Tags: F!Reader x Vigilante, Healer!Reader, Fluff
Notes: yeah,,, so this one got a way from me. I couldn’t decide on making a prologue or a continuation, so I did both??
Someone was pounding on your front door.
It rattled the hinges, frantic and uneven.
You hesitated, frozen halfway between the couch and the kitchen. Midnight wasn’t exactly social hour in your neighborhood. But there was something desperate in that knocking that made your chest ache before your brain could scream for you to not open that door.
You cracked it open anyway.
And instantly forgot how to breathe.
Standing on your porch was Vigilante. As in, that Vigilante. The one from the news clips and shaky cell phone videos. Except, on TV he didn’t look like he’d been through a meat grinder.
He was hunched, clutching his ribs, breathing hard beneath armor that was punctured and scorched. He turned his head sharply over his shoulder like he was checking for something, then back at you.
“Vigilante?!” you hissed, taking in his state.
“Hey! Can you, uh, move out of the way so I can hide in here real quick?” He said it with an almost chipper tone, nevermind the fact that he was bleeding on your welcome mat.
“Yeah, just for a sec! People are trying to kill me. Which, rude, but I’ll get them back for it, don’t worry!”
So that’s what all that ruckus was. You’d gotten used to hearing craziness every other night around here, so much that it was hard to tell the difference between gunshots and bad fireworks.
This time, apparently, it was gunshots.
You stepped aside before your sense of reason could intervene, and he stumbled past you into the living room, dragging one leg slightly behind him.
You quickly lock the deadbolt and spin back to him, “You’re- oh my god, you’re so hurt- Jesus!”
He straightened, or tried to. His chest puffed out, his stance wobbling. “I’m fine,” he said, voice bright and breathless. “I’ll just take a nap for a bit, and I’ll be good to go.”
“You’re bleeding through your armor!” you tried to reason, stepping closer.
He looked down at himself, frowned. “Yeah, that’s… yeah, nothing to worry about I heal fast.”
You caught him before he hit the ground, bracing him with both hands. His weight was solid and heavy against you, the Kevlar warm under your palms.
The moment your skin brushed the torn edge of his suit, a spark fluttered through you. It was small, electric, familiar. Your ability itched under your skin, that old, undeniable pull to fix what’s broken.
“Okay, come on,” you muttered, half-guiding, more dragging, him down the hall. He tried to protest, mumbling something incoherent but let you take him into the guest room. You coax him onto the bed, wincing as his blood stained the sheets.
“Okayyy,” he mutters, already half-asleep, “maybe just for a little bit…” Then, not a second later he was passed out cold.
You stared at him for a moment as he laid there, heart still hammering.
Then you bolted back to the door, double-checked the locks, and grabbed your med kit from the bathroom.
He was still breathing when you returned. Each inhale he took was ragged and heavy beneath the ruined armor, but even.
You crouched beside your new patient, trying to focus on the mess of wounds and not the shape of him there on your bed. The air smelled like gunpowder, sweat, and something faintly clean and disarming. Cheap soap, maybe? It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, the mix of it was kind of dizzying.
You reached for his mask, but the grip on your wrist was iron, biting deep before you could even flinch.
“Touch the mask,” he rasped, voice suddenly low, dangerous, “and I’ll kill you.”
You froze, then nodded quickly.
After a beat, his hand fell away. He slumped back into the pillow, unconscious and dead to the world once again.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath and nodded again, “Okay, no mask. Got it.”
You hesitated for a second, then pulled scissors from the nightstand and sliced through the torn kevlar as carefully as you could, peeling away layer after layer until the material gave way.
He was… beautiful. His chest was broad and warm, scattered with bruises, scratches, and a few bullet wounds that-
Were already on their way to healing.
You frowned, that familiar tug pulling harder now. The ache in your hands was impossible to ignore. Although it seemed like he was beginning to heal himself, the gashes on his side were still deep, and the blood was still pooling beneath him, albeit slower now. You’d spent your whole life trying not to use your ability unless you absolutely had to…but watching him bleed out on your bed? You didn’t even think twice.
You pressed your palm lightly against the torn skin near his ribs.
The reaction was instant: a heat flared beneath your hand, and the broken flesh began to knit together faster, angry red and purple fading to a pink, then to smooth, unbroken skin. You exhaled shakily. Every time it still amazed you.
You trailed your thumb along another wound, just to make sure it closed completely. It did. You kept going, from one gash, then another, each one sealing itself under your touch.
And you glanced back up at him. He was close enough that you could see the faint rise of his Adam’s apple under the edge of his mask.
Still, though, even after his (terrifying) warning…your fingers itched to touch. You had to physically stop yourself from sliding your hand up to trace the curve of his neck to where his throat met his jawline. You just knew his skin there would be so soft..
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.
But he was right there. And the smell of him and the warmth of his skin and the way your fingertips buzzed when you touched him-
You leaned forward before you could stop yourself and pressed your lips to the place where the wound on his chest had been. Just one soft kiss.
A surprised little hum, came from above you.
“Did you,” his voice croaked, half-slurred, “did you just kiss me?”
Words. You needed words! Any words!!
“Yeah!” Your brain scrambled. “That’s just-uh-it’s part of how I heal people!” You laughed, high-pitched and nervous. “Should’ve mentioned that earlier when you came in. Totally forgot, my bad!”
There was a beat of silence. You could feel him staring at you through that red visor.
“…That’s so fucking COOL!”He grins under the mask. “You heal people with kisses? That’s awesome! Does it work on, like, broken ribs too, or-”
After that day, the masked vigilante started showing up at Casa de La You often. And before long, it wasn’t The Vigilante at your door, but Adrian Chase. The mask never made it past the doorway, usually ending up tossed somewhere in the hall or on the couch.
He’d trail after you while you cleaned, fingers grazing over things on the counter, talking about any odd thing that came to mind. Sometimes he came by to escape his mom, sometimes just to fill the quiet. He’d push up his glasses before another tangent, dimples flashing as he grinned over some ridiculous wildlife fact, and the sound of his laughter lingered long after he left.
It wasn’t just his honey curls or the green of his eyes that did you in, it was how alive he seemed in your space. And how when he smiled, the corners of his mouth dipped just enough to make your heart ache.
Whenever he came to you for healing though, the guilt settled heavy in your chest. He never suspected there was anything unusual about the way you did things, and you let him believe that.
You promised yourself you’d tell him the truth. But the moment your fingers found his skin, or your lips brushed the warmth of it, your resolve shattered all over again. It was selfish, maybe, but you swore to yourself you’d find the courage to tell him one day.
That decision was made for you the day you met the 11th Street Kids. The guilt was replaced with worry that gnawed at you. Would Adrian ever come back to see you? Would he hate you?
And yet, against all the anxiety, he kept coming back.
Today, Adrian showed up straight from his latest drug bust, his nose bleeding and a fresh bruise blooming just under his eye. You reached up without thinking, brushing your thumb over it, healing him and cleaning away the blood with a tissue. He tried to grin through the split in his lip where someone had pistol-whipped him.
And, Of course, who were you to say no?
You smile and lean up to press your lips against his, the warmth fizzling between you as his cut stitches itself up.
He’s already chasing the next kiss before you can pull back, grinning against your mouth. His hand slides up your spine, and suddenly one kiss turns into three. And for every one you give him, he just has to give you two more.
He hefts you up like it’s nothing, lips still locked with yours, and leads you both to the couch. He never leaves you, not even when he drops down into the cushions and pulls you into his lap. You’re laughing breathlessly against him, hands tangled in his hair as the world narrows down to just the two of you.
Adrian shifts beneath you, lying back until he’s flat against the cushions, one arm reaching up to shove a pillow under his head.
“I think I got a cut on my tongue earlier,” Adrian mumbles between kisses, voice warm with laughter. The sound vibrates through his chest, rumbling into yours, and you can’t help giggling too as you drag yourself higher to look at him.
“Oh yeah?” you tease. “Anything else I should worry about?”
He grins, eyes bright even in the dim light. “Yeah, I think one of the cartel guys grazed me when he shot at me. I’m pretty sure he nicked me,” His hand slides up from your hip, over your shirt, fingers spreading along your waist. He gives a slow, deliberate squeeze. “Right here.”
“I can take care of those too, if you want,” you offer, pressing your lips under his chin.
“Fuck, oh my god, please, I’d love that so much! Just..-” He looses his train of thought and groans softly, a smile tugging at his mouth.
You start undoing the buckles of his chest armor, the faint metallic clicks mixing with his steady breathing. The zipper of his mesh suit gives way under your fingers, revealing warm skin, battle-marked and still faintly flushed from the fight.
A particularly charming bit of his neck catches your eye. His bare skin is so warm and inviting you can’t resist; you pepper kisses there, soft at first, then bolder, nipping lightly when his breath hitches. His grip on your shirt tightens with each pass of your teeth.
You smile against him and trail your hand down to where the bullet had grazed him earlier, running your fingers over it once, then twice, until you’re sure it’s gone and the skin is smooth again.
That’s when Adrian cups your face in both hands. His lips part, eyes going wide and exaggeratedly mournful as he fixes his glasses and peers down at his side. “Nooooo,” he whines.
“What?” You manage between giggles.
“I wanted to milk that one for at least another day!” he says, mock-serious. “You ruined my sympathy points.”
“Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you,” you murmur, already leaning back in.
