firm as he checks to see if and how much you flinch.
"I can tell you haven't put any ice on this, baby. You gotta take care of yourself, you know that. C'mon, let Dr. Caleb fix you up, yeah?"
You know there's no denying him when he gets like this.
🐦⬛
Sylus is the most relaxed out of the three, even though he doesn't have prior experience with your clumsy nature. The first few times he finds an unexplained bruise on your body, he'll be very worried; but once he becomes acclimated to it, he'll just tease you a bit and ruffle your hair before helping you care for the wound. He has a huge collection of expensive salves and uses your frequent injuries as an opportunity to test which works best for you.
However, where he struggles is when he perceives the accident as his fault. Going a bit too rough on you during training, failing to stop a wanderer from knocking you to the ground, his enemy gripping your arm threateningly during an auction. It's agonizing for him, seeing the evidence of his missteps on your skin, no matter how fervently you assure him it's not his fault.
When he discovers an injury that happened apart from him, I think it'd go like this:
"Sweetie, are you alright? What happened?"
He nods as you explain, his gaze fixed on your injury.
"May I?"
He waits for your permission before gently taking your injured limb in his hands and examining it more closely, inhaling through his teeth and clicking his tongue. His next words come in a sigh. "Yeah, you did a number on yourself, all right."
He supports you with a hand on the small of your back as he coaxes you to stand. "Come, kitty. Let's take care of this. The twins just bought some elastic bandages printed with smiley faces; we might as well make good use of them."
(I just) Died in your arms 《Vigilante (Adrian Chase), peacemaker x reader》
Vigilante (Adrian Chase), Peacemaker x femreader
Warnings: Slight angst (nothing heavy), touch-starved reader, fluff, Adrian being Adrian, a little bit of drunk reader, suggestive content (nothing explicit).
A/N: Once again, here I am being annoying lol. Honestly, writing makes me a little happy, even if it’s just for a handful of people. I can’t stop thinking about Adrian Chase and how cute his look is in the new season. Thank you so much for the support—likes, reblogs, and comments mean the world to me. Remember that my requests are open, thanks <3
“Do you guys usually hang out a lot?”
Economos let the words fall with obvious difficulty.
“No… not all of us. More like two at a time.” Leota cast a quick glance at the group chatting in the distance. “I hang out with Chris, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I hang out with Harcourt. Chris with Adrian.” Suddenly there was a pause, and as if it was the most normal thing in the world: “Adrian and y/n.”
Economos leaned closer to Leota, whispering as if she hadn’t said it loud enough for half of Evergreen to hear.
“Adrian and y/n?”
Leota let out a little sound somewhere between laughter and excitement, mixed with a shh to quiet him down.
“What the hell did I miss all this time?”
They both laughed as if it was all insane while clinking their bottles together. Suddenly, Economos grew serious.
“I can’t believe that guy calls me at midnight to tell me random facts about owls but not about this.”
He shook his head as he drank, and Adebayo couldn’t stop laughing, a tear running from the corner of her right eye.
-
“Do you think if I manifest it enough, I could fly like Eagly?”
Not only did your words make no sense, but they were dragged out so much it was hard to tell if you were even speaking the same language as everyone else.
Adrian looked at you with an expression hovering between uncertainty and annoyance. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve insulted them for saying nonsense like that. But you weren’t just anyone. His features softened when you stumbled closer to him. It made no sense that this unstable figure swaying side to side was the same person who happened to be one of the best killers he knew.
You tripped over your own feet and crashed into his chest, laughing softly, the warmth of your breath seeping through his shirt. He held your waist firmly to keep both of you from collapsing to the ground. He didn’t like physical contact in excess, but yours didn’t bother him. It had become a habit—one that was annoying at first, but one he had learned to enjoy over time.
You climbed clumsily up his chest until you found a steady spot in the hollow of his neck. You stayed there with your eyes closed, breathing in his scent. You murmured something happily, but he couldn’t quite catch the words. He lifted one of his hands and set it on your upper back, giving you a few pats, as if consoling you. He was learning—you had been the most persistent teacher, and he the worst student imaginable. But in that moment of weakness, it felt like the most genuine show of affection you’d ever received.
You brushed the base of his neck with the tip of your nose, smiling when goosebumps rose on his skin and you felt his throat swallow with difficulty. You made your way to his ear and planted a small kiss on his earlobe. He let out a sharp exhale and glanced around, checking if anyone was paying attention. But he stopped looking when he heard you speak so close.
“I think I know what we could dress up as for Halloween. You could go as Chris, and I’ll go as Eagly.”
What the hell was it with you and Eagly lately?
His train of thought was cut short when a pleasant warmth settled in his abdomen. You were stroking him absentmindedly, no clear intention behind the gesture, but he always had trouble understanding certain signs of affection. It felt good, so he didn’t stop you. He was in some kind of bubble. Normally his head was a swarm of ideas, concepts clashing for his attention. In those moments when he had your warmth near him, your scent, his brain seemed to short-circuit and go into standby.
White noise, and a little sign that said: We apologize for the inconvenience. We’ll be right back.
Heat rose to his cheeks when you began planting scattered kisses on the exposed skin closest to your lips. Your caresses slid lower until he felt them dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He gently moved you back, careful not to make any sudden movement that could send you tumbling with your terrible coordination.
“No. No exhibitionism. You’re not making me commit any infraction, especially not in front of our friends.”
He said it very seriously, but something in your brain wasn’t registering the words properly. You laughed, eyes half closed, body loose and trusting completely that he would hold you up if you couldn’t stand on your own. And you were right—he would.
He shifted his grip to hold you by the upper arms and spoke slowly, as if the problem were a neural failure rather than the effect of several beers in your bloodstream.
“We’re going to say goodbye and I’m going to take you home.”
“Home? The two of us together?”
It irritated him a little that he couldn’t just be bluntly honest with you, to tell you that you were only saying obvious nonsense. But then he remembered the pout you’d made the last time, when he told you your aim was crap while you were crying. His heart ached a little at the memory, and for a split second he wanted to pinch you so you’d share the pain. It wasn’t fair that it only hurt him.
“That’s what taking you home implies—that we both have to go together.”
He had underestimated your strength because, within seconds, you launched yourself forward with everything you had. You landed with your chin against his sternum, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of your body stayed where it was; only your top half had gone forward. He hissed at the impact and looked down at you, his chin pressed to his chest.
“I like that idea.”
You closed your eyes and puckered your lips, waiting for a kiss. Instead of giving in, Adrian separated you and half-dragged you back toward the rest of the group, who were still chatting casually.
“I think I’m gonna take her home before she decides it’s a good idea to test if she can fly like Eagly.”
Everyone looked at you both with a strange expression. Adrian searched his mental notes—what had you told him those expressions meant? Ah, expectation. Wait, what? They were going to figure it out.
He straightened you up as you clung to him like a life jacket in the middle of a storm at sea. He moved his hand from your waist to your shoulders, much friendlier.
“Don’t think that… I’m not going into her house. I won’t even step over the threshold. I’m just gonna drop her off and wait until she goes upstairs. Why would I go into her house? Pfft, that’s ridiculous.” He let out this weird fake laugh, way too loud and way too forced.
Nobody laughed with him. Not even a pity chuckle. The group just kind of… froze. A couple of them exchanged these sideways glances, others took these very deliberate, too-long sips of their drinks. The silence stretched until it was so thick you could choke on it, and Chris—poor Chris—looked like he’d just swallowed a whole ball of guilt he didn’t know what to do with.
“Yeah, buddy. Sure. You’re just gonna drop her off,” Chris said finally, shrugging in a way that screamed please, everyone, let’s just move on before this gets more awkward.
Adrian nodded rapidly, like three, four times in a row, convinced that he’d just completely smoothed over the whole situation. You waved this wobbly little goodbye, your hand flapping lazily in the air, muttering “thanks” several times. Nobody knew exactly what you were thanking them for, but they all assured you it was nothing.
By the time you reached the fire escape, you slipped one hand into the back pocket of Adrian’s jeans with this little mischievous giggle. He still had an arm locked firmly around your shoulders and gave your arm a quick squeeze.
“You’re touchier than ever,” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.
But he couldn’t stop staring at the ridiculous grin plastered across your face. It was… absurd. And yet, it got under his skin in the best possible way. He liked it. He liked that grin, how it softened you, made you look younger, lighter. He loved your sharp edges too—maybe more, honestly—but seeing you like this, so open, it tugged at something deep inside him. He hadn’t seen much of this version of you lately, not since the butterflies were gone and the missions had stopped. And he missed it more than he wanted to admit.
“Just because you look cuter than ever,” you blurted out, words tumbling out too fast.
You kissed his cheek, and he smiled despite himself. Compliments still hit him like bullets—unexpected, disorienting—but he craved them too, impatient for the next one. He lived for you pointing out that his hair looked good, or that his aim was deadly, or that you thought he was adorable in his glasses. “You’re a kinky boy, aren’t you?” you teased.
And he couldn’t deny it. Not really.
The climb up to your apartment took twice as long as it should have. It wasn’t just keeping you upright—though that was a whole mission in itself—but also fending off your increasingly bold attempts to peel his clothes off in the middle of the damn street. You pulled out every trick: complimenting him as Vigilante, whispering he was the “best boy,” rattling off random new facts about owls. He suspected most of them were made up, but it still punched something warm into his chest to realize you’d actually gone out of your way to look up owl trivia—just because it mattered to him.
At the door, he plucked the keys out of your hand, trying to juggle unlocking the lock while you pressed yourself against his back, arms limp at your sides, your cheek smushed against his shoulder blade. You mumbled something incoherent about how good he smelled, and it nearly made him drop the keys.
Spinning carefully so you wouldn’t collapse, he frowned down at you.
“What’s up with you tonight? Did Chris give you some of that stuff he smokes in his pipe?”
You shook your head, shoved him through the door, and laughed way too loudly. Adrian clamped a hand over your mouth, whispering sharp sshh sounds over and over that did absolutely nothing. You mumbled against his palm, words dissolving into nonsense, then suddenly went quiet. And then—your tongue. Flat against his palm. Slow.
He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed perfectly deadpan.
“If you think that’s gonna gross me out, you clearly forgot that I’ve had your saliva literally all over my body.”
You whined when he finally pulled his hand away. Your eyelids were heavy, drooping like lead weights, and he wasn’t sure you’d last much longer before passing out completely. Still, he wasn’t convinced the neighbors wouldn’t call the cops if you laughed like that again.
You stared at him for a beat too long before blurting:
“Abby’s not here. She’s with her girlfriend’s family for the weekend.”
Relief slammed into him so hard he actually exhaled.
“We’re alone.” You arched your brows up and down in this ridiculous, suggestive rhythm.
“Why are you doing that? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”
“What?”
“Your eyebrows are moving independently of your face. That’s weird. Looks like some kind of neurological malfunction. I’m worried.”
You groaned, gave up on explaining, and tugged him down the hallway by his shirt sleeve until you reached your bedroom. Then you flopped face-first onto the bed with a dull thud, limbs splayed out like a starfish. Lifting your head just enough to pout at him, you demanded:
“Lie down with me.”
“With these clothes? Street clothes? Uh, no. Absolutely not.”
“Then take them off me.” You said it with clear suggestiveness, but his sharp nod told you he’d interpreted it as nothing more than a practical task.
He bent to start tugging at your sneakers, but your whole expression crumpled. Your lip trembled, your eyes glossed over, tears pricking before you could stop them.
“Adrian… do you even like me?”
He froze mid-motion, sneaker halfway off, his hand still gripping your leg to keep it propped up. He blinked down at you like you’d just pulled a gun on him.
“What?”
“I think… I think you feel obligated to be with me.”
Your lip wobbled harder, and then tears spilled, hot and fast, down your cheeks. He finished pulling off the shoe, gave your thigh two awkward pats, desperate to redirect you. These situations always made his stomach knot—because he didn’t know how to fix you when you broke like this, and that made him feel like a failure.
“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re asking,” he blurted finally.
The words landed like a grenade. Your tears doubled, morphing into an unstoppable flood as you dropped your head into the mattress. You wanted to curl into a ball, vanish into the sheets, but even that felt impossible.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry. Please?”
The answer was a louder, messier sob.
He gave your other thigh a couple of awkward pats, like that was going to magically fix anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You knew Adrian wasn’t like everyone else—it took effort for him to show any kind of emotion. But in the past few months, you’d thought you’d broken through, that maybe you’d carved out a space where his affection lived. Never in a million years would you have expected him to say: “I don’t hate you.”
“What I meant was… I guess I like you. Like, actually like you. God, I’ve done things with you I never would’ve imagined.”
The crying stopped almost instantly. After a couple shaky breaths, you lifted your gaze. Adrian looked like his brain was doing cartwheels, like he was digging around for words he didn’t usually keep in stock.
“I’m not—” he scratched the back of his neck, glancing away, “I’m not good at this. Feelings. Or, like… saying things that don’t involve knives or bowel movements. So maybe I don’t show stuff like normal people. Not the way you’d expect. But, uh—I’m here, right? That counts for something.”
You blinked hard, drunk brain clinging to every word. Normally you would’ve stopped him, told him that was enough. But you needed more. Since the Butterflies, you hadn’t known who you were, or what you were good for. You weren’t needed. Adrian had tried in his own awkward way to pull you out of it, dragging you along on patrols, but that wasn’t your path. You still longed to belong to something bigger.
Your insecurities slipped out raw and loud, more than you wanted. And you needed him to tell you—you were worth something. At least to him.
“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be with the others, or—hell, I’d have let you jump off that stupid fire escape to test your flying theory. I wouldn’t give a crap how you got home. I could’ve just stayed home sharpening knives, which, by the way, is very satisfying. But I didn’t. I walked you home.” He lifted a hand as he listed off his alternatives, then let it smack against his leg with a thunk. His eyes tracked your face, and when he caught your lip trembling again, he made an exaggerated tsk. “I’m here. With you. Holding you up so you don’t faceplant on the sidewalk. Stopping you from stripping me naked on Main Street, which, by the way, is illegal in several states. I Googled it. It’s a felony in Utah. Just saying.”
You bit your lip, holding back a laugh at his very specific worry about laws. You didn’t remind him that he was the one who’d once ended up in his underwear, drenched in beer, in front of the whole team.
Adrian’s words started tumbling out faster, like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.
“And I don’t like you in the boring way. Like tacos—I love tacos, I’d marry tacos. It’s different. It’s like…you make my brain shut up. Normally it’s all noise in there. Like a hundred radio stations playing at the same time, and half of them are talking about murder techniques. But when you’re around? It’s like static. Quiet static. And that’s… actually really nice. I didn’t even know I wanted that until it happened. So yeah. You’re basically like my human white noise machine. But better, because sometimes you kiss me.”
He scratched his neck again, eyes darting up like maybe he’d find a trapdoor in the ceiling.
“And also—you touch me. Which is insane, because usually I hate people touching me. Like, don’t touch me. Ever. Handshakes? Gross. Sweat, germs, hand oil—blegh. But with you, it’s fine. It’s… more than fine. It’s… I don’t know, it’s good. Like I want it. Which means, scientifically speaking, that I definitely like you. Because otherwise I’d have pepper-sprayed you and sprinted home. Fast. I’m very fast.”
He shrugged, like he’d just presented a flawless math equation.
“So yeah. That’s it. You make me want to stay. You make my brain stop screaming. You’re the only person alive I’ll let touch me without stabbing. If that’s not ‘liking,’ then the dictionary is a liar.”
You just stared at him, chest pulling tight, while he rambled. Then, suddenly, the tears returned—hot, fast, unstoppable. But this time they were different. Your lip wobbled, and you started crying again, only now you were smiling too.
Adrian’s face twisted in horror.
“Oh no. Ohhh no, no, no, no, no. Not again. Why are you leaking? I literally said nice stuff this time! Do you have, like, a tear duct malfunction? Should I Google it? I can Google it. Wait—no, my phone’s dead. Don’t move, I’ll—”
“Adrian.” You laughed through your tears, catching his wrist before he could bolt. Your voice cracked, but you got the words out. “I’m not sad. I promise. I’m just… happy. You don’t usually say things like that and… it’s a lot. In a good way.”
He froze. Rigid. Deer-in-headlights.
“…Wait. You’re crying because you’re happy? That’s not real. Crying is for funerals. Or when your burrito falls on the ground tortilla-side-down. Not for happy.”
You sniffled, wiping your face clumsily. “For me, it is. My brain just… reacts like that. Too many feelings at once, and this is what comes out. And what you said… it made me feel safe. And wanted.”
He blinked. Hard. Mouth opening like he wanted to argue—but shutting again. Then he leaned closer, squinting like he was trying to read the fine print of your soul.
“So… you done crying now? Happy crying, sad crying—what category are we in? Because I wanna lie down with you. I like when you pet my hair while I fall asleep.”
Something warm spread through your chest, drowning out the last of your doubts. You almost laughed at how he suddenly couldn’t stop listing things he liked about you. You nodded, smiling, opening your arms in invitation.
But he shook his head, leaned over, and started undressing you again.
You couldn’t stop laughing as he fought with your jeans, cursing under his breath. He froze only when he caught sight of your underwear. You cupped his face, making him meet your eyes, biting your lip in what you thought was a sexy smirk. In reality, your eyelids were so heavy you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.
Adrian stifled a frustrated noise, kissed your forehead, and tugged your shirt off gently. When you were settled, he tucked the blanket over you, then clumsily stripped out of his own clothes. He slid into bed, hopeful you might still be awake—but your eyes were already closed.
He lay facing you, studying your flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, steady breathing. Something strange bloomed in his chest—habitual now, even if it wasn’t natural. Without overthinking, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tight against him until your warmth quieted the buzz in his skull.
Half-asleep, you stretched out a hand, playing lazily with his curls, mumbling something dangerously close to I love you.
He had no idea what to do with that. No idea if he could say it back. So instead, he pressed another kiss to your forehead and began rattling off every owl fact he’d memorized that week, while you answered with soft, nonsensical murmurs.
summary: marcus can't understand how on earth this girl is supposed to be an assassin.
characters: marcus lopez. clumsy! reader.
warnings: none.
word count: 1.2k
Marcus thought King’s Dominion couldn’t surprise him anymore.
He thought he’d seen it all - the goths, the punks, the cartel kids, the actual royalty of the criminal underworld. Every brand of psycho you could imagine sharpening knives in the hallways.
But then you burst into his life - literally.
It was his second week at King’s, and he was still getting his bearings. Memorizing which hallways were safe, which teachers might actually kill you for being late, which kids you absolutely didn’t want to owe favors to.
He was rounding the corner by the poison lab, head down, mind full of survival strategies-
-and then you smashed into him, hard enough to knock both of you sprawling.
"Shit!" he hissed, landing flat on his ass, his books skittering across the cracked tile floor.
You landed face-first beside him with a strangled little oof, your own bag exploding open, notebooks, pens, and a suspicious number of crumpled gum wrappers spilling everywhere.
Marcus blinked at you, stunned.
You groaned into the floorboards. "Ow. That was not stealthy."
He stared as you pushed yourself up, rubbing your forehead and squinting at him.
You didn’t look like you belonged here.
You were... bright. Not in a colorful way - you still wore the black uniform, black blazer, black converse that were a little scuffed up - but in a way that glowed out from the inside. Your eyes were too wide, too curious. You smiled too easily, like you hadn’t realized yet that doing that around here was basically waving a neon Target Me sign.
"You okay?" Marcus asked warily, gathering his books.
You grinned sheepishly. "I think I broke physics. Or my nose. One of those."
He blinked. Was this girl seriously making jokes right now?
You scrambled to collect your stuff, knocking over another kid’s pile of books in the process. The guy snarled and stomped off, muttering curses in Russian.
Marcus shook his head, amazed. "You’re gonna get eaten alive."
"Yeah, probably," you chirped, stuffing loose papers back into your bag with zero organization. "But hey, maybe I’ll trip and fall on someone important before they can stab me. Like, as a defense mechanism."
He couldn't help it - he laughed. Actually laughed, full and surprised, the sound bouncing off the cracked walls.
You lit up at that, beaming like you’d just won a prize.
"I’m Y/N," you said, sticking out your hand, smudged with ink and something that suspiciously looked like blood.
He stared at it for a second before shaking it cautiously.
"Marcus," he said.
You grinned wider. "Nice to meet you, Marcus. You wanna be my bodyguard?"
He snorted. "What makes you think I won't be the one you need protecting from?"
You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder and nearly decapitating yourself with the strap. "I dunno. You laughed. That’s gotta mean something."
He watched you for a second longer - this chaotic, smiling, walking disaster of a person - and for the first time since he’d arrived at King’s Dominion, he didn’t feel the crushing weight of survival pressing so hard against his ribs.
Maybe it was the insanity of it. Maybe it was the fact that you clearly had no fucking idea what you were doing.
Or maybe it was just... you.
Either way, he found himself grinning, despite every better instinct.
"Yeah," he said, falling into step beside you as you headed for class. "Maybe I’ll keep you alive. Just to see what kind of mess you get into next."
You bumped into him again - completely by accident - and Marcus just laughed.
He had no idea what he was signing up for.
But somehow, he knew even then:
You were going to wreck his whole life.
And he was going to let you.
Later that day, Marcus found Billy and Lex hanging out at the graveyard, passing a blunt back and forth like it was any other apocalypse afternoon.
He needed answers. Fast.
He spotted them and jogged over, ignoring the way Lex immediately smirked when he saw Marcus’s face.
"You look like you just saw a ghost," Lex said, plucking the blunt from Billy and taking a lazy drag.
"Worse," Marcus muttered. "I met someone."
Billy perked up instantly. "Oh shit. What’s his name?"
Marcus shot him a look. "It’s a girl."
Lex made an exaggerated gagging noise. "That’s even worse."
Billy elbowed him, grinning. "Nah, man, let the poor dude talk. Maybe it's true love. Or, like, mutually assured destruction." He turned to Marcus with a gleam in his eye. "Spill it. Who’s the girl?"
Marcus ran a hand through his messy hair, pacing a little. "I don’t know her name. Well - I know her name’s Y/N. I just—" He paused, trying to find words. "She crashed into me. Like, full-on body slam. And then she tried to apologize by knocking over another kid's shit and almost broke her own neck with her bag."
Lex snorted smoke through his nose. "Sounds about right."
"And she asked me to be her bodyguard," Marcus added, voice climbing with disbelief.
Lex and Billy stared at him for a beat - then burst out laughing.
"Bodyguard?" Lex howled, doubling over. "Oh, my god, she’s gonna get you killed faster than anything at this school ever could!"
Billy wiped tears from his eyes, wheezing. "Bro. You found the human version of a banana peel."
Marcus folded his arms, scowling. "Seriously. Who is she? Why is she even here? She’s... she’s like a walking horror scene waiting to happen."
Billy shrugged, still grinning. "New recruit. Word is, her parents are small-time mobsters. Got caught up in some turf war in Jersey."
Lex chimed in, "They wanted to send her somewhere to ‘harden her up.’" He waggled his eyebrows. "Real good plan. Send a chick who trips over air to the deadliest school on earth."
Marcus stared at them.
"They sent her here to become an assassin?" he repeated, disbelieving.
Billy patted his shoulder solemnly. "The American Dream, man."
Lex smirked, nudging him. "You’re so screwed. You’re already soft for her, aren't you?"
Marcus opened his mouth to argue - but hesitated.
Because the truth was?
You had knocked into him like a wrecking ball. You had smiled at him like he wasn’t just another piece of meat in King’s Dominion’s grinder. And he had found himself wondering, even through all the chaos, what it would be like to actually have someone - something - to finally care about.
He clenched his jaw, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks.
"I’m not soft," he muttered.
Lex and Billy immediately whooped, jeering like drunk pirates.
"He’s so soft!" Lex crowed. "Little marshmallow Marcus, gonna trip and fall in love with the girl who can’t even walk straight!"
Billy leaned in, grinning. "Better start practicing your first aid, bro. You’re gonna need it."
Marcus rolled his eyes, flipping them off - but inside, he knew it was already too late.
He was doomed.
And when he glanced across the graveyard and saw you laughing at something Petra said - backpack half unzipped, shoelace trailing, absolutely oblivious - Marcus felt a stupid, helpless grin tug at his mouth.
