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desperately alive

adrian chase x reader

wc: 6k

content/warnings: stalker-ish behavior, from both sides lowkey, artist!reader, pretty heavy profanity, mentions of sex and kink

a/n: based off of this request from an anon— I have a Adrian Chase ask cause I'm obsessed with how u write him. I wanna suggest a fix/drabble about a situation; where reader likes to sit at Fennel Fields to draw people and Adrian becomes 90% of it. Reader accidentally leaves it, and Adrian is the one that finds it while cleaning tables. Please and thank you if u end up doing it :)

#Spotify #fanfiction #x reader #peacemaker x reader #adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #freddie stroma #peacemaker #vigilante x reader #vigilante #fanfiction requests #request #dc fanfic #dceu x reader

charity case

bruce wayne x fem!reader — in which everyone gets it wrong, and you absolutely love it.

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in gotham, they call you the trophy wife.

bruce wayne’s latest indulgence. his mysterious european bride.

the woman who wears diamonds to galas and doesn’t know how to spell “wayne enterprises.”

you’ve read the headlines.

you’ve seen the gossip columns, the cheap magazines at the supermarket checkout that call you “another glittering conquest.”

and you think it’s hilarious.

#bruce wayne headcanons #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman headcanon #dc x reader #cordelias writing #dceu x reader #battinson #dc #dcu #dc headcanons

GETTING TO KNOW EACH OTHER

warnings: smut ofc! cheating, dirty talk, married!ck, clark is sort of mean :(, and intercourse.

Smallville!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

14 days of fucking valentine's!- day 1!

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wc: 1,669

YOU KNOW I’LL ALWAYS COME THROUGH FOR YOU // rick flag jr.

summary: after a particularly bad week, the office throws you a birthday party. word count: 3.7k warnings: established relationship; smut (they/them for reader, afab anatomy, piv); takes place before the suicide squad (2021) with allusions to film events. a/n: happy birthday to me <3 i rewatched the movies + peacemaker and now i'm fixated on rick flag... oops. here's a treat for the rick lovers!! title comes from "so busted" by culture abuse.

You’re having a shitty week.

#dove writes #c: rick flag jr #rick flag x reader #rick flag fanfiction #rick flag jr x reader #rick flag jr #the suicide squad #dcu x reader #dceu x reader #self insert #rick flag/reader #rick flag jr/reader

Mrs. Wayne

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short story

Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Batman) × Reader (wife)

Genre: angst × romance × domestic softness × hurt/comfort

Summary:You are married to Gotham’s most untouchable man — billionaire Bruce Wayne — and the city’s hidden protector, Batman. Loving him means glittering charity galas and cold, empty nights; it means soft mornings with coffee and bruises he tries to hide. The woman who makes him human when the world demands he be more than a man.

Author’s Note: for my delusions

Warnings: Emotional angst (worry, fear of loss), Mentions of injuries/bruises (nothing graphic), Arguments about safety and duty, Intense intimacy (not explicit), Themes of loneliness, codependency, and duality

Songs to listen to while reading:

“At Last” – Etta James

“Work song - Hozier

[he comes home bruised,

smelling of rain and smoke.

you kiss the blood from his knuckles

and he whispers your name

like it’s the only thing that makes him human.]

Masterlist

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You learn the rhythm of him the way you learn the layout of a new room — by touch, by the small indentations memory makes when your hand finds the same place night after night.

There’s the laugh he unfurls for cameras, the practiced tilt of Wayne’s smile that makes the press think they’ve seen the man, and there’s the quiet exhale that comes through the heavy doors of Wayne Manor when the world finally stops asking for favors and he is finally only Bruce.

Tonight you stand at the edge of the ballroom and pretend you aren’t holding your breath. The chandeliers scatter light like teeth; silver forks clink; well-tailored men lean in to compliment one another on the latest aircraft donation. You are the picture beside him — the dress catches the camera’s flash and he leans his shoulder just enough to make the lenses find you both.

Your glove brushes his hand; he squeezes, a reflex, a tiny shore to a sea. Wayne’s smile is easy and dangerous in the way it hides a cliff.

You are proud. God, you are proud.

He built hospitals with a check and saved neighborhoods with a foundation. He says things into the microphones that make donors cough out their cards and then does not linger for applause. But when the toast is made and the crowd collapses back into itself, your chair at the head table is empty where he should be.

You have learned that sometimes applause is a curtain and, behind it, the thing that matters most presses close to the dark.

The car smells like cologne and rain when he finally slides into the driver’s seat three hours late. He apologizes in a voice that is already softer now, the Wayne persona wearily folded away.

You trace the bruise blooming at his jawline — careful, because he will laugh and say it’s nothing, call it a collision with some architectural stubbornness or a bad landing during polo practice, but you know the geometry of his injuries: a map of fights, of clean lines he tries to hide beneath shirts and ties. He will tuck a sleeve over the place where his ribs have tried to prove the fragility of flesh.

At home the manor receives you as a ruin built for two. The house remembers you; the staff leave the kitchen light low because you like to wake there, both of you, with the world pressing in from the other side of the windows.

He moves with a care that has no stage, silent, almost apologetic. He pours you coffee — black, the way you like it, though he drinks his with a look that says sleep is a luxury he will budget later.

He slides his fingers across your wrist and tells you, in a low voice that makes your name feel new again, that he missed you. You believe him.

There is domestic magic in small things. He folds the newspaper for you without a word. He learns that the exact place your collar irritates you at the end of a long day is behind your ear and kisses it away.

He comes home with his cape scraped and heart heavy and, once, with a stain of soot in the cuff of his coat that he swears belongs to a fireplace he never remembered lighting.

You watch him hold a houseplant like it’s an artifact and you find yourself humming along with him when he hums tunelessly while fixing a tea kettle at two in the morning. These moments are so much more dangerous than the missions — because they show you how fragile he is underneath the armor you both insist on.

Then there are nights you cannot fill with surety. You sit by the bay windows until your knees go numb and the sky yawns black and indifferent.

You will check the clock the way people count breaths, twice then four times, like a heartbeat you are trying to measure externally.

Texts stay blue; calls go to voicemail. You tell yourself he is simply late, that someone needed him.

The truth is a weight you assume like a sweater and can never seem to shrug off. Every siren that trembles through the night makes your stomach drop; every newspaper headline you refuse to read suggests possibilities you cannot unmake.

When he returns with dirt in the soles of his shoes and a silence that smells like rain on concrete, you see it — the band of purple at his forearm, the way he tries to laugh when you reach for it only to catch the lie in his eyes.

You do what wives in stories do and what real people do instead: you pull him into light. “Show me,” you say, and you mean the bruise and the truth and the reasoning and the guilt he wears like a second skin.

He obeys like someone hearing his name called at last. He tries to explain duty as an equation that sacrifices sleep and flesh — “I keep this city safe,” he says, “so you don’t have to. So everyone can sleep.” The logic is noble. The logic is cold. You tell him that you do not need the city to sleep if the man you love does not wake up in the morning.

He tells you he is sorry. He tells you he did not know his apologies would pile up and make a weight he could not bear. His voice breaks on “sorry” and you would be lying if you said it did not crack something open in you.

Anger comes next, sharp and incandescent: you name the nights you stood at the window, the bracelets of fear that wrapped your wrists, the emergency numbers memorized. You ask him to choose — not for the city, for you — and he laughs in a sound that is half grief, half incredulity.

“You think it’s a choice,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Do you know what I would have to be to stop? To pretend I can live as Bruce and still be worthy of you? My responsibility—” He stops because the next words might be a confession and he has long been taught to keep those to himself.

“You think I don’t know that?” you whisper. “You think I don’t know what it cost you to be the man who stands between the rest of us and whatever falls from the night? I married you for all of it, but I didn’t marry — Bruce, I didn’t marry the cost. I married you.”

There is a pause, an actual silence that settles like dust. He steps forward, tired, and places his forehead against yours. It’s not dramatic; it’s an old, torn-in-two kind of intimacy that makes your knees tremble because you remember that this is the man who could pull Gotham away from its knees, and yet his greatest achievement tonight is the way he holds you and tries to keep tears in.

He tells you about the weight he carries when he slides into that suit — how the city lodges itself in his chest and how he cannot breathe without hearing a cry he thinks could be answered.

He tells you how being Batman is not about choosing danger so much as being unable to not stand between the dark and the people who cannot see it.

He confesses, reluctantly, that there are nights he has wanted — more than anything — to step back, to let the world manage without him. But then someone calls for help — a child, a building, a name — and he’s pulled back into the gravity of duty like iron to a magnet.

You tell him, quietly, that being brave does not mean being alone. That the myth of the singular savior is a story you refuse to keep photocopied in your life. “Let me in,” you say. “Let me help hold the cost.”

That night the intimacy that follows is not bruising or breathless. It is honest, slow, a patchwork of small entitlements: he strips away his gloves and sets them on the bedside table as if removing armor, he slides a hand along your back and finds the place where your spine meets the small of your waist and remembers it like a prayer.

He kisses you with the silence of someone who has just cheated death and found home waiting. There are no pretenses then, no Wayne smile, no practiced charm — only raw, exhausted tenderness. He whispers the words you make a home of: “You are my anchor.”

You are proud of him, and the pride makes you fierce. You are terrified, and the terror makes you honest. In the weeks that follow, he lets you be his harbor in small ways.

He leaves notes in the coat pockets, written in that same precise hand that drafts blueprints. He comes to you before patrol sometimes and lets you braid the ends of his hair, a ridiculous and tender ritual that unsettles him into laughter.

He starts to tell you more — the names of safe houses, the layout of a new hideout, the scent one particular villain leaves behind — not to drag you into risk, but because the secrecy was always the wedge between you. His confessions are laced with guilt: about leaving, about the fear he has put you through, about how often the suit feels like the part of him that makes sense.

You are not naïve; you cannot be. There are still nights you wake to the metal scrape of a suit being extracted from its shadows, to boots that tread like another animal through the darkness.

There are still moments when he walks in after an alley that smells like blood and whiskey and adrenaline and sits across from you like a man who has been hollowed out and attempts a smile with lips that have seen too much.

But there are also mornings where he wakes beside you and for a few precious hours is simply a man who will make pancakes wrong and carry you to the couch like a boy who learned how to love before he learned how to fight.

You begin to understand that love for him is not a request for him to stop being what he is; it is a plea for him to bring you with him into the parts where he keeps the ache. He does not promise to stop, because stopping would mean betraying himself, and you love him for that dangerous fidelity.

Instead he promises boundaries that look like respect: more calls when he is gone too long, sharing injuries when they are severe, letting you stand guard at his side sometimes rather than being kept in the dark.

He learns that asking for help is not a failing — it is a way to keep being the man the city needs and the husband you married.

There are days when the strain is almost too much. You will have arguments that end in slammed doors and apologies that smell like cigarette smoke and regret. You will spend weekends apart because a rooftop took him and a board meeting took him and an emergency took him and the house waited, patient and sorrowful. But in the quiet between the calls to arms, you will find him sitting on the floor by the fire, shoes discarded, knees drawn up, reading the dog-eared book you bought him for his birthday. He will offer you half the blanket and a crooked grin, and the world will feel, for a still, thin hour, like something you could survive.

The truth you never say out loud is that the bedroom tells you more about him than the city ever could. In bed, Bruce is not the billionaire, not the guardian, not the weapon sharpened for Gotham. He is just a man stripped down to skin and shadow. And he holds you as though every night might be the last time.

He doesn’t rush. Not with you. He moves like someone who has fought for every breath and refuses to waste the ones he’s been given. His hands are steady even when his body is trembling from exhaustion, from bruises, from a night that almost cost him more than he could afford. He likes the weight of you against him, the reassurance of warmth, the proof that he hasn’t disappeared into the mask completely.

There’s a reverence in the way he touches you, even on nights when words fail. He memorizes you with fingertips as if to keep a map in case he loses his way back home. Sometimes he pulls you into his chest and buries his face in your hair, silent, his breath hot and shaky, as though reminding himself that he is still alive. Other nights, he kisses you slow, like a man trying to erase the memory of blood and concrete with the taste of something human.

You’ve learned he isn’t loud in bed — not the way Gotham imagines Bruce Wayne must be with his endless parade of public flings. He is quiet, almost reverent, but the intensity is undeniable. A low groan when you touch a sore muscle, a broken sound when you cup his face and tell him he’s home. His strength is obvious — the way his arm cages around you, the way his body fits over yours — but he softens it deliberately, conscious of how much of his life is built on control. With you, he lets himself loosen, if only for moments.

And after, when the sheets are tangled and the night has pulled you both under, he lingers. He doesn’t simply roll away into sleep or into silence. He stays pressed against you, fingertips tracing lazy patterns on your skin, like he needs proof you’re real. You’ve felt him wake in the middle of the night — breath caught in a nightmare, body tense like a bowstring — and instead of pulling away, he clings to you. His mouth finds your shoulder, your temple, the curve of your back. His grip is desperate, like you are the only thing keeping him from being swallowed whole.

In those moments, you understand the most dangerous part of loving Bruce Wayne: not that he might not come home, but that he does, and he lays down his armor only for you. The man who belongs to the city belongs to you most completely in the dark, in the warmth of your shared bed, where the only battles left are the ones against sleep, silence, and the fear of losing what you have.

The truth is: loving him is a series of negotiations with the dark. You sign the contract with your own hands and your own blood, every time you choose to stay. You are married to a man who wears both a smile for the press and a cowl for the night, and your job — your choice — is to love the whole mosaic.

You are proud when his name is associated with a new shelter; you are terrified when the city whispers of a new villain. You are the woman who folds his shirts and patches his wounds, who argues with him about the logistics of his sleep schedule and cries in the kitchen when he does not come home. You stand at the window and count the minutes in the way people count candles, and when he returns, you hold him like the story you refuse to surrender.

On a morning that smells faintly of rain and coffee and the faint ozone of a night’s work, he carries you into the kitchen like an old habit and sets you on the counter.

Your knees tangle with his, and for a moment, he looks like the boy who first learned to be brave in the face of cruelty. There is a bruise at his ribcage and a laugh like apology on his lips. You cup his face and find the salt at his jaw from a night you can’t remember — a memory stitched with dangers and good intentions.

“You could leave,” he says suddenly, voice small. “You could have left.”

You laugh, a sharp, relieved sound. “I could have,” you admit. “But the thing about anchoring is that it isn’t about holding someone back. It’s about giving them somewhere to return to.”

He presses his forehead to yours. The house hums around you like a living thing. There is darkness, and there is light; he walks both. You close your eyes and memorize the map of him — the way his knuckles look when he’s concentrating, the way he smiles without meaning to when you say something stupid, the ragged edge of exhaustion that rounds his words. You have feared losing him more than you have feared losing anything else. You have also become something he would risk everything to keep.

There will be nights when the fog rolls in and the city coughs in its sleep and you will stand by the window again. You will worry — sometimes beyond reason. You will find more bruises and excuses and apologies and tenderness. But you will also find hands that come back every single time, a promise renewed in the quiet exchange of small domesticities: folded shirts, coffee mugs, a hand at the small of your back when a sound makes you start.

You married a man who is both a myth and a misgiving, a billionaire who writes checks and a guardian who writes laws in the margins of the night. You do not expect to solve the city’s violence with a casserole or a stern look. You do, however, choose to be the place he can fall when the darkness becomes mountains.

You are the anchor he swears by, and in his rare confessions — the ones that come when the cowl is off and the mask is put in a drawer and the world can wait — he tells you that you are the only thing he has never been able to save himself from. You smile then, hospital lights and fireworks and all, and you hold him back because sometimes saving the man you love means staying with him as he chooses to save the world.

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“the world takes him, but you’re the one he returns to.”

⋆｡°✩ thanks for reading, angel ♡

want more stories? ➝ [here’s my masterlist]

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne’s wife #batfam x reader #batfam fanfic #batman #batman x reader #batman x you #short story #dceu fanfic #dceu x reader #gotham fanfiction #bruce wayne angst #batfam #batman x y/n

torn

summary: bruce gets a little too rough in the bedroom by accident

pairing: bruce wayne x female reader

warnings: brief smut, injury caused by sex, bleeding, pain, aftercare, a hundred thousand apologies

word count: 1396 words

a/n: this is just a stupid thought that came to me and then i remembered that there aren't enough awkward sex stories in the world

Sweaters

Summary: Clark finds you wearing his clothes. He's in love.

Warnings: Fluff

WC: 235

ao3 // tag list

You’d lost track of how long you’d been curled up on Clark’s couch, wrapped in his oversized flannel. The sleeves swallowed your hands whole, and he hadn’t stopped smiling at you since you put it on.

“You know,” you teased, tugging at the cuff that dangled halfway down your fingers, “I think this shirt was made for me.”

MAKE THEM BITCHES FRENCH KISS!

── .✦ | pairing : Adrian Chase x fem reader | warnings : 18+ mdni. Typical Peacemaker violence at play. Fluff/Smut. Some trauma, but nothing too detailed or specified. First ever full smut I wrote pls be nice. Also, not really proof read cause I was eager to get this out before the finale, so read at your own discretion. Truther in power bottom switch reader and pathetic whiny sub dom switch Adrian, man, I don't fucking know. | summary : What happens when a psychotic freak meets a metahuman freak? | acknowledgements : dividers @cafekitsune | wordcount : 16,352 / 31 pages (holy fuck)

Just wanted to write smth before we officially said goodbye to this nerd until Gunn is ready to bring him out of the DCEU basement again after tonight's final ep. Rest in peace, Adrian Chase. I've known you for so little, yet I've loved you as if I've known you a lifetime. Anyway, little crossover with another fic of mine about Clark, so make sure to check it out! Enjoy!

Adrian Chase thought emotions were a foreign concept to him. He was a self-proclaimed psychopath, a term he threw around with a broad smile that reached both ends of his lips and grazed the tips of his eyes. Not because he wanted to get a laugh out of others, but because he actually was, very much, an actual psychopath. A title he bestowed upon himself with no shame or embarrassment. He murdered people for the pettiests of crimes, in the name of good civility, or protecting Evergreen from criminality while being the biggest criminal of them all. From graffiti to drugs, no matter what you pursued in the dark arms of the night, there was one thing that would be true about these criminals.

Trust, you would be dealt with by the Vigilante himself.

There was no one as serious as him when it came to using the most extreme methods for ending the life of some lowlife. Or so he thought, until he saw you cut the air off some guy’s throat when he tried pointing a gun at him. The man’s skin had turned an ugly, deep purple. The veins beneath his skin had begun to protrude from underneath the muscles that worked to bring blood around the body, to the point of stretching the skin beyond its limits, inflating like a balloon. His eyes had bulged beyond a normal amount from their sockets, popping out as an egg might when microwaved, exploding, their goo splashing all over his dark suit, staining it red.

It was the hottest thing he’d seen anyone do for him.