your writing is a big part of why I finally watched Peacemaker. I was debating, but saw one of your Adrian fics and now I'm obsessed, down an Adrian rabbit hole, and have been listening to hair bands all week.
If there maybe, possible, pretty please with kittens on top, any way I could put in a request for after you finish Not Quite Him? (I love it SO much), I love how you write Other Adrien and would love if you might make a fic with him and his reader? like how they were together Fluffily, not plot just their dynamic since he's so different from Our Adrien? :)
A/N: First of all, thank you so much!! I’m so honored to be the one that got you into the show!!
Second of all, you have unlocked a new achievement: turn frog evil and uncork the Angst Bottle. Not only did I love writing this drabble and exploring the differences between alt!adrian’s dynamic with you as opposed to the og!adrian’s, but if you guys want to send asks for little snippets like this one I would adore it!! Let’s expand this character together! Let’s make alt!reader’s death hurt!! plus, writing this snippet knocked up my inspiration for the main fic like ten fold, so it’s a great writing exercise
(if you want, you can consider this the alternate universe version of the snake argument in chapter 5)
“I’m gonna kill you. I’m actually gonna kill you.”
“That’ll shut me up.” Adrian offers, reclining on the couch, arms spread over the back, casual and calm. You, on the other hand, are fuming, pacing in front of him like you can’t decide whether to storm off or wring his neck. You won’t do the former, you never do, but the latter might still be a possibility. Not that he would mind very much.
He knows why you’re mad, too, but he’s not going to be the one who brings it up. Not yet. When you’re angry, you tend to work yourself into a spiral until you can’t seem to remember why you were even mad in the first place, and you’re definitely doing that now. Deflecting from what’s actually bothering you by ranting a mile a minute about borderline nonsense and gesturing wildly with your hands as you stomp back and forth in front of him.
You’re covered in blood and dirt, half in and half out of your gear. You’re beautiful. He could watch you yell at him for hours.
“Sweetheart,” he starts, and you whirl on him.
He raises his hands in mock surrender, forcing himself to keep a straight face despite the smile attempting to break free. “Just worried about the carpet.”
You look down, momentarily distracted. You haven’t tracked dirt or blood on it. It looks relatively pristine, in fact, considering the amount of gore the two of you often come home covered in. In your line of work, cleaning up after yourselves is a pretty important skill. “Huh?”
“You’re about to pace a hole through it. New carpet’s gonna be expensive. I just thought-“
You snap. Good. That’s what he’s looking for.
You storm forward, calling him something along the lines of an asshole or a son of a bitch or whatever, and reach out to swat furiously at his chest. He catches your wrists easily, flips you in one swift move to pin you to the couch, and holds you still while you squirm and curse at him.
His grin is a little manic. He can’t help it. He likes you like this. All this passion, all because of him. Because, even if you’re still too angry to fully realize it yet, you worked yourself up because you were worried about him, and doesn’t that make him the luckiest man who’s ever lived?
“Stop smiling like that.” You finally grouch, the fight draining from your body with one last petulant wiggle beneath him.
He kisses your cheek, and you relax a little more, even as your frown remains firmly in place. “No, I’m not.”
And now you finally look at him, really look at him, all that anger and passion having finally crescendoed and worked its way through you. Like a wave pulling back from shore, it leaves behind the real reason you were so upset, glistening like a pearl in the proverbial sand.
God, he loves you. He loves how much you worry. How beautiful your eyes are when they look at him like that, scanning his face like you might find some hidden injury left behind. He settles himself a little more comfortably atop you, making sure to avoid any position that might cause his armor to dig uncomfortably into any part of your body. He releases your wrist in favor of brushing the hair from your face, trailing his lips behind the gentle touch of his fingers. “I know.”
“So we’re in agreement that you’re a dumbass?”
He huffs a laugh against your cheek, but shakes his head. “You know,” he says, pressing slow and purposeful kisses over your jaw, “most girlfriends would swoon if they saw the cool shit I did back there.”
“I mean, was I expecting a panty sized hole in the ground? Maybe a little, but I didn’t wanna get my hopes up-“
“Adrian.” You push him back, your hand on his cheek, and meet his smile with another glare. “I’m serious. You jumped in front of like, twenty fucking guns back there.”
They had been aimed at you, but you know that. The risk had been high, but anything in the world would have been better than a single one of those bullets finding a home beneath your skin. It’s a miracle you both lived. Honestly, he’d blacked out around the time the first guy aimed his weapon at you.
You know that, too. But he can see the lingering fear in your eyes. He can feel the way your thumb is brushing over his cheek, like you’re cherishing the fact that he’s still in one piece. Trying to anchor him to you through the feeling of his skin against yours.
“Okay, okay.” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “I’m the biggest dumbass in the world.“
You lean up a little, meeting him halfway, and your lips touch his just lightly enough that he can feel the twitch of your smile against his mouth. “You are.”
He laughs, snatching your hand from his face and pinning it above your head again. “You’re mean tonight.”
His smile grows, and he’s sure that that little hint of mania is back in his eyes. The one that makes you call him a weirdo, or a psycho, or even just crazy. It’s never mean, never cruel. Always filled with so much affection you may as well be writing sonnets for him. He ducks his head into the hollow of your throat, nipping lightly at your pulse point and revelling in the way you arch into him like you just can’t help it.
“It’s only three a.m.,” he hums, moving one of his hands down to skate teasingly along your waistband. Your breath hitches, and he grins a little wider. “Bet I can make you forgive me by sunrise.”
“I highly doubt that, Chase.” You try to grumble, but he can hear the smile in your voice. He can feel your body relaxing beneath his, simultaneously coiling with a different and more promising kind of tension in a dichotomy so beautiful he wonders if he should pick up writing poetry just so he can find a way to put the feeling flooding through his chest into words.
You’ve already forgiven him, he knows you have, but you don’t admit it out loud until round three.
