https://archiveofourown.org/works/76915511 - will is happy with his life but then mike shows up at a gay bar (incomplete fic but getting updates)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/41077998 - written before season 5 but it workssss so well. will lives in ireland and thinks he's happy without mike but then mike shows up
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44930170 - again, written before season 5, but it works with the canon. a kid shows up at will's doorstep. it's MIKES KID. the kid tries to reunite them
https://archiveofourown.org/works/77581516 - the party all grieve jane properly and mike and will reunite after 5 years
https://archiveofourown.org/works/75914581 - will is an illustrator, mike is part of a band, it's 1993 and they meet up again
https://archiveofourown.org/works/76956946 - mike writes will letters every day since he left hawkins. will never replies - they have a reunion in hawkins and he realises he's not over him
https://archiveofourown.org/works/76935486 - they reunite at lumax's wedding, will has a plus one
https://archiveofourown.org/works/77126546 - they reunite at jopper's wedding
Summary: By some miracle, you managed to survive your encounter in the library. But now, finally back in your own dimension and recovering from the wound that nearly killed you, you’re faced with a whole new mess of problems.
Other Adrian is in your dimension with you. The portal is gone. Both Adrians are more than a little traumatised by your near-death. And, maybe most importantly of all, none of you have any idea where you’re supposed to go from here.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of injuries, Reader is on painkillers for a sec (waking up in the hospital), Mentions of death, Mentions of sex, Smut, A little bit of threesome action??, Both Adrian’s are overprotective as fuck, OG!Adrian is oblivious and inappropriate, Alt!Adrian is also inappropriate but he knows damn well what he’s doing, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author’s Note: Finally, am I right?? Thank you guys for being so patient waiting for this chapter! I hope you love it! We’ve got angst! We’ve got some sexy action! We’ve got pining and fluff and Adrians arguing and Adrians getting along (worse) and just a whole lot of our boy Adrian Chase! As always, PLEASE let me know what you think!!
(This is part of Not Quite Him. If you haven’t checked it out yet, I encourage you to!)
-
This time, when you come back, it’s slower.
Your eyes crack open like they’ve been weighed down by fucking anvils. You don’t jolt. You don’t gasp. You just sort of…melt back into consciousness. The pain comes slowly, an ache spreading from your center through your entire body. It’s dulled, now, but it’s there. Very, very much there.
Your vision is blurry. Your mouth is dry. Something is beeping a little too loud, and your head hurts.
Other You was right. Coming back does suck.
When you make a miserable little noise, you’re surprised to feel it muffled by the soft fabric of a sweatshirt. That fabric shifts, just a little, and you blink as you turn your head up to look into familiar green eyes behind familiar, silver-rimmed glasses.
“Hey. Hi.” Adrian murmurs, voice hoarse and so much more quiet than usual. “Don’t move, okay? And don’t talk too loud. They’ll kick me out of the bed again if they see me here.” He looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You think you see the silvery streaks of dried tears on his cheeks. “The nurses get so pissed here. They say I have one more strike before I’m not allowed back in the room, but you were shivering in your sleep so I thought you might want me to hold you.”
You blink again, still a little delirious, and lean your head back into the crook of his arm. You feel a shaky breath against the top of your hair. Feel his lips press against the crown of your head.
Your hand feels warm. When you look down, you see Adrian again.
“You’re sleeping.” You mumble, still trying to blink away the fog.
“It’s not me.” He kisses the top of your head again, inhaling deeply in that way that is so familiar it doesn’t even register as weird or creepy anymore, and his arm twitches like he wants to pull you closer but he’s worried about moving you at all. “It’s the other me.”
“Other you.” You repeat, a little absentmindedly. His head is resting next to your joined hands. His eyes are closed like he might have fallen asleep watching you. He doesn’t look peaceful, but his features are relaxed. He looks…
“Pretty.” You murmur, and wonder if you said that out loud.
“Thank you.” Your Adrian says, and his fingers skate restlessly over your arm. “I mean, I’ll say thank you. He looks like me. We have the same face. It’s still weird to look at him. Kinda cool, though.”
You turn your head up to look at him again. You like that he’s holding you. His bicep is beneath your cheek, and the fabric of his sweatshirt smells like him and feels nicer than any pillow you’ve ever laid your head on.
“Hi.” You say, and smile.
He looks like he’s going to cry. He’s definitely been crying. You don’t like that at all.
“You’re on a whole bunch of painkillers.” He explains, and his smile looks so relieved and loving and still holds too many traces of fear. You try to reach for him with your free hand, and he stops you, warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist and pushing it back down to the mattress.
“Don’t move. You’ve got an IV. They’ll kick me out if the bed beeps again. And then I can’t hold you anymore.”
Well, you don’t want that. “Okay.” You hum, and nuzzle your nose into his arm. He smells good. Like laundry detergent and that cheap cologne he likes and just a little bit of gunpowder and bleach. “You look scared. Did I scare you?”
“Yeah.” He breathes, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice makes him sound painfully vulnerable. “I watched you die.”
“I didn’t die.” You didn’t. You’re here now, right? Unless you’re in heaven. This might be heaven. Adrian is here and he’s warm and he feels nice. Like home.
“You got so cold.” He sounds a little distant, and when you look up at him you see something familiar creeping into his eyes. Something that doesn’t fit this version of him, but that you’ve seen too many times on his alternate self. “You stopped breathing. I keep listening to you breathe, now. I can’t sleep unless I feel it.” His hand moves up from your arm, and touches your cheek. Soft. Gentle. A hesitant, barely there little caress like anything harder might hurt you. “Please don’t stop breathing again. Ever.”
You lean your face into his touch, smiling again, and you see the corners of his eyes glisten as he looks down at you.
“Okay, I won’t.” And you won’t. If it makes him happy, and if it makes those tears go away, you’ll keep breathing until the universe itself crumbles to dust.
You feel the Other Adrian twitch. Feel his hand flex in your own. You look down at him, brow furrowing.
“I should wake him up.” You think you’d like to hear him speak. To look into his eyes. You want to see if that darkness is still there so you can try to soothe it away. He must have been scared, too.
Your Adrian smoothes your hair back. Kisses your temple. “Can I keep you, right now?” He asks, tone so much more tired and gentle than you’re used to. “Can I just hold you for a while and listen to you breathe? He gets pissed when I get in the bed, too.”
You don’t want him to leave the bed, so you nod. “Okay, weirdo.”
For a moment, you just lay there. Maybe it’s the painkillers, but this is definitely the best feeling in the world. Your body still aches, and you’re still very tired, but Adrian’s chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He smells familiar. He feels familiar. He’s the best thing in the entire world. You love him so much you think it hurts.
“Hey.” You murmur after a few minutes of silence, voice muffled by his arm.
“Mhm?” He’s still quiet. His fingers are still combing through your hair.
“Will you marry me?”
His laugh is absolutely wonderful. Short and sharp and just a little choked, but genuine and filled with a love sweeter than honey. He doesn’t even answer in words, just an emphatic little nod as he pulls back to look at you. Oh man, those are tears again.
“Stop crying, please.” You try to reach up to wipe his tears away, and he catches your hand again.
“IV.” He reminds you, pressing a little kiss to your nose. “But I’ll stop crying.” He shifts his grip on your hand, locking his pinky with yours. “Pinky swear.”
“Thank you.” You lean up, and kiss his nose right back. He scrunches it up, smiling again, and the tears seem to have stopped for now. “Wanna tell me some owl facts?”
His smile grows, and he tucks you closer to his chest with one final sniffle. You hum, snuggling as close as all the damn wires and the tiny little bed with allow. “Yeah. Did you know owls have two stomachs?”
“Yeah?” Even in your current state, you’re pretty sure that’s not right.
“Yeah, it’s how they hoot so loud. And how they eat whole mouse skeletons.”
You fall asleep like that. To the familiar cadence of his voice. The feeling of his breath against your skin, his arms holding you as close as possible. It’s warm. Comfortable. Home.
Home.
-
When your eyes creak open again, it’s still night. You’re still wrapped up in Adrian’s arms, his nose pressed so tightly against your hair you can feel the rims of his glasses digging into your skin.
“Does he always do that?”
You look up, shifting your head at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice, coming from too far down the bed to belong to the man holding you.
“Do what?” You ask, and Other Adrian is still holding your hand, sitting exactly where he was before. His eyes are open now, looking at you, and his thumb is brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles.
“Talk in his sleep.”
As if to emphasize the point, Adrian pulls you a little closer and mumbles some kind of nonsense into your hair. You smile, unable to help yourself. “Yeah. He snores too.”
“Oh, I know.” Other Adrian smiles back, and his hand squeezes yours like you’re sharing a secret. “He won’t stop getting in your hospital bed. The nurses fucking hate him.”
“I love him.” You breathe, and there’s no malice behind it. No ‘I love him and not you’ to the statement. No point to be proven. You’re just stating a fact, plain and simple, and you feel Adrian’s arms tighten a little fitfully around you, like he just might hear you even through the barrier of sleep. A surge of affection swells in your heart, and you almost roll over to cuddle closer to him, wires and beeping hospital beds be damned. “There’s always so much going on in his head. I love that he always wants to share it with me. Even when he’s sleeping.” Or when he’s in the middle of a shift at work. Or when you’re trying to stealthily break into a building. There is no barrier in the world that can stop Adrian Chase from telling you what’s on his mind, and none that can stop you from listening.
The Other Adrian doesn’t seem too bothered by your words. In fact, he smiles a little. It’s sad, and you can see the lingering hint of jealousy in his eyes, feel it in the way he squeezes your hand like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but there’s no anger. No intense possessiveness. Just…acceptance. Maybe a little bit of longing. Maybe a lot.
“Where are we?”
His smile falters a little, like he knew this line of questioning was coming, but he still hasn’t fully prepared himself to respond. “Hospital.”
“Yeah, I figured that part.”
“In your dimension.”
“…Oh.”
“ARGUS has the portal.” He says, and the explanation sounds like a confession. You understand his meaning right away. He’s stuck here, now. Because he wouldn’t leave you. Not when he thought you were dying. “Your Chris Smith is in prison, too. He won’t let anyone see him.”
“Shit.” You mumble, and your first thought is of how much worse that has to have made everything for Adrian. Once again, you fight the urge to roll over, kiss him and hold him and tell him everything is gonna be okay because you’ll be damned if you don’t fucking make it that way.
But you can do that later. You will do that later. For now, you just squeeze Other Adrian’s hand.
And you look at him. Really look at him. He looks just as tired as the Adrian holding you now, but there’s something so much more…quiet about it. About him. Something reserved and injured and, if you had to put a name to it, fucking traumatized. You wonder if he’s let go of your hand since you got here. He’s still tracing his thumb over your knuckles like he’s trying to anchor himself to the warmth of your skin.
You’re still learning his eyes. The levels of darkness and clarity that come and go. There’s no darkness there, now. Just exhaustion. Worry. Pain. You have to stop yourself from pulling him to you. From trying to soothe that pain by kissing it away.
“You look weird without your glasses.”
He smiles, and it’s sad and relieved and filled with so much love all at the same time. He raises your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it and threading his fingers through yours. The way he tilts his head, cheek still pressed against your joined hands as he smiles at you, is so boyish and sweet that it thins the line between him and the Adrian you know until your heart aches. “I know.”
“You saved my life, didn’t you?”
His smile stutters, and he squeezes your hand once more before he pulls his head back, looking to your Adrian before shifting his gaze back to you. “We both did.” He lowers your joined hands back to the bed, searching for words as memories fill his eyes. “I learned how…after…”
A deep breath. A pull back to clarity. “I knew how to slow the bleeding.” His eyes move back to your Adrian, who, as if he can sense the conversation happening beside him, nuzzles his nose restlessly into your hair again and mumbles something about crows. “I lost it, a little, when you…” you don’t think you’ve ever seen either of them at a loss for words before. Even this Adrian, who is so different from yours in so many ways, always has something to say. Even if whatever it is will infuriate you.
He takes another deep breath, eyes dropping to your still-joined hands. “He got you to the ambulance. They brought you back. They say it’s a medical miracle you lived.”
You sit there with that information for a moment. Let the weight of what happened sink into you.
“I think I met the other me.” You say, and his eyes snap right back to your face. “Or I hallucinated her or something. I don’t know. But she uh…kicked me.”
His brows twitch, and he looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if they upped your dose of painkillers. “What?”
His hand is warm in yours, calloused in all the same places as your Adrian’s. You look down at it, and now you brush your thumb over his knuckles. Soft. Gentle. The gesture makes something catch in his throat. “She asked me to take care of you, and then she kicked me through a door. And now I’m here” You try to explain, and it sounds so ridiculous when you say it out loud that you really do wonder if it had all been some kind of near-death dream.
He blinks, something like shock passing over his face. Then doubt. Then…hope. Grief. Love. All pulled together to twist his features into the saddest smile you think you’ve ever seen. He doesn’t let go of your hand, but his free hand comes up to wipe at his eyes. “Sounds about right.”
“Sorry for dying again.”
A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob breaks from him, and he shakes his head before running his hand through his hair. “I forgive you. Just…don’t do it again, okay?”
“Okay.”
He leans over you, and you feel the warm press of his lips against your forehead. It’s nice. Very nice. You close your eyes, and barely notice your own contented hum.
“Go back to sleep.” He murmurs, breath soft against your skin. “I’ll be right here.”
-
You’re pulled back to consciousness by the feeling of Adrian’s lips against your own. Soft, familiar, and questioning. You’ve always loved how he wakes you with kisses. The way he always smiles when you stir, pressing closer like you’re giving him some sort of gift by returning his affection.
You do so now, and earn yourself that smile. He pulls back with one more gentle peck, and you only have a moment to look into his eyes, see the hunger and intention there, before he’s leaning back down and trailing his lips over your jaw.
“Be nice and quiet, okay?” He murmurs, voice low and gentle in that familiar way that is always saved for your most intimate moments. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”
You make a noise of confusion, and he answers the wordless question with a hum and a little nip to a particularly sensitive spot beneath your ear, fingers sliding along your thigh to push up the hem of your hospital gown.
“Adrian…” you murmur, even as your body instinctively relaxes beneath his. It’s late, and the room is quiet, but you’re pretty sure that if he isn’t allowed in the bed with you then you’re definitely not allowed to do this.
“Shh.” He shifts beside you, tracing a teasing pattern along the inside of your thigh, slow and lazy and calculated. He pulls back just far enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then your nose. Your other cheek. “Gotta be quiet. Don’t wanna bring any of the nurses in here.”
His lips are back on your neck, warm and soft and intoxicating, and you can’t help but tilt your head back a little to allow him more access.
Fingers glide through your hair, and your gaze snaps to…Adrian. The other Adrian, looking down at you with eyes clouded over with lust as your own Adrian bites gently at your throat. You make a soft noise, opening your mouth to say something, but your Adrian moves up to silence you with another kiss.
“Shh.” He murmurs again, hand trailing higher, breath mingling with your own as he speaks. “It’s okay. It’s okay to want it.”
Adrian’s hand reaches the apex of your thighs, and your gasp is muffled by his mouth as his fingers begin to move in a steady, practiced rhythm, sending a wave of sparks straight to your core. He breaks away after a few moments, only to trail his lips back down to your ear. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, strained with desire and a hunger so deep you nearly moan from his tone alone. “I’m gonna show him how good I can make you feel. Do you want that?”
You open your mouth to speak, but another movement of Adrian’s fingers makes you choke on a whimper instead, hand flying up to muffle the noise with your hand. You nod, and feel him smile as he catches the lobe of your ear between his teeth and curls his fingers so deep, so deliciously, that you swear your vision blurs. You thank every star in the fucking sky for Adrian’s obsessive personality. For the time he took when you first got together to learn your body like a personal project. To figure out every movement, every touch that makes you fall apart.
The Other Adrian’s fingers wrap around your wrist, guiding your hand away from your mouth as he leans forward until your lips brush. The touch is soft, barely there, and he watches like a damn predator as Adrian curls his fingers again and you squirm.
“Stay still, baby.” He whispers, nose brushing against yours, lips hovering over your own. You lean up to kiss him, and he pulls back a little, thumb brushing over your cheek as he watches you, laser focused on every shallow breath. Every twitch in your expression.
When you gasp again, something in him seems to snap, and he kisses you so hungrily that you forget where you are. Your hand tangles in his hair, back arching off of the bed and sending a jolt of pain through your injuries. His hand pushes you back down, gentle but firm, and the noise that escapes him is so low and feral that it pushes every thought out of your head.
Your Adrian speeds up the movements of his fingers, biting down at the hollow of your throat hard enough to leave a mark, and you would fucking writhe if you weren’t held down by the other Adrian’s hands.
“That’s it.” He coos, as another crook of your Adrian’s fingers makes you grip his hair so tightly you would worry you’d pull it out by the fucking root if you could think straight. He groans, pressing closer, and you think you can feel his body shaking with restraint. “Fuck, look at you.”
“So fucking perfect.” Your Adrian whispers, breath hot on your neck as the other Adrian kisses you again, rougher now. Hungrier. “So fucking tight. Fuck, I love you so much. Louder.”
You moan against the Other Adrian’s mouth, and he growls in response as his hand tightens on your waist, fingers digging deep into your skin. Your Adrian nudges him to the side, crushing his mouth to yours and biting down hard on your lip. You whine, desperation clawing at you as you feel his near-manic grin against your mouth.
It feels good. So, so fucking good. Heat builds in your core, toes curling against the crisp hospital sheets as you grasp at whatever part of either of them you can reach. The pain is forgotten, pressure building fast as you-
You wake with a gasp, a jolt of pain shooting through you as you nearly bolt upright. The room is still dark, the soft glow of early morning sunlight trickling in through the window.
And both Adrian’s are awake. And both of them are watching you.
Your Adrian’s arm is still beneath your head, bicep acting as a makeshift pillow. His alternate watches you from the side of the bed, still in the same chair.
“Which one of us was that about?” He asks, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a knowing little smirk. His gaze is burning into you so deeply that it takes actual effort not to hide yourself from it. To keep your thighs from clenching together as you try to breathe through the lingering memories of the dream.
“One time she had a sex dream about the hamburglar.” Your Adrian says, like he’s being helpful, and you blink in surprise as your cheeks begin to heat with embarrassment. “I mean, I tried to tell her it’s not that weird. But he is a criminal, which is a little fucked up in my opinion. She said she didn’t want me to dress up like him for sex, though-“
“She said our name, dumbass.”
“I know.” He snaps, defensive, and he nuzzles the side of your head with almost absentminded affection. “Maybe she was dreaming about me in the hamburglar costume.”
“Okay, I wasn’t.” You turn your eyes to the other Adrian, frowning despite what must be a very bright shade of red staining your cheeks. “And don’t call him dumbass.”
“Would be hot, though.” Your Adrian says, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“What would?”
“Me in a hamburglar costume. You’d think that was hot.”
He’s not gonna move past the hamburglar thing until you acknowledge it, apparently. So, as you always do when he finds something to lock in on, you give it the moment of thought he clearly believes it deserves. At the very least, it’ll draw attention away from the dream you were actually having.
You turn to him, look him up and down as best you can in your current position. “Hm…I think you could pull it off.”
“Fuck yeah. You’re such a perv.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“And he’s a criminal. We kill criminals. That’s like, triple perverted.”
“You’re such a weirdo.”
“Rabble rabble.”
“What?”
“Oh my God, you totally blushed. I bet it’s like Niagara Falls in your panties right now.”
“Adrian.” You’re trying so hard, so valiantly, not to laugh. But that’s the thing about Adrian, and one of the things you love so much about him. He isn’t even really fucking with you right now. He just sees the spark in your eyes, the hint of laughter building up after so much pain and hurt, and he’s pushing at it. So many people, even your closest friends, might get annoyed with him quickly, but you never have. You don’t think you ever will. No matter how goofy, unhinged, or just plain weird he can be.
When you first met, you laughed at a joke he made. It wasn’t really even that funny - just said at the right time in the right tone to throw you off guard and pull a giggle from you. He made that same joke every day for the next week, always turning to you the moment he said it. It took you three days of confusion to realize that he was just trying to make you laugh again. Trying to get you to giggle again. That’s why you love him. Your sweet, earnest, obsessive weirdo.
It’s when you turn to Other Adrian, as yours continues to chase your laughter with more teasing, that the giggle now rising in your throat is cut off by a rush of heat.
His eyes are dark. He’s still smirking, but there’s something cocky and very knowing in the expression that sends your thoughts right the fuck back into your dream. When you meet his gaze, his smile widens.
I know. That look says, that cockiness and confidence still so strange to see on Adrian’s face. You can’t hide from me.
You might be fucked.
-
Eventually, they release you from the hospital, and there’s not much left to do but go home.
Living with Adrian Chase is never boring. Living with two Adrians is…interesting. Healing from a mortal wound with two insanely protective versions of Adrian is…
Fucking annoying.
“Get. Off. The. Chair.”
“No.”
“I think I can grab her by the legs without hurting her.” Your Adrian says, standing on the opposite side of where his alternate self has his arms crossed over his chest, narrowed eyes fixed on you.
“Ade, if you try it, I will bite you.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop smiling like that.”
“Why? It sounds hot.” He flexes his fingers, a subtle twitch he has before he jumps into action, and you don’t need to know him as well as you do to know that he’s about to pounce on you.
“Look, I can fix a damn lightbulb. I was stabbed. I didn’t lose my legs.”
“You bled out.” Other Adrian says, and that stern expression still looks so strange, especially when you have your own Adrian nearly vibrating with energy and grinning like a maniac on your other side. “If you fall and reopen the wound you could-“
“It’s been two weeks. I won’t reopen the-“
Your argument is cut off by a squeak of surprise as your legs are swept out from beneath you, and you suddenly find yourself wrapped in your Adrian’s arms as he swings you off of the chair so swiftly and carefully that it barely makes the all-too-familiar pain in your stomach flare up. Still, you struggle and curse on principle as he lowers you to the ground, arms wrapping around you tightly enough to keep you still as his lips press against the side of your head with an exaggerated little ‘mwah!’. You would find the gesture cute on a regular day, but after two weeks of barely being allowed to sneeze without one of them freaking out that your wound will reopen, you’re getting pretty close to wringing his neck.
“You’re so fucking overprotective.” You grouch, and he pecks the side of your head again like you just gave him a compliment. “I wasn’t nearly this annoying back when you got shot.”
“You’re grumpy today.”
“I’m not grumpy. I’m pissed. And capable of changing a fucking lightbulb.”
“She’s just hard up.” Other Adrian says, blunt and confident, and you nearly growl with irritation at the smirk you can hear in his voice. That irritation grows when your Adrian pulls back, grinning wide and leaning close enough that he goes a little cross-eyed trying to look into your eyes.
“Yeah? Are you all pissy because the doctor said no sex until you’re better?”
“I’m not pissy.”
“Aww, you’re so pissy.” He kisses your cheek, still smiling. “Don’t worry. Once you can take the bandages off we’re gonna fuck like bunny rabbits. You know they have sex like, a hundred times a day?”
“There’s no way they do that.”
“They do, and we’re gonna. Other me can even watch, since he’s living here too and he’s me.”
“Oh my God,” you grumble, thunking your head against his shoulder. “This is so fucking weird. I swear, every day you both make it weirder.”
“You saying you want me to fuck you instead?” The Other Adrian is goading you, and you bristle even as both of their words make traitorous heat rise to your cheeks.
“Shut up.” You grouch, and Your Adrian misunderstands your reaction right fucking away.
“Don’t worry.” He hums, distracting himself with pressing slow kisses along the side of your neck. Despite yourself, you melt against him, and you’re pretty sure he must be feeling as pent up as you are, if the way he immediately pulls you flush against him is any indication. “You’re mine. All mine.” He nips at the hollow of your throat, and there’s a hint of a possessive growl in his voice when he adds. “Just mine.”
The Other Adrian clears his throat, and when you turn to him, you can see the hunger in his eyes. His gaze is locked on you.
You turn your attention back to the Adrian currently pressed against you.
“Hey, weirdo.” You pull back a little, catching his face in your hands and pulling it back from your neck. And there it is. That little twinge of darkness that’s lingered since your injury, coming and going along with his own special brand of manic excitement. He’s started losing himself sometimes, just a little, though it’s easily soothed away with a touch and firm reminder to focus. “Look at me, okay?”
He does, but the darkness just creeps in a little more. His hand comes up, gripping your chin and angling your head so he can kiss you so deeply your knees threaten to buckle. His tongue slides into your mouth, rough and claiming, and his other hand snakes around your waist.
“Mine.” He mumbles against your lips again, pulling you even closer to him. “All fucking-“
When a hand pulls him back, you have to blink a few times to orient yourself.
“You’re gonna rip her stitches.” The Other Adrian’s voice is low. His eyes are on you. Your Adrian’s hands haven’t left you.
The darkness in his eyes, and in the eyes of his alternate, makes you wonder, vaguely, if it’s mirrored in your own. A dangerous, violent thing, shared by the three of you like a lit fuse, building day by day and preparing to drag all of you down into it.
His gaze drops to your lips. Your Adrian’s fingers tighten on your waist, hand sliding from your jaw up to your hair like he might yank you close and kiss you again before the other version of him has a chance to even think about doing so himself. The tension in the room feels heavy. It’s suddenly difficult to breathe.
And then the door opens.
“We brought- oh, fuck! I told you we’d walk in on a threesome! You owe me twenty bucks!”
“Aw man, gross.” Leots’s voice sounds right behind Chris’s, and you pull away from both versions of your boyfriend as your cheeks burn with a combination of lust and embarrassment.
“We’re not having a threesome.” You say, defensive, and when you move to take another step back you feel Adrian’s hands tighten on you. Hard. Only for a moment, only long enough for you to catch sight of him blinking a few times, like he’s having a little more trouble breaking free of the spell than you are.
He releases you, and whatever was on his face is replaced with his usual, easy smile.
“Nope. No threesomes. She’s alllll mine.” He hums, pressing a quick peck to your nose. When you look up at him, his smile is sharp enough to send a shiver down your spine.
-
“Any updates?”
“Ems and Economos are still looking, but they’re both pretty sure we’re not gonna be getting access to that portal any time soon.” Leota’s tone is apologetic as she takes a sip of her beer, eyes moving from your face to the two Adrian’s sitting on either side of you. It’s Chris’s gaze, however, that catches your attention.
“Dude, can you stop staring at Adrian like that?”
“What?” Chris raises his eyebrows, defensive. “It’s just weird to see him so quiet, you know? He’s creepy.” His voice drops a little, and he leans toward you with a conspiratorial tone that you would mistake for a joke if he didn’t sound completely genuine. “He looks at me like he can read my fuckin’ mind or something.”
“I can.” Other Adrian says, just as serious, and your Adrian laughs. Loud.
“Wait, seriously? Can you?” He sits up a little, looking around like he’s trying to see if he should be in on a joke.
“No, he can’t.” You provide, shooting a glare towards the Other Adrian. B-drian? After all of this time, you wonder if you should give him a nickname or something.
“Okay, good. Because we haven’t had sex in forever, and like, ninety five percent of my thoughts are about fucking you now. I still feel like it would be fucked up if he saw that in his minds eye or-“
“Dude.” Leota makes a face. Adrian, of course, misunderstands it.
“No, seriously. The doctor says no sex or ‘vigorous activities’ until the bandages are off, but the other day she made this whimpering noise when she bumped against the counter and hurt her stomach and it sounded exactly like the noise she makes when I-“
Your hand flies up to cover his mouth. He scrunches his eyebrows in confusion, and licks your palm. You pull it back, and fail to hide your smile as you wipe your hand on the sleeve of his shirt. You honestly can’t count how many times you’ve done that before. Overshare. Cover mouth. Get palm licked. Like clockwork.
“Well hey, at least Evil Adrian doesn’t overshare about your sex life all the damn time.” Leota mumbles, cringing.
“Trust me, I’m familiar with the whimpering noise.” He says, leaning back a little more against the couch with a shit-eating grin. “Actually, I know how to make it a screaming noise if I-“
Your other palm covers his mouth, now. His grin only widens, and he bites it.
“Ow.” You grouch, shaking off your hand as you pull it back.
“Oh great, there are two of them now.”
“Wait, what did I say?” Your Adrian asks as you wipe your stinging palm on your pant leg.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Just overshared a little again.” Easy explanation, and he gets it immediately. He doesn’t really see what’s wrong with it, sure. You can tell that from his expression alone. You’re pretty sure he would tell a drive through employee about every sex position you’ve ever attempted together if the thought crossed his mind. But he still smiles at you like he does get it, and it makes you love him even more. “You, on the other hand,” and you turn to glare at the other version of him, eyes narrowed, “know exactly what you did. And it’s not funny.”
“What?” He says, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “I don’t get it, either.”
“Shut up.”
“Should I demonstrate?”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, shut up.” Your Adrian’s arm wraps around you, and he tugs you a little closer to him. “I get to demonstrate. Not you.”
“That’s not the- oh my God. Okay.” You look to your friends for help, but they both seem too invested - and disturbed - by the conversation happening before them.
“Oh man, there really are two of them.” Chris says, eyes darting between them, and you offer him a wide smile.
“Pick your favorite. I’m five minutes away from killing one of them.”
“She’s pent up because we haven’t had sex in a while.” Your Adrian supplies, and the innocent honesty in his tone is completely genuine.
“Four minutes.”
“You know, because of the bandages. But when they come off-“
“Three minutes.” You try to nudge him, but his hand just sneaks up beneath your shirt to brush a gentle touch over the bandages around your waist. He does that a lot, lately. Like he’s reminding himself that you’re patched up and alive. You don’t think he even notices that he’s doing it anymore.
“Shit. We’re totally gonna have another van incident.”
You groan. Adrian grins. Other Adrian cocks his head to the side in that subtle, observant way he has, looking to you with a single questioning eyebrow raised.
“We um…didn’t know the comms were on.”
“Neither did Economos. And he walked in right at the best part.” Adrian’s voice pipes up by your ear, and you feel a flush rising to your cheeks as Ads cringes again and Chris laughs. As usual, he doesn’t notice, switching his attention to his alternate self and barreling on. “Hey, did your version of her make that noise, by the way? You know, the cute little high pitched sound like right before she-“
“You got liquor?” Chris asks, already rising to his feet. “I think we need shots.”
“I think I need a vodka IV.” Leota adds, and stands with him.
Other Adrian stands too, but his eyes remain locked on you. “Yup.” He says, and it sounds like he’s agreeing with them, but you know what he means. Your Adrian does, too.
“That’s so cool. We should-“
“We should go take shots.” You pat his hand, rising to your feet.
This, you decide then and there, might just be a very long night.
-
Hours, and many beers later, you find yourselves on the roof. Adebayo sits beside you, and the two of you watch in comfortable silence as your Adrian tries to show his ‘famous butt dance’ to Chris and his alternate self.
“You know,” you finally say, fiddling with your beer bottle as you watch him, “he read something about birds seducing other birds with dancing a while back.”
“Is that why he did that dance at you at the bar for like, twenty minutes that one time?”
You snort, and nod. Ads laughs, the sound as bright and genuine as ever.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe that worked. You know his mom brought that up when we were looking for you? Did you know about the picture thing?” And when you nod again, she laughs even harder.
“He’s so fucking weird.” And it might be the alcohol, and it might be the comfort of having your friends and Chris back, but you feel a little lovesick watching him now. Like you might just love him so much it’s going to overflow from your pores and drown you in this sweet, sappy feeling.
“Sooo,” and that sounds like Leota’s ‘we’re about to talk about the elephant in the room’ tone. You don’t like that tone. Especially when you’re a few beers deep and feeling more comfortable and happy than you have in what feels like forever. “What are you gonna do?”
Your eyes shift to the Other Adrian. He’s watching you. He’s usually watching you.
You realize now, as your eyes connect across the dimly lit roof, that you haven’t seen him buzzed before. Or maybe you just haven’t seen him this relaxed. His cheeks are a little flushed, and the smile he offers you isn’t dark or mischievous or knowing. It’s…genuine. Open. It lacks the little hint of mania ever-present in your Adrian’s smile, but everything else is so similar. If it weren’t for his lack of glasses or his fitted t-shirt, you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
That smile.
It’s changed, since the first time you saw it. There was sadness in it before. An aching sort of longing. A devotion that crossed the boundaries of universes and fixed itself on you.
Now it’s…different. And you realize, as you smile back at him, that the sadness isn’t there anymore. You’re not quite sure when it happened, but he’s stopped looking at you like you’re a ghost. Like you’re the resurrected love of his life. Now, when he looks at you, it feels like… it feels like he’s really looking at you. That longing and adoration isn’t meant for a long dead version of you anymore. It’s for you.
You don’t know if that’s better or worse.
“I don’t know.” You finally answer, eyes moving from Other Adrian and back to your own. He’s grinning at you too, wide and open and familiar. The ache in your stomach, still lingering as your wound heals, seems to have moved higher, clenching around your heart and making it difficult to breathe. “I really, really don’t know.”
-
You wake to muffled sounds from the living room.
It’s soft, at first. So soft, in fact, that you’re able to brush it off and snuggle a little deeper into Adrian’s embrace, chasing sleep with a heavy sigh. He curls a bit more around you, cuddly as ever, and…
And then you hear something like quiet begging. A muffled sob that sounds a little too familiar, and much too far away to belong to the man currently holding you in his arms.
A nightmare. The Other Adrian is having a nightmare.
You can feel your Adrian wake beside you, light sleepers that both of you are. His arms tighten instinctively around you, breath stilling along with yours.
“Hi.” You whisper, the silence of the room seeming to amplify the familiar little word.
“Hi.” He whispers back.
“I have to go to him.” You do. The knowledge feels more like an instinct than a decision. All the weirdness and kidnapping and infuriating bullshit aside, you need to go into that room and stop his pain more urgently than you need to take your next breath.
Adrian’s arms tighten a little more. He takes a moment, nuzzling his nose into your temple, before nodding and loosening his hold.
When you begin to wiggle out of bed, however, his hand catches your arm. He pulls you back to him, still half awake, and presses his lips to yours. One sweet, reassuring little kiss. A moment of acceptance. Understanding.
You smile. Your heart swells. You squeeze his hand once in a silent reassurance of your own before you make your way to the couch.
The other Adrian is shaking. You see tears on his cheeks. His fists grip the couch cushions so tightly that you can see the muscles in his arm straining with the force of it.
You reach out, not an ounce of the hesitation that should be there present in this moment. Your hand meets his shoulder, and his eyes fly open as his hand moves faster than should be humanly possible to catch your wrist.
And then his eyes focus, and you watch clarity return to them like the glowing light of dawn as his grip softens.
“Baby?” He whispers, the petname hanging in the silence of the room. When you first met him, you didn’t think it sounded right. That it didn’t fit you. Because not even a month ago, you would have been able to confidently say that Adrian Chase doesn’t call you that. The last time he did was forever ago, when you came into his work and he introduced you to a coworker as ‘Her? Oh, that’s my girl. My baby. The apple-pie-of-my-eye.’
Now, with all that strange and unfamiliar weight behind it, it sounds…not exactly right. Not yet. It’s still too new. Too strange. But it’s…something.
“No.” You whisper, and tug at your hand a little. He loosens his hold a little more, and you surprise yourself when you don’t pull away, instead sliding your fingers into his. “Not uh…it’s me. The other one, I guess.”
To your surprise, he smiles a little, tears still drying on his cheeks and fear lingering in his eyes. But there’s no realization there. No moment of him differentiating you from his you, like you expected.
“I know.” He says, soft and low, and you have no doubt in your mind that he does. He knew it was you the whole time. Since before you pulled him back to consciousness. Maybe even before that.
The realization makes you still, something heavy crackling in the air between the two of you. Something warm and strange and new. He looks at you like he feels it too, careful fingers releasing your hand and moving slowly up to your side. You remain locked in place as he pushes your shirt up, and brushes a featherlight touch over the bandaged wound on your stomach.
“You were…” you pause, suddenly unsure of yourself. It feels so odd, standing above him like this. The silence is so heavy you can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the next room. The fan creaking above you. His eyes are still on your bandages, thumb sweeping featherlight over the sensitive skin at the edges. “You were having a nightmare.”
His eyes meet yours again, filled with so many emotions you wouldn’t be able to pin down a single one of them if you tried. When you still don’t move, he slides his hand a little further around your waist, pulling you forward so gently you may not even feel the touch if you weren’t so hyperaware of every movement. Every breath.
It’s as if your body moves of its own accord, guided by that same unnameable force that’s keeping your eyes locked. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs. In turn, his arms wrap around you, forehead resting gently against your own and thumb tracing soothing little circles against your waist.
Your throat feels dry. This moment feels too fragile.
“You were having a nightmare.” You repeat, and he nods a little. He doesn’t try for anything else. Doesn’t try to kiss you, or touch you any more than he already is, or ask you to admit your feelings for him. He just holds you, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s trying to absorb every second before you pull away from him again.
Your fingers come up to comb through his hair. It’s so soft, just like your Adrian’s. He smells the same. Gunpowder and laundry detergent and a little bit of bleach.
“Does he have nightmares too?” He asks, the words so soft. So, so soft.
“Yes.” It comes out as a breath. A memory of the last couple of weeks, when you woke to his arms tightening around you and a sharp breath against your hair. He usually talks to you when he wakes up like that. Usually goes into some odd mode of self preservation and tries to distract himself from what must have been some truly awful dream where you didn’t wake up. Where you lost too much blood and stayed gone. He’ll feel you rouse with him, hold you so tightly you can feel your stitches strain a little, and ask if you want to quiz him about the first animal that comes to mind. And you do. Every time. Because his voice cracks a little when he asks and it makes you want to cry with so much love and guilt that it hurts.
“You’re different.” This Adrian says, turning his face into your cheek so his breath brushes over your skin. There’s an intimacy to the gesture that hits deep enough to shake you to your core. The tension isn’t sexual, now. Not like those times in his dimension where he pushed your buttons until that taut string connecting the two of you was ready to snap. It’s heavy. Raw. Unnamable. “You’re softer. Kinder. You have…a light, I guess. Like she did, but it’s different.”
His thumb keeps tracing circles over your skin. You hold your breath, afraid that any movement might break this moment.
“I watched that light go out. Back in the library. It killed me all over again.”
“I’m sorry.” You say, and his breath catches. His fingers curl beneath your shirt. You feel his eyes close against your cheek, the brush of his lashes a gentle kiss.
“I love you, you know.” He murmurs. And he’s said it before, and he’s meant it before, but now it sounds like a confession. Like a prayer.
“I know.” You whisper back.
“I don’t think you do, baby.” His hand, large and calloused, slides under your shirt to the skin of your back. Still not pushing. Just touching you. Holding you. Every breath ghosts across your cheek, and you feel like you might start shaking. “I love you. You’re not her. And I know that. And I love you.” And then his other hand comes up, curling a lock of your hair around his finger like it’s something more precious than diamonds.
The meaning of his words hits you like a bullet, making an emotion you can’t name rise in your throat. You’re not a replacement to him. Maybe you were, in the beginning, even if he didn’t realize it.
Not anymore. And he loves you.
“I…” the words die in your throat, and he shakes his head, pulling back to look at you as he smooths his hand over your hair.
“You don’t have to say it.” He murmurs, and the words hold so much weight. So much understanding. His face is so close to yours, and maybe it’s wrong that this doesn’t feel wrong.
You don’t realize just how close he is until his lips brush over yours. Still not pushing. Not even hoping you close the distance. Just feeling your breath mingle with his own, like that’s enough. Like it might always be enough, if it needs to be.
Your eyes threaten to fall closed. It takes too much effort not to lean forward. To feel his lips connect with yours. He’s warm. Here. Familiar and different in ways that make it so difficult to form a proper thought.
“Will you sleep in the bed tonight?” The question is spoken so softly that it comes out as a whisper. He’s still so close that it feels like the promise of a kiss. You want more. You shouldn’t want more.
He looks at you. Takes a moment. Nods.
And so he comes to bed with you.
He stands behind you when you re-enter your bedroom, and your Adrian is still awake.
“He…” you start, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to even think.
But Adrian Chase, your Adrian Chase, knows you. You know each other. He may not understand emotions very well, but he understands you because he’s worked as hard at that as he’s worked at turning himself into a ‘weapon of vengeance’. He studies you like an obsession that will never fade. And that obsession has paid off. Connected you to each other to a point where words don’t need to be spoken.
He just opens his arms, and you know him well enough to know what he’s asking. He wants to hold you, like he always does, but he sees that Other Adrian needs to be here. That…that you need him here.
You climb into his embrace, and he wraps you in devotion with a kiss to your forehead, letting you get comfortable beneath the covers as the Other Adrian lies on your other side.
“You should hold his hand.” Your Adrian says, and his tone is nothing short of earnest. “I mean, I would want you to. Especially because I get to hold the rest of you, you know?”
Other Adrian rolls on his side to face you, one arm beneath his head, and there’s a moment where you just lie there. Watching him as he watches you, with your Adrian’s arms around you and your back to his chest.
You reach out, and when you catch his hand, he breathes a sigh of something like relief.
As sleep begins to pull you under, you find yourself pulling his hand closer. You press your lips to the back of it, and he makes a soft noise as he shifts beside you, until you finally find yourself held warm and safe between both versions of your boyfriend.
And as fucked up as it is, as strange and unusual as it all is, it feels…right.
Summary: your boyfriend tries to teach you that 'no' is a complete sentence
CW: gn! reader, suggestive, dubcon, saying no, the boys are very sweet, rough makeout (jason's), pet names
— requested ages ago by my truth serum nonnie <3
froggi yaps -> wrote this ages ago but didn't post cause i could not for the life of me write a part for the other boys </3 sorry this took so long to post nonnie! enjoy <3
Dick Grayson:
You’re not sure what changed. Five minutes ago, you’d been soaked in lust and ready to go, practically crawling over Dick. But now, when he dips his hand into your pants, something’s changed. A new panic swells in your chest.
You lay entirely still, eyes closed, trying to breathe. It’ll feel good, you try to tell yourself. Dick takes care of you, he always makes you feel good—just a couple minutes and you’ll forget all about it.
And yet, as time goes on, it doesn’t get better. You’re tense, nervous and it’s only now that you realize you’re digging your nails into your palms hard enough to draw blood. A few more minutes, you try to urge yourself.
Dick clocks the tension in your jaw, pulling his hand out of your pants and himself away from you. “Baby.”
“W-why did you stop?” You blink your eyes open slowly, tears brimming your lashes.
“Do you still want to do this?”
You brace yourself to meet his eyes, his disappointment, and yet you’re only met with warmth and concern. He tilts his head at you, offering up a small smile. He’s sitting away from you, hands resting on his knees as if to show you he’s not a threat.
“It’s okay if you don’t, sweetheart. Just say the word.”
Your voice is quiet and shaky, “I don’t want it anymore.”
Dick nods, opening up his arms for you to crawl between them. You slot your body into his, your head resting on his shoulder, his chest against yours. He’s warm, the smell of his cologne soothing your nerves.
“It’s okay to say no, you know that right?” He squeezes you tightly, “nothing bad is going to happen if you do.”
You nod slowly but his words don’t quite sink in. You want to explain it to him, to let him know that it isn’t his fault or anything he did, but the words won’t come out.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I-” Your voice cracks with the weight of your feelings, “It’s okay to say no.”
He kisses the top of your head, “good.”
Jason Todd:
The minute Jason walks through the door, slamming his helmet on the counter so hard it cracks, fear blooms in your chest. Not fear of Jason—you could never be afraid of Jason—but of Red Hood.
You stand up from where you’ve been sitting on the couch eating a late-night bowl of cereal, tilting your head at him. “Jason?”
His head snaps up at the sound of your quiet voice, dark eyes fixed wholly on you. He walks himself over to you one step at a time, boots thumping against the floor with every step.
His hands fall over you, tracing the length of your thighs up to your hips and to your waist. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving with every inhale. And then he’s nuzzling his head into your shoulder, lips grazing the soft skin of your neck.
“Jason.”
“I missed you.”
There’s a hard-fought battle inside of you between your anxiety and your urge to hold him. It’s Jason, he’s your boyfriend, he would never hurt you. But he’s a big man and he’s angry and he’s touching you and—
His teeth nip at your pulse point, his grip tightening as he walks you back to the couch. You can’t take it anymore, your hands bracing against the muscle of his chest and shoving him off of you hard.
You stagger back further than Jason does, toppling over your feet and landing flat on your ass on the rug in the living room. You blink up at him. Jason blinks back.
“Sorry…”
You can see the exact moment he comes back to himself, the exact moment the tension in his muscles ease.
“What do you have to apologize for?” He drops to his knees on the carpet in front of you, keeping a healthy distance so as not to overwhelm you, “are you okay?”
You nod slowly. “Just…scared, I guess. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, baby.” He sighs, tugging at his sweaty hair, “I’m sorry I scared you.”
You blink back tears, choking on your own embarrassment. “I didn’t—I don’t—I’m sorry.”
It’s the only word that comes to mind, wrapping itself around your brain and choking out everything else that comes to mind. Jason frowns, reaching a hand out for you to take.
You wrap your hand around his, the warmth of his skin soothing the iciness in your veins. He parts his legs, pulling you into his chest to sit between the muscles of his thighs. You lean back, your head cushioned by his pecs.
His arms fall over your shoulders, cocooning you in the safety of his body. “I’m proud of you, you know that?” He kisses the top of your head, “I know it’s not easy for you to say no.”
“I—”
“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
adrian chase x reader, part two to is there anyone?
wc: 6.2k
content/warnings: angst, fluff, pre-established relationship, canon typical injury, mentions of sex, literal sleeping together, heavy blood and gore, BODY HORROR, metahuman!reader, bisexual reader, slowburn, inspired by Marie from gen v
a/n: plaese listen to tha song attached on repeat for maximum immersion
'The soul misses how the mind told the body,
You have fallen from grace.
And the body said,
Erase every scripture that doesn’t have a pulse.
There isn’t a single page in the bible that can wince,
that can clumsy, that can freckle, that can hunger.
Imagine the soul misses hunger, emptiness, rage,
the fist that was never taught to curl—curled,
the teeth that were never taught to clench— clenched,
the body that was never taught to make love— made love
Like a hungry ghost digging its way out of the grave.'
…
'The soul misses what the body could not let go—
what else could hold on that tightly to everything?'
— “tincture”, andrea gibson, 1975 - 2025
You’re en route to Glan Tai Bottling Company.
‘Hey, don’t we need some sort of search warrant going into this place?’ Adrian sounds off from the seat across from you. You sit comfortably neighboring Economos in the back of the van, leaving a seat between you as everyone in this operation seems to appreciate their own personal space bubble.
Murn isn’t here, so Harcourt answers all the logistical questions, ‘Anytime anyone officially starts to deal with the butterfly situation, someone higher up in the government shuts them down.’
Leota swivels in her chair.
‘Which is why this task force doesn’t officially exist. Waller is funding us by secretly diverting funds from other operations, which… leaves us on our own.’
At the mention of Waller, you tense. Your teeth terrorize the skin on the inside of your cheek, creating craters in their biting wake. Though… it does feel a tiny bit like compensation having Waller unknowingly paying for your hotel room and cost of living right now.
You’re uncomfortable and silent, and not willing to invite yourself into this conversation unless spoken to. Chris continues,
‘So, it’s just the six of us against an alien invasion?’
‘And Murn.’ Harcourt reminds him.
‘Well, I was counting Murn, just not Dye-Beard back there, cuz’ he’s fuckin’ useless.’
Ads chastises him, and Chris tries his luck at being kind to John. It falls very flat. ‘Sorry. Economos. Geez.’
‘That sounded very sincere, thank you very much.’
You notice Economos’ demoralized expression, and you almost reach across the divide to squeeze his shoulder, not knowing where the boundaries are in societal context anymore. But you don’t, going instead for a sympathetic look in silent moral support. He doesn’t react really, other than reciprocating the meeting of your gaze, which is honestly a positive sign as opposed to shirking away.
Adrian does react. He notices the eye contact between the two of you, and his body burns anxiously. He stands briefly to switch seats to the one in between you and Economos, confusing you a little in the process. He settles in quickly, and has his entire body angled to you.
‘So…’ He starts, ‘How come you’re here? Like, instead of in Metropolis fighting the Metropolis equivalent to butterflies?’
‘Uh—‘ You try but fail at first, looking to the complete row of empty seats across from you now and pondering over him. You can’t see his face, so it’s hard to read him. You look back to him and respond simply.
‘Harcourt called me.’
‘She had your phone number? Can I have your phone number? For if there’s an emergency? Like, if I need someone to tell me my blood type, and right this second, because a vampire is asking and he’s got a gun to my head.’
You raise your brow skeptically and simper at his hypothetical, and you turn your upper body towards him too, mirroring him, your interest piqued. ‘You’re AB negative.’
‘Whoa.’
You nod towards the front of the car.
‘We used to work together, me and her.’
‘Is she your number one best friend?’
‘I suppose she is, huh?’ There’s not really anybody else competing for the spot.
‘That’s cool. Like, I have a friend from my work, Dave.’ He nods, ‘Peacemaker’s my number one best friend, though. So of course I came when he said he needed my help. We’re kinda similar, you and I.’
Humming in assent, you watch him, ready to hear whatever more he needs to say. He’s something akin to a breath of fresh air. A killer, surely, but not made any more jaded than normal by the fact. Not that you don’t love Harcourt and Murn’s jadedness, but this is just different. He’s rocking the boat, throwing off your effort to refamiliarize yourself with the world at large again slightly with his unprecedented ways. Adrian shifts under your eyes, and blood rushes to his cheeks. It’s no influence of yours.
‘You don’t talk a lot.’ He thinks out loud.
There's a good reason for that. One that you don't tell just anyone, even if you feel compelled like you do now. You sigh, ‘What do you wanna know?’
‘Um… like—‘ He runs his hands over his thighs anxiously, ‘Do you like the color teal?’
‘It’s not my number one favorite,’ You tease, ‘But yeah. I like it.’
‘Now we have even more in common!’ He straightens up, lifts his head a little higher after he’s successfully gotten you to converse with him, ‘Ask me a question now.’
‘Mm.’ You bite back a smile, ‘Cats or dogs?’
‘Cats, definitely. I don’t like when dogs slobber on you and get your clothes wet and gross.’
It goes back and forth like this for a while on the ride to Glan Tai. It’s approximately a thirty minute drive, giving Adrian the opportunity he’s been grasping at to pick your brain. He tells you about himself openly and asks you trivial questions, nothing so deep, and you give them in return when you can. You’ve nothing against this guy. If anything, he’s friendly and capable.
It’s not his fault you’ve become socially distant in your isolation. So, you really try to adequately participate in his conversation.
‘What's your favorite swear word?’
‘Fuck?’ You’re unsure, but you definitely use fuck the most.
‘Mine too! It’s the most versatile! And it triggers a psychological response that can relieve pain temporarily.’ Adrian decides he can't wait for you to ask him another question, because he's already got one locked and loaded, and it's really fuckin' good.
‘Why do you want to save the world?’
Oh, Jesus. No pressure.
Your eyebrows crease in the middle. The world you’re saving hasn’t been particularly kind to you in the last couple go arounds. You want to answer him in a heroic way, saying that you’re powered by altruism and justice and doing the right thing. The truth is that when Emilia called you, you wouldn’t have given a fuck if the Earth spun forever or died tomorrow.
‘I guess—’
Your half-smiling, unsure mouth opens, closes, and opens again to try and push some words out, but then the car stops and the engine falls silent.
‘What a shame. We’re here.’ Announces Harcourt from the driver’s seat.
Adrian is devastated by not knowing what you were going to say, and he imagines his whole world blowing up like a pipe bomb.
The doors opens up, and everyone except you and Adrian step out.
You all prepare yourselves for the possibility of butterflies being in the building ahead. Masks and helmets are laid on, holsters are strapped onto thighs, and you load two twin pistols with clips behind Adrian while he digs in his bag for something.
Of course, in your ministrations, your mind wanders, the act of suiting up being ritual to you.
You don’t know why you feel so calm in this van with Adrian while bracing yourself for perhaps needing to do your dirty, bloody deeds when you enter this establishment. Usually you are woefully unsettled, which thankfully only made you more vigilant in dire circumstances of the past.
You dig into the deep trenches of your mind, wondering why he’s at the forefront of your mind all of a sudden. You haven’t even spoken all that much.
You suppose… maybe it’s the way his heart hasn’t slowed down the entire car trip here.
You’ve learned to tune it out over the years, like a ghost’s voice in your ear. But his is just so loud.
Planting your comm piece snug in your ear, Adebayo and Chris begin arguing about women’s fingers in terms of fingering. You’re about to emerge to add your two cents in, having an experienced enough opinion about sex with women, but Adrian steps in front of you and revs… something. Something pretty fucking ear-piercing.
You jolt, your shoulders shooting up around your ears and your hands coming up to cover them. Peering around his shoulder, the sound proves to be a chainsaw.
‘No!’ Harcourts shout makes it to your ears over your palms.
Adrian scream-laughs, ‘What?’
‘You’re not taking that in there!’
‘I can’t hear you, this thing’s so fuckin’ loud!’
‘You’re not bringing that.’ The chainsaw finally cuts dead, ‘We don’t even know that there are butterflies in there.’
‘Oh, come on, please?’
Harcourt makes an expression that you’re sure you’d never want to be on the receiving end of, and one that Adrian always seems to be on the receiving end of.
He obeys the spine-chilling look in her eyes but not without complaining about it first.
‘Aw, fuck! I’m never, ever gonna kill someone with a fucking chainsaw! It’s so not fair.’ He hops down to the ground and catches your eye. ‘Can you believe this? Total fucking bullshit.’
‘Can I believe she won’t let you bring something that fucking deafening into a covert infiltration? No. No way.’
‘I know!’ He agrees wholeheartedly, sarcasm lost on him.
‘C’mon.’ Adrian calls you closer from the back of the van, holding out a steady hand for you to grab as you step down. You take it without thinking, and his gloves meet your gloves. You feel a red spark ignite in the back of your head. Your hemokinesis swimming about, trying to reach out to something.
If it’s already so strong now— the sensation— and only held back by the lack of skin to skin contact, it makes you wonder what you’d feel if you didn’t have two layers of tactical gear between you.
As Adrian slides the door of the van shut, his hand lingers on yours, even though you don’t need his guidance anymore, and perhaps never did at all. You begin to walk away from him and towards Adebayo and Emilia, who seem to be entrenched in a whisper-argument, and your hand starts to slip away naturally in your movement. Your arms are outstretched towards each other, still connected from his grip on you and straining to break apart, like this is a long dreaded goodbye between two lovers. His fingers tense around the last knuckles before your fingertips, and then he remembers social politeness and all its rules, scolds himself lightly inside, and lets you go as fast as he can.
This all happens in a matter of seconds, minuscule compared to everything else. But you feel it.
Your two female compatriots have their heads close together in a hush. Getting closer, you make out Harcourt saying,
‘Rock, paper, scissors for who goes with Vigilante?’
Adebayo nods, and they pump fists on flat hands going rock, paper, scissors—
‘I’ll go with him.’ You volunteer, interrupting before they can get to shoot. They turn towards you, accepting you into the conversation, the three of you now making a triangle. Ads looks jubilant. Emilia does not. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Thank you!’ Adebayo squeals and laughs triumphantly and skips towards Chris, leaving you with Harcourt.
‘Fuck, Y/N!’ She bristles and hisses at you, and for all your skill in dancing around her venomous anger for all these years, she still scares you a little bit.
‘What?’
‘You’re with me. You’ve just volunteered the both of us to go with fucking Jigsaw.’
‘Fuckin’ look at him, though, ‘Milia.’ Gesturing with your eyes to Adrian now, kicking a small pebble dejectedly across the pavement.
‘Nobody likes getting picked last in gym class.’ It’s said with all the essence of a little girl at the pound, begging her mom for the smallest, most hyper puppy. You pout at her, making obnoxious, pleading, fluttering eyes.
‘He’s a wanted murderer.’
‘So am I!’
‘Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t get too similar to you, alright? We don’t need him sowing fields with blood and fucking guts.’
‘Mmyeah. God, he’d be a forensic nightmare, wouldn’t he?’
She rolls her eyes, grumbles, and stomps forward like a soldier. You follow, and she barks orders and game plans for the next steps grumpily, projecting an image of infallible leadership.
Adrian looks up when you approach, ‘Hey, what was ro-sham-bo for?’
‘…Nothing.’ You delicately assure him, and you touch his bicep with an open hand, lightly ushering him towards the path Harcourt was carving ahead of you.
The red spark comes back to visit for a second, warming you from the inside until you let go to walk side by side with him, one gun drawn, the other tucked away.
It’s not a hug, Adrian thinks to himself. But you’d touched him of your own free will.
That’s enough to sustain him for a good long while.
The three of you find yourselves in an otherwise mundane factory with towers of boxes and people in visibility vests driving forklifts while you try to steer clear of their paths. Otherwise mundane until Harcourt pried open one of the brown boxes and found jars of gold homogeneous fluid.
‘That shit they eat… there’s literally a thousand boxes of it in here. This could be the distribution hub for the whole country.’ She recounts to Murn via earpiece while you and Adrian stand behind her with guns drawn like two assholes.
He spins thoughtlessly to murmur something to you, and because his body unfortunately follows, he accidentally points his glock in your direction, not noticing the faux pas he’s made.
‘Dude…’ You whisper, redirecting his gun’s line of fire by placing a firm hand over the barrel and gently pushing it down and away from your person.
He realizes, and chuckles in a way that makes you forgive him instantly. He whispers back,
‘Whoops!’
Then, you’re backed by rabid butterflies into a cave-like room with servers and glowing wires so abundant they’re climbing up the walls.
Harcourt starts punching at the keyboard to a monitor displaying teal and blue glyphs, that of which is unintelligible to you.
‘What the fuck is this?’ You utter. Harcourt presses more keys, and faster.
‘I don’t know! Why don’t you try?’
‘Um— I know how to install spyware, not jack into the fucking matrix.’
The weight of the air changes, along with its scent. There’s something here, and its blood is fucking wild. A low, rumbling growl wraps a fist around your attention, and all three of you turn towards the sound.
Adrian’s the first to verbally acknowledge it.
‘Whoa.’
If someone had asked you ten calendar days ago where you thought you’d be now, you’d say right here, and gesture openly to a room with white walls in a hospital lab; Vacutainer tubes and gauze in one drawer, and stickers for kids in another.
And if someone described to you that actually, you’re reloading your pistol while a juiced up ape is throttling you and your partners, you wouldn’t be able to help but only be surprised that you have partners at all. You’d probably cross your arms over your chest, sit down, and chew at your lip. You’d probably think hard and long, and finally utter an intrigued but not overly emotive—
‘Huh.’
Because, hey, this isn’t so far from the norm of the modern world. Corto Maltese was almost destroyed by a starfish. And Superman fought a fire-breathing Kaiju.
So now, you’re laying halfway across the room after being thrown by an animal three times your size and a million times as strong. He’d sent you flying into a table with momentum you’ve rarely thought possible. The tables jagged, broken off metal joint slices you from bellybutton to hip bone slightly diagonally and not at all clean or even. It’s a half an inch deep at its worst. Rolling away from the table and its sharpness, you cry out softly and lay flat on your back, eyes squeezed shut.
You try to pull blood out from the ape’s already existent bullet wounds, but you’re currently indisposed keeping your own life force inside your body.
More attempts to kill the gorilla happen not far from you. Harcourt and Leota shoot at Charlie to no avail, and Adrian gets him pretty good with his machete.
Scimitar?
Regardless, it’s not enough. This animal is throwing your company around like you weigh no more than cotton balls.
A single drop of blood trickles out and around your hip before you can seize it. You block off the wound from surging with blood like it wants to. You leave no more blood there than it takes to not kill the tissue. Reaching down, your hand smears the droplet that had escaped away.
Charlie raises his hands above his head, preparing to smash Chris’ skull into a crater.
After Harcourt, you haul Adrian up and set him right on his feet again, and just as he gets there, Economos shreds the super-gorilla with the chainsaw from earlier. Chekov’s chainsaw, you suppose.
‘You fuckin’ stud!’
‘Yeah— yeah… I’m… I’m a fuckin’ stud!’
Chris and John laugh, and you follow. You breathe a rough chuckle that’s born of relief and adrenaline. The sudden movement jostles your wound, and your top half bends forward slightly, groaning with both hands on your hips. You try to feel grateful that it’s only pain, and not accompanied by bleeding out.
Adrian hears your discomfort and his eyes go for the perturbed, uneven flesh where your shirt is torn open, ‘Oh, fuck— You’re hurt.’
‘Kinda.’ You heave.
‘You’re not bleeding, though. But you got dunked on by a gorilla. But you’re not bleeding…’
‘No.’ You confirm.
‘That’s so weird. Wish I could fuckin’ do that.’ He supports your weight now, throwing your arm around his neck to help you not double over as you walk. You wince and hiss when you start to ambulate together. ‘Oh! Say fuck a bunch of times! For pain relief!’
Each step you take, your hips move in time with your legs and it pulls at your lesion. You take his advice, albeit under your breath, ‘Fuckfuckfuck. Motherfucker. Fuck.’
Adrian giggles.
‘Gonna be able to walk that off, agent?’ Harcourts voice registers in your ear as she appears walking beside you, she smiles almost imperceptibly, brow curling up in concern the farthest she can manage on her ever-stoic face.
‘Not an agent. But, yeah.’ You nod contentedly and volley back to her. You press your gloved hand to your wound when the cold outside air stings it, and you all hobble out of there breathing. Unyieldingly sore, but breathing.
In the van, Chris blasts Hanoi Rocks and everyone celebrates in their own idiosyncratic way. Adrian dances beside you. Your face cracks wide into a smile with teeth while you wrap bandages around the entirety of your hips like a belt, leaving a nice barrier for bacteria and a catch-all for blood that wiggles its way out.
Your fingers tap against your knee to the rhythm. Harcourt snaps a picture. And your mind wanders, like always.
You remember being a scared kid, checking over your shoulder for anyone who could sniff you out for what you are. You remember laying awake at night thinking that surely, naively, you were the worst thing to come of the world. You didn’t know any better.
Later, making a place for yourself at ARGUS. You’re worked to the bone, and you’re covering your secret up so deeply and instinctively, but it’s fucking happy.
Being excommunicated, and losing it all again.
And here— now, the darkest thing about you flies free to the wind. And no one is batting an eye. You suppose it’s all changed now. The people that neighbor you have made the Earth just a little more appealing to the twelve year old girl inside you, knowing they’re saving it with you. Not from you.
You’ve gone from a criminal on the lam to somebody with a van full of allies, and all in a matter of days.
You can’t rightly tell if it’s adrenaline and trauma bonding that’s got you so dramatic. Try to become a part of the world again, the nostalgia-sick part of your brain asks of you. Try.
‘I have an answer to your question!’ You try to say to Adrian over the pounding music.
‘Huh?’ Adrian yells for you to repeat yourself like you’re in a nightclub on the dance floor, and you lean into his ear.
‘I know why I want to save the world.’
You pull away briefly to gauge his reaction, to see if he’s still interested. He smiles widely, eyes creasing and body buzzing with overflowing happiness from how cool this day has turned out to be, and that you’d remembered his inquiry. Bending back to him, you finally give him your answer.
‘Because I live on it. And because I like a couple other people who live on it, too.’ It’s spoken right into his ear, and then you ask him right back, ‘Why do you want to save the world?’
Adrian hears your question, but he doesn’t comprehend it. He’s preoccupied, shocked by your answer and how much sense it made to him. How complicated you seem to be compared to him, but how simple and good your reasons are. He hopes he’s one of the couple other people.
He is.
He’s also admittedly struck by the way you look right now, knees spread wide on the seat as if you were a man, and your arms where they always are; crossed over your chest. You're a little battered just like everyone else. Along with your wound, your lip is split on the side and your hair is all fucked up. And looking back at him with your usually neutral expression broken open, a light shining through the cracks.
You’re eye to eye now, grinning a few inches apart. He can’t stop his mouth. He doesn’t bother leaning back to you this time; he booms over the music, ‘You’re so fuckin’ cool.’
The words find you somewhere low in your diaphragm, robbing you of air.
Cool. It must’ve been junior high the last time you were akin to cool.
One bright, surprised laugh escapes through your hardened exterior accidentally, and a littler one after that. Heat rushes over Adrian at this; his next mission in life adhering itself to his brain and the inside of his eyelids as soon as he sees you express something likened to real-life joy. And caused by him, at that.
He resumes dancing, hitting an imaginary set of drums.
-
You’re in the back room of the headquarters, the one with the stairs. Everyone has gone away to get some much needed rest. But you stayed back for twenty minutes to clean and oil your guns. And honestly, you want to stay busy for just a little while longer.
Now, you’re shedding your jacket that was shredded today by the table that cut you. Your shirt is ripped too, but you can crop it. You’re all packed up and ready to go home, stuffing the tattered jacket into a trash can as you walk by when a voice makes itself known.
‘Are you leaving?’ You don’t know where he's been the last twenty minutes, but it’s Adrian, eyes unblinking and arms at his side. He’s standing on the opposite end of the room; the lone lamp on the desk between you illuminates the both of you warmly.
Oh, him and his curiosity. Slinging the strap to your backpack over your shoulder, you nod and reply, ‘For the night, yeah.’
‘To your home?’ He pretends like he’s not eyeing the skin exposed under your ripped shirt. How it gives him a section of waist and midriff to stare at.
‘As much home as a motel can be.’ You eat away at the distance that separates you, walking towards both him and the front exit in one fell swoop as you speak. He keeps his gaze on you dutifully, but squirms a bit on his feet as he watches you approach. You leave a good two feet between you.
‘Well… can I come?’
‘To my room with no food and a tiny TV?’
‘…Yes?’
‘Why?’ You narrow your eyes at him playfully.
‘I’m not a creep or anything. Was just… wondering if you wanted to hang out.’
‘You’re just gonna leave your car here?’
‘I don’t think it’ll grow legs and run away, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He grins like he is wont to do, enthused by the image he’s painted with his own joke. And then his face drops all serious again when you don’t laugh. You’re looking for an actual answer, so you just watch him with half-assed amusement as he emotes, looking like you’re thinking he’s an idiot. Fondly, though.
‘I’ll Uber back.’ He tries, this time sober from humor.
Listening to him, you know you wouldn’t be able to watch him order an overpriced Uber when you have a perfectly fine car, but it’s nice that he’s being considerate.
‘Shouldn’t someone also, like, keep an eye on your gross gash?’ His mouth curls up like he’s a bit disgusted, but his feet carry him a step closer to you anyways.
‘S’not bleeding, it’s okay.’
‘Still…’
‘You’re sweet, Adrian. But you don’t have to worry. I’ve been on my own for a long time.’
Adrian doesn’t take your words as mildly as you say them. He’s noticed a lack— though not complete absence— of obvious annoyance in you, even when he’s being particularly tactless and insistent. It feels good to be more than tolerated for once. It feels addictive. He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with them, ‘But, like… you don’t have to be. Just saying.’
After spending an entire day with him, you’re starting to become accustomed to his sweetness and affability towards you. And considering he’s the most honest person you’ve ever met, you’re leaning towards believing it’s genuine.
You don’t know how close you want anybody to you right now. Socially, you’re still on wobbly legs, and maybe even doomed to fail. You don’t want to outright deny him, though.
‘Walk me to my car?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
And so, he does. You throw your bag in the backseat while he stands next to the driver side front door, feeling like he’s hopelessly waiting for something to happen.
He opens the door for you, and you startle a bit, but you grin sheepishly at the irony of his gentlemanliness knowing he’s a killer in cold blood. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Yeah… goodnight.’ Adrian shuts the door after you've settled in, and he watches you turn your key in the ignition and begin to back up out of your parking space.
You steal one last glance at him as you intend to drive off, and he’s standing there like a sorrowful child that’s been newly orphaned. And of course, you just have to feel something about it. It makes you want to roll your eyes; you never had to worry about this when you were alone. It’s a good problem to have, you suppose.
Adrian’s chin dimple dips in hard and his eyebrows pull up.
Good lord, this fucking guy.
You hit the brakes abruptly and roll your window down. You stare forward for a second until the window is completely gone, one hand on the wheel. Adrian observes painstakingly and waits for you to say something— hopes and prays. You meet his eye, and this is the first time Adrian has ever seen anything similar to irritation in your expression, but your words do anything but reflect it.
‘Get in.’
His body language and face change instantly, his rejoicing giggle making your tongue dig in your cheek, trying to bite your smile back. He races to the passenger side and throws it open, ‘Hee hee!’
He sighs dreamily when he gets in like he’d just won the lottery.
-
Adrian calls out to you from the bedroom as you toe your shoes off at the door.
‘Woah! This is nice! I mean, like, for a motel.’ Adrian tosses himself down on the end of your bed, bouncing as he switches the TV on, ‘Can I watch Animal Planet?’
You almost mutter out an assent, but you’re in the bedroom now, too, and you’re not sure how okay you are with the filthy ass of his pants touching the place where you sleep. There have been many nights that you’ve fallen asleep caked in hours old blood turned dark brown. You’re trying not to do that anymore. You throw your phone haphazardly up near your pillow somewhere and side eye him, ‘Get off. You’re getting blood on my bed.’
‘Well, yeah. I’m covered in blood, Y/N.’
While he speaks, you grab a clean towel from the closet, ‘Do you want to shower here? I’m gonna shower.’
‘I don’t have any clean clothes.’
‘Right.’ You’re rifling through your duffel for your own clean clothes now. You never ended up putting any of them in the hotel dresser or hanging them up in case you needed to leave quickly. You had to buy an entire new wardrobe when you fled ARGUS and it was a pain in the ass. You had some really cool stuff that you’ll never get back. Once is enough; you’d like to keep the things you’ve accumulated now.
As your fingers near the bottom of your bag, digging for underwear, you touch something of a familiar, soft material. Your head snaps up, ‘Oh my god, I have something you can wear.’
Pulling out the article of clothing and holding it up by the straps between index and thumb for Adrian to see, his attention is drawn away from the TV. His eyebrows bend and his mouth falls open like he’s begging you not to do this to him.
‘No fucking way.’
‘Please! Otherwise you’re gonna get my bed all fuckin’ nasty!’ You plead with him and end with a sorry smile to appeal to his humanity. He scoffs, but he begrudgingly supposes he has no other options. And admittedly, your smile was the nail in his coffin.
You’d shoved Adrian towards the shower with the clothing you’d picked for him and the towel that was originally meant for you, telling him to bathe and just try it on, for fuck’s sake.
Now he’s talking to you through the door, and unwilling to come out of the bathroom.
Adrian whines, ‘This isn’t even my fucking size!’
‘Come out.’ You have your hand to the wood of the door, trying to will him to you excitedly.
‘I feel like a cheap whore.’
‘Show me!’
The door handle turns suddenly, and you step back to give him some space. A few wisps of steam billow out from the humid room. The first thing you see is his face, and he’s less than happy. His hair is wet and a few curls stick to his forehead, a damp sheen is lying thick on his neck and skin that’s available to see. And that chin dimple that perpetually softens you pulls in again, his eyebrows pinching together like he’s bracing himself and expecting criticism.
Then, your eyes trail down. Adrian is before you in something only the most secret, horny parts of your brain would’ve imagined. He wears a black women’s nightgown that goes knee length on you, but only reaches mid thigh on him. It’s flowy and comfortable, meant for sleep. The straps are quite thin, and the most memorable feature is that his brawny arms pour out of the arm holes like two tree trunks.
It looks miles more slutty on him than on you, you surmise, with the way it barely covers his chest and legs. It’s not a nightgown meant to be sexy, at least– not when you bought it. It’s purely functional; easy on, easy off. You’ve never even worn it aside from trying it on in the store, opting instead to sleep in a shirt and underwear almost every night. You assume that after this, you still won’t wear it because it’ll have become Adrian’s nightgown; a pleasing memory to look back on while holding back a laugh.
Most men would never even put it on in the first place. You’re made very happy. And he looks really cute.
You move to lean against the door frame of the bathroom. With a smirk, you breathe, ‘Well, aren’t you pretty?’
‘Oh.’ He checks himself out in the mirror over the sink and starts twirling back and forth a little bit, the fabric lifting and swishing at the bottom. He unexpectedly cracks into a huge grin at the praise, ‘Really?’
‘Mm-hm.’ You reassure.
‘Well, okay— good. Cuz’ I actually like it. It’s breezy.’
Adrian has left you alone once more for Animal Planet, and it’s finally your turn to wash the day off of you. Your body breathes uneasily and your clothes feel like they stick to you. You strip your shirt and bra off first to deal with the throbbing slash that demands your attention.
Cautious fingers pull at the bandage, and the wound stares at you, angry and red. You unravel and unravel until you’re free from the gauze. The once white and clean bandage is damp with clear and yellow ichor that seeps out from your punctured body. You ball it up in your hand and discard it.
Staring in the mirror, nude from the pants up, you make yourself acquainted once more with the trade off between you and your power. You’ve been all used up today, and you look it. Dark circles ring around and under your eyes. Ache pulses in your side like a faraway drum that gets louder the more you move.
You stare, and you stare.
Reality blurs at its edges. A breath in, a slow breath out through purse lips. You let go for a moment, the muscles relax and your fists unfurl from your sides, but not before twitching. Sanguine liquid previously held back by you starts to empty itself from your gash like a mouth spitting up wine. You let the river flow for a minute. It drips down your thigh in stripes, making something worth staring at.
The blood that touches your skin is biologically and medically useless now, having been dirtied and exposed to an unsterile surface. It’s already drying on your skin. This is all so convoluted and self-involved, you think, but it’s nice to see blood without power every once in a while. These droplets drip and drip, and you wipe them away.
You clean and stitch the wound with minimum effort before getting in the shower.
And tomorrow, the droplets you shed will mean nothing. It’s yours; you can handle the pain. This blood has caused no death, so you can let it go. It won’t stick to you. Blood of the past.
Bursting the sinew of random agents who might have spouses and children at home, though… that’s something that’ll stick. You try to reason with yourself that it’s self defense. They attacked you. But those spouses… and those children, that’s blood of now.
You sterilize and stitch the wound with minimum effort before getting in the shower.
The water touches your damaged flesh and stings just how you remember. Blood and dirt rinse away from your hair under the shower head that feels like it’s doing surgery on you.
You come out of there clean and new, and it’s some of the only times you get to return to a small sort of holiness. Nude and wet, like how you were born. It’s your first form. And you can come visit it again and again, even at your dirtiest and most unlovable.
You dry yourself off and put on a big shirt with sleep shorts.
When you come out of the bathroom, you see Adrian— still in his nightie— asleep on top of the covers with the remote in his hand and the TV still playing quietly. It’s a documentary on spiders in south Asia.
His head is tilted to the side and resting against the pillow behind him, mouth just slightly parted and glasses askew on his nose.
A momentary sense of calm washes over you at the sight of him. He’s utterly trusting, letting you dress him. And it’s utterly trusting of you to let him into your personal space so quickly. Neither of you had expected him to spend the night, but you’re not going to wake him up. That would be cruel after the day you both had, and it would be against your own desires.
You do the next few things like it’s normal for you, and while you do it, you let yourself wonder if— somewhere across the universe— this is actually your nightly routine.
You take the remote from his hand and shut the TV off. You pry Adrian’s glasses from his sleeping form and fold them, placing them gently on the nightstand beside him. You turn your bedside lamp off, leaving the room drenched in only moonlight coming in through the slats of the shutters.
You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, or what’s next. You do know that you feel surrounded by him and his heartbeat, slowed with sleep. You know that you feel your own heart trying to match his. You know that— for whatever reason, he wants to be near you. You know that you’re glad he does.
You know that he feels a little like a reward after years of praying yourself away; a decades long debt paid by a man whom you find endearing.
The fleeting calm washes away.
You’re fucking terrified.
You go on anyway.
Adrian awakes from the dipping of the bed when you get under the covers. His blurry eyes make out your side profile as you settle in and stick one earbud in your left ear.
He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing either. He knows he’s drawn to you, like skin kissing muscle. He knows making you laugh made his pulse jump, and seeing you injured made his brain fog up. He knows you’re kickass— and kind to him. And you’re beautiful and resilient and funny and sharp. He knows that— while you wouldn’t believe him if he told you he thought this— you’re still good, even though it’s clear the masses are made uneasy by your ways.
Just like him.
He knows he wants to watch you do everything forever, even if it makes him a pervert.
He knows he’s fallen in love after knowing you for two days.
‘What are you listening to?’ He whispers into the dark, hoping it reaches you. Yes, Adrian Chase whispers, and it’s loud and harsh and counterintuitive just like you’d expect it to be. Your palm extends and opens to him like a flower, and you offer him your other earbud silently.
He takes it, nerves shaking lightly with elation.
You lay side by side on your backs, connected only by wires. Your legs touch, but not flesh against flesh, one of you out of the covers and one in. At the almost-contact, his own personal bodily trademark sparks red again— grazing and swimming with the tide of your tired mind. You feel his nervous system firing with stimuli before he settles once more.
The song in your headphones plays, and Adrian closes his weary eyes as he listens.
If you’re doing drabbles, would you be able to do some more alt!adrian ones. Like maybe something with alt!you and alt!adrian. Maybe something more…spicy. 🤔🫢
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Smut, Mentions of violence, A little bit of knife play, Swearing, A little bit of dirty talk, Possessive Alt!Adrian, Alt!Adrian being a lil dominant, You guys break a couch, Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it homies), Please let me know if I forgot anything!!
Author’s Note: You guys have been asking for spicy Alt!Adrian x Alt!Reader, and you know I gotta deliver! Enjoy!!
-
You sense it too late. Just a little too late. You’re okay, unhurt and smiling in the carnage of the shitty little drug den the two of you just cleared, but…
But Adrian watched a bullet hole appear in the wall too close to your head. Blocked a man from plunging a knife into your chest at the very last second. Nearly lost you twice fucking over and couldn’t kill your attackers quite fast enough to make him feel better about it.
And the dark took him. Pulled him down into it’s icy depths dizzyingly quickly, shadowing his thoughts and honing his focus completely on you. You. The only thing in the world that matters. You, so fucking strong and so fucking fragile all at the same time.
“Holy shit.” You breathe, stretching your arms like you just finished a particularly taxing workout rather than took down thirty or so drug dealers in less than fifteen minutes. “That was-“
He’s on you fast, pressing you up against the dingy wall and ripping his mask off before pulling yours over your head in the span of a second.
“Adrian, what’re…oh.” Oh. You see his eyes. He can tell. He doesn’t care. Your hand comes up to his cheek, fingers brushing over his jaw, and he thinks the little smile he offers you might not look quite right as he turns his face into your palm.
“Hey, you okay?” You ask, and he can feel you shiver as he scrapes his teeth against the skin of your wrist.
“They almost hurt you.” He murmurs, eyes trailing from you to the bullet hole. Still so close to your head. Still too close. “They almost took you away from me.”
“I’m okay, Adrian.” You murmur, comforting and soft, and the words send something sharp down his spine.
You make a startled noise when he pushes you back against the wall. Hard. His lips find your neck. His hands find your waist. He pushes up beneath your shirt, gloved fingers sliding over your skin. “Say it again.”
He loves it when your breath catches like that. When you tremble against him, body responding to his touch before your mind is even finished checking to see if he’s alright. He bites down, hard, right at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and when you repeat the words they almost sound like a whine. “I’m okay, Adrian.”
“You’re okay.” He echoes, and he pulls himself back from the edge with those words. Just barely. Just a little. His hands slide up higher beneath your shirt, crushing you a little bit more between the wall and his body.
“Your gloves are fucking filthy.” You complain, but there’s no heart in it. You want this just as bad as him. Right here in the aftermath of all that violence and killing. You’re just as fucking crazy as he is, and he couldn’t possibly love you more.
“Want me to take them off?” He asks, nose skating up your throat so he can brush his lips over the shell of your ear. “Want me to touch you with my bare hands?”
Your response is to catch his wrist, pulling it from beneath your shirt. You raise his gloved hand to your lips, and catch the fabric at the tip of his finger with your teeth. You don’t break his gaze as you pull it off, and he groans. Loud.
“You wanna play like that?” He asks, low and dangerous and vibrating with an almost twisted level of excitement. You grin, and he grins back.
“Okay.” He says, and lifts you off your feet.
You laugh as he carries you to a couch in the corner of the room, and he scans it once for any dropped blades or guns before he throws you down on it. You laugh again as you bounce against the cushions, and he revels in the sound as he crawls up your body like a predator. He feels like one. He may as well be one, right now. And though you may be his prey, you are certainly not one to look at him with trembling lips and doe eyes.
You look at him now like you’re hunting him right back. Coiled and ready to pounce. Your hands fly up to yank his armor off of him, and he catches your wrists to pin them above your head.
“Uh uh.” He murmurs, sliding his knee up between yours and watching the way your breath catches in your throat. Perfect. Beautiful. His. “You wanna play? We’re gonna play.”
Your smile is all danger. All hunger. You slide your leg up the outside of his thigh, and arch your back into him in the way you know damn well drives him insane. He nearly growls, grinding his hips against yours as he moves to hold your wrists in one hand and slide the other down your neck. Over your chest. Down, down, down…
When you hear the metallic shck of his knife sliding from its sheath, however, your eyes widen.
“Oh, no. Don’t you d-mph!” He silences you with a kiss, hard and rough and hungry, and he can feel your efforts to keep yourself focused as he slides his tongue into your mouth and rolls his hips and-
And slices your shirt off of your body.
You squirm, cursing against his mouth, and he grins.
“You need better armor.” He teases, hands already skating over your bare skin as he nips at your lip just so he can hear your protest cut off by a moan. “My knife cut right through that.”
“It’s lightweight.” You try, and he hums in absentminded acknowledgement as his knife glides featherlight over your stomach. “Breathable. And fucking-mmh” Your breath catches, and you arch a little more against him, “expensive. So if you cut my pants I’m gonna-“
He trails the knife down to the waistline of your pants, and you squirm again, voice a breathless warning when you speak. “Adrian.”
“Shh.” He taps the flat side of the knife lightly against your belt, lips curving into a grin as he leans down to bite gently at the hollow of your throat. “Be good, baby.”
You gasp, because you love this. He knows you do. His hands pinning you down, his knife teasing and cool against your skin.
You’re all fire. Dangerous and deadly and passionate, and you’re his. All his. He’ll never hurt you. He’ll die a thousand deaths before he does, and you know that as well as you know that the sky is blue and grass is green. That’s what makes this, when he works you up until you’re a writhing, frustrated mess beneath him, so much fun.
You pull at your hands, impatiently trying to free yourself, and he pushes them right the fuck back down. Forceful, but not too rough. Never too rough. Never with you.
“Don’t make me tie you up.” He hums, grinding his hips once more against yours. You gasp, and hook your leg around his waist to pull him closer. He nearly gives in right then and there, dropping the knife to the floor with a clatter and a growl as he crushes his mouth to yours again. You kiss him like a firecracker, an explosion of want so bright he nearly has to pull back before he’s blinded by it.
“Impatient.” He jokes against your lips, and you retaliate with a bite to his jaw that has him laughing through a groan.
“Take off your armor.”
“Mm, or what?”
“Or I’ll stab you.”
“That’s my job.” He teases, rolling his hips again until you whine.
“Adrian.”
The fingers of his free hand dip beneath your waistband, and he revels in the way your breathing picks up “Say please.”
You arch into his touch, seeking more, and he hovers his lips over your own until you glare. You lean up, and he leans back with a grin.
“Say please.” He says again, and you might kill him. He hopes you try. Fuck, you’re hot when you’re mad.
Something wicked flickers in your eyes, and you lean back against the couch, changing tactics. You arch your body against his, and look at him with so much heat in your gaze that he nearly fucking blacks out.
“Plea-“ you start, and he cuts you off with a kiss, releasing your hands immediately and dragging your body closer to his so quickly that you both nearly tumble off of the couch. You rip his armor off like it’s on fire, and he can barely drag his lips from your skin long enough to remove the rest of your clothing.
The sounds he can pull from you are like fucking music, filling the small space that was so recently filled instead with so much violence. There are still bloodstains on the walls and the floor and you should probably leave before the cops get here, but when he bites at your neck and rolls his hips just right you nearly scream for him and he could fucking die like this. Right here on this shitty couch in this shitty drug den with your body wrapped around his and your hands in his hair. You feel like fucking heaven, warm and soft where the rest of you is all sharp fire. This part of you is his. Reserved only for him. The possessive thought awakens something almost feral in him, and he snaps his hips against yours hard enough to rock your body further back on the couch in one particularly brutal, claiming thrust that has your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head.
“Fucking perfect.” He breathes, hot against your neck as his hand comes up behind your knee, pulling it higher against his waist to angle you so he can hit that spot that makes you moan his name even louder. Music. Beautiful fucking music. “Mine. All fucking mine. Fuck.”
You claw at his back, and he groans, speeding up the movement of his hips until every one of your breaths comes out as a desperate whine. His hand comes up, catching your jaw to turn your face towards his.
“Look at me. Fuck, look at me baby.” His voice is low, almost gutteral, and your eyes meet his just as you come undone beneath him. He follows you soon after, lips crashing against yours to swallow your gasps as you whimper and cling to him so sweetly and-
You’re both so lost in the euphoria of each other that you don’t register the creaking of the old couch until it collapses beneath you, and he barely has the wherewithal to throw his arm up to brace himself so he doesn’t crush you with the weight of his body as the legs give out and you both crash to the floor.
There’s a moment, when the literal dust is settling around you and his forehead is resting against yours, your hand in his sweaty curls and his still on your face, where you just look at each other. Panting, exhausted, still flushed and with Adrian still very much inside you.
And then you laugh. Hard. And he can’t help but laugh too as he buries his face in your neck and hugs you to him.
“You broke the couch.” You snort, still so breathless and so beautiful and perfect.
“Mhm. With my magic penis.” He jokes, rocking his hips, and you choke on something between a laugh and an overstimulated whimper.
“Fucking psycho.” He can hear the smile in your voice as you nudge his face out of your neck to pull him in for a kiss.
“I love you too.” He hums, nipping playfully at your lip. “Give me two more minutes and I’m pretty sure I can break the couch even more.”
You laugh again, and he can’t keep the smile off of his own lips as he kisses you again. And again. And again.
content/warnings: HEAVY ANGST!!! happy ending :D, hurt/comfort, adrian is a little stupid :), gross abuse of italics, adrian’s regeneration, Y/N is high functioning autistic TO ME, canon typical blood and gore, medical inaccuracies though i try my best, imnotadoctor . com
a/n: YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO tHIS SONG ITS MANDATORY TO UNDERSTAND THE VIBES!! welllllll basically what i’ve learned from starting to write again this year is that i CANNOT write a dominant or smug man because i HATE IT!!! only weird obsessive men who apologize profusely for their misdeeds…… so learn to expect that from me :P i often get stuck in describing emotions and the internal dialogue so a lot of this is very long winded and unnecessary.
this story could truly be read at any time in the canon and more possibly pre-season one . i love adrian so much and i hope i characterized him properly in your eyes, Y/N .
please let me know if you find any typos or something i get so embarrassed
thank u to my beta reader @iluvcatsalot
The only time I'll open up is when I'm firing
A bad case of the Mondays with no silver
With no silver lining
Adrian Chase sets a timer on his phone for five minutes.
Then, he goes to his web browser and types into the search bar: Least lethal places to be shot.
He goes to images and finds a graphic he likes.
He lines up his pistol with his left shoulder, pressing it into his suit. And he pulls the trigger.
The shot rings through the air, and he reacts how any other person would. He screams.
He falls against the wall and slides down onto his ass. He heaves and blinks hard, mouth forming a grimace. He grasps his shoulder and it wets his gloved hand red.
He passes out against the wall, and soon after, his alarm shakes him loose and wide-eyed. He’s healed just enough now to not die on the drive.
Adrian Chase would’ve preferred somewhere on the leg, but that’s just not believable enough, he thinks.
-
Something wakes you. A buzzing, a vibration.
Like muscle memory, you pull your phone from the nightstand and check it with hazy eyes. It’s 1:45 am on a Monday. You have two notifications from seven minutes ago.
1 missed call
And a text that reads:
Adrian: I’m on the way!
You shoot up in bed and respond as fast as you can.
Y/n: no what
Y/N: whats wrong?
Adrian: Hold on. Almost there
Adrian calling…
Fuck. You answer begrudgingly and press the phone to your tired ear, warm from sleeping on your side.
‘What?’ It comes out short. You don’t consciously intend it to.
‘Hello to you, too, grumpy! Can you-’
‘You better not be outside my house.’
‘Why not?’
The last time Adrian Chase showed up outside your door, he almost knocked you over on the way in. He’d been hit in the head and face, and hard. By what, you don’t know. Maybe a fist. Maybe a car.
All you know is that it keeps getting worse. At first, he just needed a place to sleep it off. Sometimes a stab. It’s different now. Bloodier.
His nose was broken and his mouth bled when his teeth gnashed into his cheek. You did all you could, laying him on the couch passing in and out of consciousness. He definitely had a concussion. You broke his nose back in place and kept an eye on him all night for signs of brain damage. You set him up with an IV and pain medication drip you’d stolen from work for him, just in case.
The next morning, he took a shower and thanked you profusely and left.
And after that, you don’t get to see him at all until he’s fucked up again. He texts, yes. And you text him back. It doesn’t satiate you.
You realize you don’t even know if you’re his friend or just a nurse.
It’s becoming a heavy thing to carry.
You ask me if I'm angry
Well, hell yeah, I fucking am
Can't help the way God made me
But He won't get away with that again
‘Adrian, it’s… late.’
‘Well, I was on patrol late. And it’s raining and this guy hit me with a 9mm and I’m cold. Oh, and um… I’m on your stoop.’ He sounds a tiny bit sluggish.
9mm? Throwing the covers off you, you turn quickly and sit with your legs hanging over the side of the bed, ‘You’ve been shot?’
‘Yup!’
He hears you mutter a fuck before he can feel your heavy stomps leading up to the door.
You throw open the door to see him leaning against the outside wall of your house with the phone still to his ear— even though you’ve already hung up— and his face to the ground. His head whips up and his hand with the phone drops slowly. You can tell he’s smiling under the mask, giddy to see you like he’s got no idea. He doesn’t.
There is nothing comforting about the way you look, and in the same sense, the way you look at him. Your hair is a mess and your clothes hang off of you. There’s a missing smile, whether it’s with your mouth or eyes, it’s not there. It’s still you, though. He’ll have to do some digging to find out who’s set you like this. Who’s wearing you so thin?
You didn’t have time to turn the big lights in your apartment on. The only things that keep your home from being swallowed whole in shadow is the full moon and the streetlights coming through the windows, brighter than usual, and a small warm lamp in your living room you keep on at all times. These sources of light shine off the glass in the pictures frames on the wall, on the kitchen counter, on the jewelry you never take off. The heating system buzzes in the background. It’s a calm place you’ve made for yourself.
He’s disrupting it.
You leave the door open where it’s at and start the routine that feels eerily like a weighed down crawl right now. It’s a thousand pounds in your bones. You open a kitchen drawer and throw him a clean towel.
‘Hold this there for a second. Hard. Don’t let go.’ You say in a rush, and you’re unable to stay in one place. You’re frazzled and shaken. He’s almost completely content, if it weren’t for his shoulder fucking killing. He’s happy to be here.
He does as you say.
While grabbing your medical bag from beside your nightstand, Adrian watches you get things ready, watches you zip around your rooms and hallways collecting supplies, and he stays in one place. His suit is all wet from the rain, so he waits for you to tell him where to park himself.
You wash and glove your hands in the bathroom and carry yourself to him with quickness. You maneuver a chair at your table and pull out one for you perpendicular to it. You point absentmindedly.
‘Sit.’ He does as you say, and is quite stable and silent about it for someone who’s been shot. You take the towel out of his hands and apply the pressure on the wound you can see. There’s a three inch radius around the hole that soaks his suit with dark, shiny red. ‘Through and through, or is the bullet still in there?’
‘Uhh-‘
You answer your own question before he can by turning the overhead light on and peering over his shoulder to see the back of the suit and finding there’s an exit hole matching the entry.
‘I mean, I don’t feel like I still have a bullet in me.’
You nod, mostly comfortingly to yourself. ‘There’s an exit.’
He’s barely bleeding anymore, if he ever was. Red slides slowly into the Vigilante suit like a nosebleed, not a gouged hole of flesh. You’ve found that this is normal for him. You sandwich his shoulder between your palms anyways and press hard. You’ll stay that way for a few minutes until you start to stitch.
‘Yay.’ He pumps his uninjured arm in the air triumphantly.
You keep peeling back the towel from him to check the clotting until it’s at a level you’re comfortable with to move forward.
Standing, you grab and start to unravel a sterile mat to place your instruments on.
‘So… I’m gonna check it out. Clean it, check for debris, and stitch it up on both sides.’
‘Okay!’
‘It’s gonna hurt.’ You side eye him.
‘That’s alright. You’re a great nurse. Probably the best in the country, actually.’
‘Definitely… definitely not.’ You huff a laugh that is bereft of humor. ‘Do you want a drink? For the pain?’
‘Can I have some of that juice you have?’
‘That’s… not gonna help with the pain.’
‘And the numbing spray would be good. The tsschk tsschk.’ He imitates the spray bottle with his finger.
You pour him a glass of cranberry juice. As you do, you notice it’s almost gone. You bought it originally for a UTI you had, but after you started getting it just for him. Usually you have a back up jug. You don’t now.
‘Why’re you so sad? And tired?’
Ignoring his heavy question, you set the glass down a bit loudly in front of him in a hurry. You’re trying to speed this up. One, because he’s bleeding out of a manmade orifice. Two, because… this is hurting.
Adrian tears his mask off to chug the drink and he realizes you haven’t asked him to take it off like you commonly do. His hair sticks to his forehead before he pries it off because he hates the feeling. He shakes his head a little like a dog and in the process, jostles his shoulder.
‘Stop moving around so much, please.’
He does as you say.
You reach behind his neck to undo the trappings that keep his armor bound to him. It’s strangely intimate and close to him, and he enjoys it. To you, right now, with the state you’re in, it feels like busy work.
He helps you shrug the top section of the Vigilante off, and he’s left in a black dry-fit long sleeve. Adrian unfolds and puts on his glasses to watch what’s happening. He always does. Scissors enter the neck of his under shirt, and you cut it down to his mid bicep, ruining the shirt but creating a flap that you can peel from him to expose his shoulder completely.
You inspect the wound the best you can. It’s in his shoulder, which is pretty benign as it is for a bullet wound. The bullet hasn’t carried any of his clothing into the hole when it went through, and there isn’t any sign of infection.
There’s a lull in the air while you continue your ministrations. Adrian feels the need to fill it.
‘So- So, this guy was robbing a little old lady in an alley way. Shaking her down for her pearls and fancy stuff. And here I come, vigilant as ever, and I’m like Hey, buddy. I’ve got somethin’ for ya!’
You sterilize him with alcohol and he hisses and throws his head back. It makes the hole bleed again for a moment. You wipe it away softly, with gentle hands. It makes him smile after the pain. You spray his skin down with numbing spray for the impending stitches.
‘He’s like Get the fuck outta here, man. This doesn’t concern you. And I’m like Evildoers always concern me, dickweed.’ He pauses, maybe hoping for a laugh. You’re too focused, your eyes shrouded from him by your brows coming down hard as you work, ‘And then, well, like… yeah, okay, he shoots me. But that didn’t stop me from gutting his ass.’
‘Pretty cool, right?’
To make a long fucking story long,
You’d gone to high school with Adrian. You weren’t in the same circles, notably because you didn’t have a circle, but you saw a lot of each other. He was shorter in high school, more shy, and the two of you had the same bus route.
You cruised through high school without making any lasting impressions. You got good grades. Super smart, obviously. You, best nurse in the whole country, you.
But you were not popular. You were almost see through, really. It was devastatingly lonely, and surely it’s done some damage to your psyche, but it had its perks. You weren’t bullied or shoved into lockers. Your peers knew you like you know your distant relatives. They heard your first and last name during attendance and it was stored in memory without outright acknowledging you. Nobody ever seemed to hate you. Nobody ever seemed to know you very well either.
You had a few fleeting friendships. Fewer lasting ones.
You didn’t ever have a date for homecoming. But you went.
Adrian was shoved into lockers. Adrian did leave a lasting impression— as the kid with the animal t-shirts and the older, cooler brother. They picked on him for all the reasons they do. He was too gangly, he spoke too fast and too much. His backpack clipped in the front. He didn’t ever go to homecoming.
There would be kids kind to him and his nerd friends, but few and far between.
You were one.
When paired with him by the teacher on a partner assignment, you didn’t groan and roll your eyes. And you were very okay sitting next to him on the bus, because hey, it’s an open seat, and you like him. It became a thing, and you started sitting next to him almost everyday. To him, you were blindingly, surprisingly unphased by his differences.
You loved him, of course. He was personable and giggly and bright at the surface. Deeper, he was singular and interesting and sweet and untaken by teenage cruelty.
Some years, you had classes together. You’d sit in the back with him. He overlooked DnD campaign notes during long winded lectures and you did the homework from your other classes. The two of you didn’t speak often during class, but you didn’t need to. It was enough for both of you to know you had a spot next to someone who wanted to sit by you, too. That feels so good in high school. He made you paper stars every once in a while out of straw wrappers. You utter a Thank you, Adrian. It’s a skill that would be useless to anyone else, but he finds you like it. So it’s very useful.
You were not best friends. But you knew him, and you weren’t embarrassed to know him at all.
And so, you go off to college and nursing school in a different state. You stay there for a while— years, actually, for work. In the meantime, Adrian is building himself into Vigilante.
You move back to Evergreen for a job open at the hospital. And your first night back, you have no food in the fridge of your new place yet, so you go out to eat at a place called Fennel Fields. And he’s there. And it’s a pretty full house that night.
A hostess is about to seat you when Adrian swoops in and sprays and wipes the table off for you. He says,
‘One second, let me get that for you— woah. Woah.’ Recognition flashes in his eyes. Still pretty, he thought to himself.
Ah, so you’ve reconnected. Lucky you. Lucky him.
You give him your phone number in a heartbeat. You know no one here anymore. You’re happy to see a familiar face.
‘Here. I want you to have this.’ Says you, handing him a napkin with your contact scrawled on it.
‘Ten numbers? Score! Wait, what is it, though?’ In his defense, you didn’t put the little dashes in between the area code and the other sets of numbers.
‘My phone number.’
‘Oh.’ It gave him a stomach ache to learn you’d gone off to college in a different state. He doesn’t hold it against you. He understands. You were too smart not to go. It was just… a pain in the ass to be reminded of you every once in a while during the most random, menial tasks. He doesn’t want to say the one that got away, but…
Yeah, no, actually, he does. Sounds cool.
‘Is that a good oh? Or…’
‘Are you kidding? I love having people’s numbers! Usually people are hesitant to give me twenty-four hour access to them.’
‘Why?’ You furrow your brow.
‘Well, because I have a lot of thoughts and questions and I can type them really fast.’ He smiles proudly.
He hasn’t changed, you realize.
You thread a length of medical-grade absorbable string through the eye of a curved needle.
‘Y’know, crows use tools too. Like people.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ You ask. You are fond of his facts, whether they be true or not. He seems more concerned for animals than anything else. You like that, you always have. And keeping him talking in the midst of all this may distract him from the pain.
‘And they actually enjoy it. They love to use a little twig for lots of stuff. Like you and your tweezers.’ He’s on the verge of a laugh, ‘You’re like a crow.’
‘It’s a needle driver.’ You smile softly until you glance up at him, and then your face hardens again, ‘Okay. Stop talking.’
You realize this sounds a little harsh so your eyes flit over to him for another moment and you compose yourself into someone kinder. Someone who’s had more sleep. ‘…For a minute.’
You start with the back and forth of stitches. On a gunshot wound, you’d usually practice secondary intention by packing the hole with gauze and leaving it to heal from the inside out, since it’s a very deep hole. This allows for drainage and keeps infections from getting trapped. But for him, he’d just heal over the gauze tonight and then you have a whole other problem. So, you’ll go ahead and suture it closed like he’s been nicked with a kitchen knife, not a chunk of hot lead in one side and out the other.
You stitch it down the middle first, pulling it shut and halving it into two smaller sections, and you keep halving and halving and snipping until you have a nice vertical closure.
He is strangely quiet unless spoken to. But he feels privileged to get to watch you do what you do best. And you touch him; laying hands on him absentmindedly through this whole night, to clean, to reposition, to hold the skin in place. He behaves himself best he can. Though, he fidgets a lot.
You need to do the same stitching on the exit wound. When you move around him to do so, you ask him,
‘And… so, what other birds use tools?’ His head shoots up at your voice.
‘Egyptian Vultures. They use pebbles. They’re rockstars.’ You softly, barely laugh through your nose, not the total crack up he’s anticipating. Probably because you’re concentrating, he knows that. ‘It’s… S’not my joke. I read it somewhere.’ He shakes his head, a little embarrassed.
And then it’s over. You’re pleased with the work you did. Under such conditions, of course.
You cut him the rest of the way out of his shirt, and get him a new long sleeve. You help him put it on like he truly is your patient, guiding his shoulder through the path of least resistance. He groans a little in pain, and starts talking again while his head is not yet fully through the neck hole.
‘You never answered my question.’
‘What?’ You’re standing in front of him, pulling the body of the shirt down over his torso now, and he’s looking up at you with wide, curious eyes as if he’s not just heavily sunken your heart, hoping this topic had been forgotten.
‘You never answered my question.’
‘Which question? Why are you sad and tired? Or Wasn’t my story about getting shot cool?’
‘Both. But mostly the former.’
‘Well… why are any of us tired? I have bills to pay, I guess. I had to take more hours at work.’
‘And the… sad?’
‘I’m— not—‘ You scoff, indignant. Honestly, you’re at a loss for words. Good ones, specifically. You look at him like you can’t believe what he’s saying and you shake your head no.
‘You’re not smiling with your teeth or laughing. And your eyebrows are further down than they usually are. And you haven’t comfortingly touched my hand or shoulder the whole time.’ He’s counting the facts on his fingers.
‘Your shoulder has been shot through.’ You know what he meant. But you act like you don’t.
‘The other shoulder, Y/N!’
Adrian whines, and you throw your hands up, and then they land on your hips.
‘Fine. You got me, okay?’
‘Well, why? Is there someone that needs to be discreetly killed?’
You laugh out loud for the first time, breaking his adamantine eye contact that he’s been trying to keep. Needing something to do with your hands, you strip your latex gloves off and trash them.
‘What?’ He inquires about your laughter.
‘I don’t think you’d want to kill this person.’
‘Bet I would.’
‘Well, he’s my friend.’
‘Oh.’ He doesn’t like the sound of this he.
You sit down in the same chair you did the stitches in and cross your arms over your chest.
‘He’s very—…. worrying. All fingers and thumbs, this one.’ You've been made to really think about it. And your nose scrunches and your fingers rub at your eyes from having to actually say it out loud. You don’t know what you're doing anymore. It’s all gone to the wind now. ‘Actually, I don’t even know if I would call it friends, so much as...’
‘He’s, like… he needs my help. And I’m not so sure I’m happy with the arrangement anymore.’
‘He’s being targeted by the Mafia isn’t he?’ Adrian concludes, ‘Like horse-head-in-the-bed, Goodfellas type Mafia. Or is that the Godfather?’
‘It’s the Godfather. And no. Medical help,’ You take a deep breath, ‘He gets himself lacerated or- or blown up or fucking de-‘
You start to choke up remembering all the states you’ve seen him in, so you go for the exaggeration instead of the truth now, ‘-decapitated twice a week. And I’m a nurse, so. Problem, meet solution.’
Your nostrils flare and relax, the muscles under your eyes flex. They are blown wide open, burning just trying to keep the tears where they are. You watch his face for any sign of understanding. You find it. His mouth forms a small O and he’s silent for a moment, brow furrowing.
‘…Oh.’
You’re really fucking thinking about it now.
‘And I know. I know. The criminals and their crime. He has to do what he has to do. But has he ever thought about taking a break? Or maybe going to an ER—‘ You're getting angry, your tone changes. You’d wished more out of this. Out of reconnecting. You want to be something bigger to him, like he is to you. And as of now, you’re only eye to eye when he’s injured and you’re half awake. The question is—
Is that the only time he wants to see you? Or is this just the way things are, hard as you might want it to change?
You don’t know. It's been killing you not knowing.
‘I can’t do hospitals.’
‘—Instead of crashing into my shitty home and being stitched up by me, not a fucking doctor, who’s shaking from adrenaline?’
‘It’s not shitty.’
‘There are so… so many better options. One day I’m not gonna be able to sew you back together. And you’re gonna bleed yourself to death in front of me...’ You lean forward, elbows on your knees and hands running down your face, stressed. Into your fingers, you say quietly, ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘That won’t happen!’
‘You can’t know that!’ Standing abruptly, you yell for the first time. Though it’s nothing like the yelling you grew up with, it’s enough to get the point across. You tower over him in his chair, so you retreat to the kitchen, bracing yourself against the counter behind you. Your voice breaks, as does the dam keeping the water in your eyes at bay, ‘You’re scaring me, Adrian!’
‘Oh, man. Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.’ He pleads, standing with you now to get closer to your level, like it only occurred to him how heavy this all is when the first tear hits your cheek.
‘Statistically speaking, your success rate with helping me is 100%. There’s nothing you can’t fix, I’m pretty sure. Plus, with my naps… my success rate with healing is also 100%! And I… I like it here.’ He talks with his hands, seemingly scrambling.
‘You like it here.’ It’s repeated back to him with an undertone of bitterness. You feel patronized.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then why do you only come when you need something?’
‘I don’t… I don’t understand.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I saw you outside of…—of this.’ Your gesture up and down to him with a flattened hand, ‘Out of the suit. Or even— like, in daylight!’
‘So, wait, you actually, like, want me here?’ You’re fully arguing, and he’s still talking softly to you.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You’re angry. I—’ He tries to take a step towards you, palms out in a plea, and you evade him.
‘Of fucking course I want you here! I can’t… how could you think anything else?’
‘You- you never told me that.’
‘I- I let you drip blood all over my floors… and I let you sleep on my couch. And I stay up for hours… to help you. Just so I can see you!’ You lick your lips to soothe them from their chapped nature. It doesn’t soothe you. ‘I f-fucking buy juice! For you!’
You’re breaking all apart.
There’s a stinging silence, and you know that tonight, you won’t receive any of the answers you crave. This is pointless. And perhaps even worse than before.
‘Please, go.’
‘Y/N…’
At the sound of your name so softly called from his mouth, you spring into action. It’s all so full of emotion. Sadness and anger, to make it simple.
And to make it sound like how it actually feels, it’s like a restless ocean— and in it, the burning remnants of a sunken ship floating aimlessly. You love him desperately for what he is, since high school, and now you’re asking him to leave. You have to remind yourself that to keep him and ask him to change his reckless, inconsiderate ways will get you nowhere.
You pick his things up. The top half of the Vig suit off the ground and his mask from the table. Crashing them to his chest, you press him backwards towards the door with both palms. He doesn’t fight you away, but there’s resistance from him every couple steps that you have to push through. He’s strong.
‘Please, just go. And you can’t come back.’ You cry, face scrunching up into a sob.
Adrian is so confused, so struck by how fast this has escalated. He wonders how he can get this all to stop and now. He can scarcely recognize the sounds of the door knob turning, because he’s just looking at you.
‘What—?’ He’s able to say before he’s completely shut out in the rain again.
You say that I look angry
Well, hell yeah, you're fucking right
Hot pacing the back porch from all the conversation
Squared up with time for these dicks tonight
But the only time I'll open up is when I'm firing
A bad case of the Mondays with no silver
With no silver lining
You thank fuck that there’s no window on your front door, because if you could see him right now, pelted with rain and all alone and looking like an orphan pedaling newspapers, you’d surely let him back in against your better judgment. Your feet can’t seem to move in the newfound silence. In front of the door silently for a horrible moment, you stand, swaying a bit from weariness and knowing he’s still right there.
You cry. Guilt curls in your stomach and makes a home there, and you cry, cleaning blood and dirtied materials from your kitchen table.
Almost immediately after he’s left, you receive a string of notifications.
4 missed calls
Adrian: Pick up!!!
2 missed calls
Adrian: Im sorry
Adrian: I don’t want you to be sad
1 missed call
Adrian: If I had known I would’ve bought you juice to
Adrian: too*
Monday
5 missed calls
Adrian: Can you pick up?
Adrian: What’s your favorite juice?
Tuesday
Adrian: The moon is a waning gibbous
What he really wants to say is that he misses you. But that’s far too flowery and weird, right?
Wednesday
2 missed calls
Adrian: You should really take back what you said about me not coming back. Because I really want to
Adrian: Im sorry seriously
-
The week drags by slowly. Adrian lets up with the missed calls but keeps on with his texts. You know you can’t block him because honestly, you don’t have it in you, and because then he’d probably just start sending letters.
Or maybe he would give up. And you’ve deluded yourself to thinking you’re much more important than you are.
It’s been five days now, and it’s Saturday night. You were tearing at the seams at the end of each shift this work week, and each night you brought yourself to your bed and created a cradle of blankets and pillows. Without after-midnight house calls, you sleep well, and you sleep for a good amount of time. It’s not enough. You want to sleep all day.
It’s the weekend now. So you do.
Vivid dreams appear to you— exhaustive people, places, and things come together to create stories you can’t follow anymore in the playground of your unsound, sad mind.
You miss Adrian dearly. He gouged a hole in your home, your world, your everyday routine. His bloodstains are on various surfaces and belongings that you weren’t able to get out. You have a small drawer full of men’s comfort-wear for him. You need to get rid of that.
You barely want to be home. What, with all it’s reminders. And you want to be out in the world even less.
Six months you’ve been taking care of him now. This is the longest you’ve gone without seeing him darken your doorstep.
Sometimes you have no choice— nothing else to do— but to ruminate.
My stomach's torn up of gunfire
And improvisational white lies
It's not sustainable, but it's just traditional
And I couldn't hold him if I wanted to
So I left my man in the middle of the highway
He can be such a bitch and it makes me sick
Alright, alright
Adrian goes to the grocery store and buys six types of juice.
Through his eyes, all he has to do is be persistent, maybe. And he’ll make it up to you somehow. And everything can be set right.
Right?
Vigilante doesn’t pull punches. He’s ruthless, honestly. And his reputation reflects that. Though, for the last couple days, he’s been slicing through people and it no longer satiates him. He goes harder, longer, starts patrol even earlier in the night. Tired and worn, he gores and gores to try and pull a positive reaction out of his brain.
He feels close to nothing. Maybe because he knows he has nothing to look forward to tonight, for his access has been stripped from him.
From the beginning, he often just parked across the street and a little ways down from your house. Just to feel something akin to reassurance that you’re there, and safe. He doesn’t want to creep you out by being in your face all the time, so he’s sneaky about it. The obsessive neurons firing in his brain start the car and drive him there.
For the last week, he watches you arrive to work, watches you leave. And you know his car. Adrian logically knows you might notice he’s there. Maybe he hopes you do. He wants you to know he still cares. That he’s not angry at you. That he’ll come running if you call.
He’s starting to get antsy, though.
-
Sunday
You take to bed early tonight. You toss and turn for thirty minutes, and then you start scrolling on your phone until you fall away into light slumber, the same video replaying over and over in your hand for a minute or two.
You awake briefly to turn over once more and plug your phone in, only to see that there are multiple notifications that need tending to.
3 missed calls
Adrian: Can you just answer once so I know you’re alive and haven’t been killed by a robber
He knows you haven’t. What kind of protector would he be if he didn’t?
Adrian: If you don’t Im gonna have to show up. For a wellness check
You check the time stamp on these texts, and they’re from fifteen minutes ago. This worries you, given the nature of the last message. For the first time this week, you respond to Adrian. You type a perfunctory I’m Alive and hit send in the hopes that it’ll keep this wellness check from materializing.
Adrian calling…
Fuck!
‘Dude…’ You rasp into the phone.
‘Oh, my god!’ He exclaims, obviously not expecting your answer, ‘Hey, listen! Just listen for a second!’
There’s a soft rumbling in the background and you’re immediately suspicious.
‘Are you driving?’
‘…No.’
He’s never been good at lying. But you’ll drop it for now.
‘Okay, what? What do you need?’
‘Can we hang out? In your home, in daylight, tomorrow? I’ll have normal clothes on!’ Adrian drags out the last word with a lilt like it’s a very enticing proposition. You do find it endearing that he’d kept a list of all the things you’d complained about last Monday in his head.
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why no? You’re being so confusing.’
‘Because…’ You sigh and shake your head.
‘You can’t even think of one reason!’
‘I can think of a thousand reasons!’
‘A thousand?’ He takes it literally, as he is wont to do, and gets a little loud, incredulous and in awe of your supposed myriad of reasons. You groan.
‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘Okay! Okayokayokay. I don’t know if this is gonna help. Maybe, probably not. I’m- I’m horrible at this. I don’t know how to do… like, this. I did some digging on how to resolve conflict.’ Adrian speaks fast and with purpose, ‘Most sources say that, first and foremost honesty is key. Do you… think that’s true?’
‘Um— Most times, yes.’
‘Okay, so, I shot myself that night. With a gun, and it hurt, like, really bad!’ You can envision the whiny face he’s making.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Not in a suicide way. I shot myself in a totally normal, sane way.’ Right.
‘Why would you do that?’ You hear your voice go up an octave.
‘So I would have a reason to see you!’
The silence that follows is taut and unsettling for both of you.
‘What-‘
A knock at your door rings through your halls, and a very familiar one at that. And now you realize what’s happening. Oh, yeah, of course! Silly you! The checklist is as follows: a wake up, a phone call, a stressful and dire situation, a knock at the door, and then ostensibly, a confrontation.
‘Oh, yeah. Can you open the door?’
This time, you do as he asks with miles less urgency, as he is not bleeding. You even give yourself time to put on pants.
When the door recedes and he comes into view, he’s wearing normal clothes. A striped shirt tucked into jeans. He sports a huge grin on his face that reaches his eyes. He got very excited when he heard the metal clinking of the lock turning open. He forces himself back into a neutral face when he sees yours, wracked with stress.
You throw your hands up and then down again to emphasize your exasperation. Continuing the phone conversation, you say, all true and genuine,
‘You don’t need a reason to see me.’
He nods what doesn’t quite seem like a concurrence. He swallows hard.
‘My friends, they— they tell me I can be annoying. That I can’t read a room or whatever. I didn’t want to annoy you. You’re actually the last person on the whole planet I want to annoy.’
‘I didn’t…’ He shrugs and lets out a breath of frustration. He’s trying so hard to mend this. To say the right thing. ‘I just, like…’
‘I’m fucking— really fucking crazy about you, okay?’
What?
‘I didn’t want to say it before and, like, bomb our cool situation we have going, but I just…’ He shifts weight on his feet, looking back and forth between your eyes, ‘…Really don’t fucking care anymore. I just want it back.’
He grabs one of your fists that’s dangling at your side as he’s talking and pries it open into a flat palm. He drops something in it, something almost weightless. ‘I just really, really want this back.’
When his hand comes away, you’re free to see an origami star, a little wrinkled and uneven from years of the skill collecting dust. You look at it. He looks at you.
Your chin quivers. Your eyebrow flexes. A shaky, wet exhale falls from you. Meeting his eyes once more, he’s got tears brimming and an anxious way about him.
You can’t help but see sixteen year old Adrian for a moment, flashing into view and then retreating back.
In high school, when you fall out with a good friend, it fucks up your whole ecosystem for a good while. And especially if you were already low on the hierarchy, one person can make your life so much easier to trudge through. That feeling— that teenage loss— it’s sinking back into Adrian. For him, It’s hard to put into words or even recognize, but it’s there.
‘I lost you.’ He sniffles and shrugs, he shakes his head like he’s disappointed in himself, ‘When you- When you went to dumbass— fuckin’… college. I should’ve tried harder. Maybe things would be different—maybe, I don’t know.’ Maybe you’d still like me like you did then, the words whisper.
He rarely bares himself this much. But he’s willing for some reason, and he can only assume the reason is because it’s you.
Your shoulders relax. Your arms unfold from your chest. Everything unfolds.
‘Adrian, you couldn’t.’ The words feel foreign to you as they spill out. Eyebrows peaking up in sympathy at his words, your voice cracks as you respond, each of the three words lush with reassurance.
‘You don’t annoy me. You couldn’t.’ You say quickly this time. More firm, serious, like the idea that you’d have any other answer is so stupid, like you’re making certain he knows for sure.
‘I like you exactly as you are.’
Adrian swears he can hear music in his head. A movie soundtrack to fully surround the both of you in this moment.
Adrian finds himself to be independent and, at the end of the day— uncaring of what most people think of him. Not strangers, not the random customers at Fennel Fields, barely even his mother.
It is made glaringly obvious that he cares what you think.
He wants to be the best person you’ve ever met in your life. Because you are his. He’s wanted nothing more than exact reciprocation from you.
To be found adequate by you. You are quietly kind. Discerning and passionate and full-hearted and stubborn and not without your own eccentricities that make you much less than normal just like him. You care for him, cleaning him up and getting him together. You’ve done much more for him than he’s done for you. You’ve never made him feel less than. And until recently, before he’d fucked it all up, you’ve been completely tolerant of his whims and questions and facts and jokes. Encouraging, even.
He remembers you in high school through a blurry, sparkling lens. You walk with notebooks in hand in slow motion for him, kicking a rock on the sidewalk as he watches you approach the bus. He pushes his glasses up.
You are so quiet in class. And on the bus, where you feel relieved of all that pressure, you crack open a bit. You laugh and you make him laugh. When you look away for a moment, his head lolls back against the bus seat and he looks at you without blinking. He gazes. And then he fixes himself, pushing those glasses up again.
He loved you then, of course. Like he had any other choice.
He loves you now. As if somehow his brain could forget the feeling.
His head has been pounding with you for so long.
He doesn’t— can’t understand why you do this to him. He doesn’t understand why people dislike him. He doesn’t understand why you do. He doesn’t understand how to say that he’s liked you in a way unfamiliar to him since you had eyeliner that went inside your eyes. Like, on the wet part on the bottom lid. Waterline, he thinks, maybe.
Vigilante is a sworn knight of Evergreen, but still he lives and breathes like a regular man. Souls and minds call to one another, bodies pull and push. These things are a certainty in this world. He has feelings. And these ones specifically; they’re telling him to act.
He’d never do what he’s about to do if you weren’t looking at him the way you are. He’s tried to familiarize himself with social cues. Books and YouTube tutorials and online forums. He thinks he knows this feeling.
Adrian lets out a steady exhale. Then,
A surging, blood-rushing push forward. He takes a step towards you, and he doesn’t have to travel very far to touch you. His hands go to the sides of your face, your ears in the divot between thumb and index finger.
He stoops slightly and brings his face to yours and kisses you, connects your faces with a quickness and unconcealed impatience.
The first press of mouth to mouth, before anybody’s lips start to ambulate… it’s searing and hard and you can feel your lips flushing with blood from the pressure of him and good christ, it’s intimate. Dark clouds have been circling for a week now. This is rain finally meeting the ground. You close your eyes and waste no more precious time being self-denying. You breathe it all in.
You touch his arms that cradle your head instinctively to stabilize yourself. Both hands linger there for a moment before they fly to his sides, and you grasp him, fingers digging into his shirt. You kiss him back. You feel the solid, warm person against you, filled with life. You long to know how his muscles clench and ebb, more than you already do.
He pours everything out into you. Every movement is full and firm but unsettled, like he’s only got a moment before you pull back and abandon this as you realize that you don’t even like him that way, that he’s misread this again.
You do pull back out of his steel grip for a second, but only to say,
‘M’sorry for yelling at you.’ Somewhere in the midst of the kiss, a welling teardrop had escaped you and rolled down your face. He hates it when you cry. But something tells him this isn’t the same as the other times. He smiles big and wide and open and his eyes are creasing so hard and just… alive with exultation. He’s got your head in his hands, faces inches apart.
‘Can I kiss you again?’
You nod feverishly while leaning back into him. You meet him there this time. Adrian’s fingers feed into your hair and one hand abandons ship there to land at the small of your back, and he presses your body to his.
The feeling is that as quick as it starts, it’s over, because you’re pulling back again to ask a very important question. He chases after your mouth, confused.
‘You shot yourself?’ You say looking up at him, still so close.
‘Well, like… a little bit.’
‘That’s so stupid.’ You can’t help but giggle through the sentence, covering your mouth and gasping softly for air at the end.
‘But… romantic, right?’
Another laugh rises from you. This would be a little creepy to other people and their expectations of love, you surmise. The thought barely registers, because you can’t bring yourself to care.
‘…Yeah.’ It’s a sweet word, chuckled out. It’s so light and buoyant. You are free of the weight and woe that dragged you down, and he’s missed you like this. He will still come home to you bloody on many occasions, as this is his calling, and it’s what he's passionate for. But probably less now, namely because he has no good reason to fucking shoot himself. You suppose that it’s all worth it now.
He mirrors you, giggles with his eyes closed.
‘What?’ You beam up at him.
‘You like me back.’ His shoulders shake with glee like a schoolboy.
‘I love you, Adrian.’
His smile drops and his eyes go wide, unable to hide the jolt he feels on his face.
‘Invite me in, please.’ Adrian looks at your lips, all seriousness in his voice. You pull him backwards, lips first, into the house with you. He sends the door slamming behind you with his heel.
The same song keeps playing over and over in Adrian’s head, and you start to hear it too. He tells you he loves you back, how much, and how long. Repeatedly. You’ll love each other right into the mattress tonight. And then tomorrow’s Monday, so you’ll both go to work. You’ll hate it the whole time, just this once. Because you know what’s waiting to pick you up in the parking lot.
requested | by anon
summary | You manage to wrangle your boyfriend into filming a tiktok with you
pairing | jason todd x fem! reader
It had taken days of begging, bribery and outright falling to your knees in public before Jason had agreed to do 'the damn video', with you. It may have been a little embarrassing, but what was your dignity in the face of virality?
"Lady Dimitrescu? That's so weak! She's like the milfiest milf to ever milf. You ask anybody on the street and they'll tell you the same thing I'm about to, smash!" You exclaim, motioning to the little print out of said character now decorating the cake, courtesy of your boyfriend.
"Alright then, let's see yours!" Jason scoffs, crossing his arms, practically daring you to do something unhinged.
"I'm just saying, that's a conventially attractive woman." You mumbled to the camera before a cheeky grin crossed your face. "Now, this, is a hear me out." Brandishing your print out, you carefully slot it beside Jason's choice, desperately trying not to laugh as you await his outburst.
"Seriously? Ivy? Harley?" A little underwhelming but you remain undettered.
"Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time."
"What was it you said about not including conventially attractive people?" It's your turn to glare at Jason then, a warning glint in your eye. After all, unlike Lady Dimitrescu, Harley and Ivy were technically attainable in real life.
"Don't give me that look, you picked them!"
"Moving on!" You shoved him to the side a little, ignoring that it was his turn as you placed your next pick.
"Ok now I know you're taking the piss. Killer croc?!"
"Hey! Don't yuck my yums! That's a perfectly sexy man and I bet you $100 the comments will agree with me!"
The look of absolute judgement and disgust Jason shoots your way is nearly enough to send you over the edge, giggles wracking your frame that only get heavier when you announce your next pick, "R-Roy Harper."
Jason stills, tilting his head to look at you with a small smile and what you could only describe as crazy eyes. "Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is? Do you want me to spend the rest of my life behind bars? cause I'll kill that redheaded bitch, you know I will."
You can't help it, the laughter bursts forth until you're wheezing and holding the table for support.
"You're mocking me. Here I am, having to murder my best friend and you're mocking me. Laughing at my pain."
"Ok, ok, I'm sorry, baby, that was a joke." You manage to wheeze, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye.
"Yeah, well, you should probably give up on your dreams of being a comedian, stick to your day job."
Ok, that was it.
"Wait, hold on, I've got one more left." There's a serene smile covering your face now, the picture of zen as you await the inevitable meltdown over your final choice.
"THAT'S MY DAD! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU PUT MY DAD IN! WHAT THE FUCK! TAKE IT BACK, TAKE IT BACK RIGHT NOW!" He screeched, reaching for the picture and throwing it across the room like it was a bomb.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN? LOOK AT THE PHOTO I PICKED, HE'S SEXY AS SHIT!" Your words do nothing but throw gasoline on the dumpster fire as Jason lets out another war like shriek.
"NO! THAT'S IT, YOU'RE DONE! YOU'RE DONE!"
[The camera picks up the indistingusiahble mix of your combined screams, the video cutting as Jason tackles you to the ground]
/☆ tim drake x fem!reader x conner kent , sex pollen , double penetration, +18
You loved having the apartment all by yourself. Usually, your two roommates were going up and down, bothering you in a harmless but annoying way. Now it was one of them days were you could wander around the apartment, cooking while listening to your "basic bitch" playlist like Tim liked to call it.
After doing your skincare and having dinner, you were laid on the couch with a thick blanket (because you decided that it was a good day to just wear a big shirt and a culotte) when you heard them outside. They were whispering-shouting, dangling the keys while they probably insult each other. You laughed to yourself, stopping the movie but not getting up, so you could hear your roommates fight.
"Stop! Kon, stop!" You could perfectly hear Tim hit Conner on the arm.
"Ouch!"
After entering the apartment, they stayed at the hall. That caught you off guard.
"Y/N?" Tim called your name, making you lift your head from the couch. "Are you in there?"
You noticed his heavy breathing and Conner covering his mouth.
"Well, yes. I live here." You fully got up, discarding the blanket to the side.
You went around the couch and finally got a look of them, still in superhero gear, all sweaty and somehow everything felt too tight on them.
"Wait! Wait, stay there!" Tim moved his hands in front of him and Conner covered his eyes with his hand.
"What the fuck is going on?" you asked, without obeying him and still walking a few steps towards them.
"Y/N, please. Stay right fucking there." Tim's voice tried to be stronger but it sounded weak and a little high pitched.
Conner just peeked a little between his finger. "Shit, she's not wearing any pants."
"Hey!"
"Kon! Shut. The Fuck. Up!"
"Yeah, you two better tell me what the fuck is happening right now." You crossed your arms in your chest and shit, your breast pushed together too nicely for their own good. Tim let out a long breath while Kon did a little whine.
Tim’s gloved hand curled into a fist at his side, his jaw tight. “We got hit. Ivy. It’s—” His throat worked around the word like it burned. “—some aphrodisiac.”
You froze mid-step. “…Huh. Aphrodisiac.”
Conner groaned into his palm, leaning against the wall like he was seconds away from clawing it down. “Fuck, Tim, why’d you say it out loud?”
“Because she needs to know—” Tim’s voice cracked, the flush climbing up his ears. “She can’t just— walk up to us like that.”
You blinked between them, suddenly very aware of the way your oversized shirt barely covered your thighs. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You two show up here, half-dead from… horny plant magic, and I’m the problem because I’m not wearing pants?”
Conner’s hand dragged down his face, and when his eyes met yours, there was so much heat in them you felt your knees lock. “You don’t get it. If you come closer, if you even touch me right now, I’m gonna lose it.”
Tim shoved him back against the wall, though his own fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out to you. “We’re handling it.” His voice was too sharp, which told you he was barely hanging on. “We just need to stay in our room. Cold shower. Sleep it off.”
“Yeah,” Conner muttered, though his gaze kept flicking over your legs, up the hem of your shirt. “Totally. Cold shower. Great plan. Except, uh—” He licked his lips, and the sound of it made your stomach flip. “You smell really fucking good right now.”
Tim swore under his breath, his composure cracking for a second as he dug his nails into his palm. He didn’t even look at you when he snapped, “Don’t. Don’t say that.”
Your heartbeat picked up, partly from their intensity, partly from the way you realized they were both trembling, shoulders tight, every breath ragged like they were fighting themselves.
“So you two are just gonna lock yourselves in a room all night? Sweaty, flushed, rock hard, probably—”
“Y/N!” Tim’s voice shot up an octave, scandalized. His ears were crimson now.
Conner, on the other hand, groaned like your words physically hit him. “Don’t tease right now. Please. I can’t— Fuck Tim, I can’t keep it together.”
Tim’s head thunked back against the wall. He looked wrecked already, biting down on his lip so hard you were worried it’d split.
And suddenly the living room felt about ten degrees hotter.
You tilted your head, voice dropping lower as you edged one step closer, ignoring Tim’s panicked little warning noise.
“So… are you asking for help?”
The words made both of them freeze. Conner’s breath hitched so loud you almost laughed, and Tim’s eyes went wide, lips parting like you’d just threatened him with a kryptonite blade.
“No!” Tim blurted, too fast, too sharp. He cleared his throat, fumbling. “I mean, no, we’re not asking. That’s not— this isn’t—”
Conner, meanwhile, stared at you like you’d hung the moon. His fists were clenched at his sides, chest heaving. “If you offered, though…” His voice cracked, low and desperate. “God, I don’t think I could say no.”
“Kon.” Tim’s warning was paper-thin, his hand darting out to grip Conner’s arm. But the way his jaw flexed, the way his thighs pressed together, it betrayed him.
You arched a brow, letting your gaze trail deliberately down both of them, drinking in the sight of Gotham’s best and brightest squirming like they were about to combust in your hallway. “You’re both really bad liars, you know that?”
Tim swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “This isn’t fair. You—” His eyes flicked down your bare legs and he shut them tight, hissing through his teeth. “You can’t. God, Y/N, don’t tease like this.”
But you could see it now, crystal clear: the way Conner’s body leaned toward you, every muscle taut like he was straining against a leash, and the way Tim’s breathing stuttered, his hand trembling where it still gripped Conner.
You let a slow smile curl on your lips. “So you do want my help.”
Conner groaned, head thunking against the wall. “Ivy’s a sadist. She knew what she was doing. Fuck, Y/N, please…”
Tim’s eyes snapped open, hazy and conflicted. His voice was a whisper, harsh and thin: “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say please to her.”
“Why not?” you cut in, stepping close enough now that the heat radiating off their bodies licked at your skin. “He sounds pretty sincere.”
Conner’s chest rose sharply, gaze locked on you like he was drowning and you were the air.
Tim swore again, but his grip on Conner’s arm slackened just a little. His control was slipping, and you could see how much he wanted to give in.
Your heart was hammering as you lowered your voice even further. “So… one more time. Do you want me to help?”
Conner looked a Tim almost desperate, now that you were closer you could see the line of their cocks straining against their suits.
Surprisingly, Tim was the first to answer. "Yes."
"Fuck, yes." Conner followed.
It's been, maybe, two hours? You aren't really sure. But your roommates are far from tired. You had sit in Conner's head while giving Tim a handjob, took Conner's cock in your mouth while Tim stretched you from behind, Conner had fucked you at the same time Tim was eating you out. But nothing seemed enough for them.
You were dripping, sticky with a nasty mix of cum, sweat and saliva. All of you were covered in marks and red spots, Conner was all sweaty while Tim managed his breath. Both of them were tired. But still rock hard.
Conner dragged you by the leg, hooking it in his shoulder.
"More?" you breath out, hiding your face in Tim's thigh.
"I know, baby, I know. But we can't help it," Conner said, already dragging the tip of his cock along your wetness. "One last time, I promise we'll make it up to you."
"Mmph..." you accommodated yourself against Tim's chest while Conner slid into you fast and easy.
Conner was already trembling, his thrusts sloppy, sweat dripping down his temples. He leaned his forehead against your shin where your leg was hooked over his shoulder. “Fuck, you feel unreal. I don’t even know how you’re still letting us inside you.”
You clung to Tim’s arms, shaking your head weakly. “Don’t stop.”
Tim’s voice was rough, frayed with exhaustion, but he forced a smirk as he stroked the sweat-slick hair from your face. “Look at you, baby. Falling apart on us, and still begging.”
Conner let out a ragged laugh, cut off by a moan when you clenched around him. “She’s greedy, man. Can’t get enough. Not even after, what? Five, six times?”
“Seven,” you gasped, voice breaking.
Tim chuckled hoarsely, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Seven, huh? And you still want more, mmh?”
Your head fell back with a choked sob, pleasure ricocheting through your veins.
Then Tim’s mouth brushed your ear, his whisper dark and deliberate. “You think you can take both of us at once?”
The words hit you harder than Conner’s thrusts, your whole body clenching around him in response.
“W-what?” you managed, though your voice was broken, pleading.
Tim smirked against your skin. “Both our cocks.
The words made your whole body tighten, your nails digging into his arm. “I—I don’t know if I can.”
Conner groaned, dragging his hips in one more shallow thrust. He was shaking, barely holding himself together. “You can. You’re so fucking perfect, we’ll make it fit. We’ll talk you through it.”
Tim’s lips brushed your ear, his tone wrecked but coaxing. “Yeah. You just listen to us. Breathe. Relax. Let us stretch you nice and slow.”
Conner’s hand covered your thigh, warm and unsteady. “It’s gonna be a lot, but you’ll feel so full, baby. So fucking full of us, you won’t even know where one of us ends and the other starts.”
You whimpered, hips twitching. “God, that sounds—”
Tim cut you off with a kiss, lazy but filthy, pulling back just to murmur against your lips. “C'mon. Say you want it.”
“I want it,” you whispered, wrecked. “I want both of you.”
Tim chuckled darkly, kissing your temple as his fingers pressed harder against your clit. “Good girl.”
Conner’s thrust faltered, his cock twitching inside you. “Holy shit, we’re really— are we really—”
"Yeah. Pull out of her, it'll be more comfortable with her facing me on my lap." Tim explained, practically grabbing Conner's cock to pull it out of your wet cunt. You groaned at the emptiness, but Tim hushed you, kissing your temple. “Shhh. We’re right here. Just breathe, baby.”
He guided you up a little, angling himself beneath you. “Look at me.” His eyes were dark, rimmed red from exhaustion, but his voice was low, coaxing. “You sit down on me first. Let me in, nice and slow.”
Your hands trembled on his shoulders as you sank down, inch by inch, onto his cock. Tim groaned, tilting his head back, then forced his eyes open to keep watching your face. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Taking me so good.”
By the time you were fully seated, your thighs were quivering. “S'full already,” you whispered.
Conner’s hand landed on your hip, steadying you. “Not even close,” he rasped. His eyes flicked to Tim’s, a silent exchange, before he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Gonna stretch you more, sweetheart. You ready?”
You nodded, breathless.
Tim cupped your jaw, holding you steady. “Words, baby. Tell us.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “I want both of you inside me.”
Conner swore under his breath, lining himself up behind you, his cock sliding against Tim’s where he was already buried in you. “Fuck, she’s so wet I can feel it from here.”
Tim kissed your jaw, grounding you. “It’s gonna sting at first. But just keep your eyes on me. Breathe with me.”
The first push from Conner made your whole body jolt, a sharp burn stretching you wide. You whined into Tim’s shoulder, nails digging into his skin.
“Easy, baby,” Tim murmured, stroking your cheek. “That’s just the stretch. You can take it. You’re perfect.”
Conner groaned low, his forehead pressing to your shin. “She’s so fucking tight, Tim. Holy shit.” He pushed a little deeper, teeth gritted, fighting to go slow. “You’re doing so good, babe. Just a little more.”
You sobbed against Tim’s neck, overwhelmed but desperate. “More. Please.”
Tim’s lips brushed your ear, whispering filth like a prayer. “Greedy little thing. You love it, don’t you? Being stuffed full, stretched open by both of us.”
“Yes,” you cried, hips twitching. “Fuck, yes.”
Conner bottomed out with a broken moan, the three of you pressed flush, every inch of you trembling. You felt impossibly full, every nerve sparking.
Tim’s hands framed your face, forcing you to look at him. “There you go. Look at you. Taking us both like you were made for it.”
Conner’s breath was hot on your leg, his voice shaking. “Can’t believe this is real. You’re… fuck, you’re perfect.”
"So fucking perfect," Tim agreed, kissing your earlobe. "We can stay like this a little more, or we can start moving. What do you want, baby?"
"M-move, please." You dig your nails deeper into Tim's skin, throat bobbing and full of marks
It was slow, Tim rocking up into you while Conner drew back just enough to thrust shallow. Both of them groaning, both of them whispering against your skin.
You were so full it was dizzying, their cocks dragging against each other with every motion, grinding deep against every sensitive spot inside you. The burn had long since melted into sharp pleasure, every thrust forcing little gasps and whines out of you.
“Fuck, listen to her,” Conner rasped, his voice cracking. “She’s dripping all over us. Can feel it.”
Tim kissed you messy, all teeth and desperation, his words spilling hot against your mouth. “She’s gonna come like this. Squeezed so tight around both of us.”
Your nails dug into Tim’s shoulders, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as the pressure built, unbearable, unstoppable. “I can’t— I can’t—”
“You can.” Tim’s forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking even as he tried to ground you. “You’re perfect. Let go for us.”
Conner’s thrusts stuttered, deeper, rougher, his breath shattering against your skin. “Come on, baby. Be good for us. Cream all over our cocks. Please, fuck, please.”
That last word, wrecked and begging, tipped you over. You screamed, clenching down around both of them as your orgasm tore through you, blinding, body convulsing in their arms.
The way you squeezed them dragged them under with you.
Tim groaned your name into your mouth, hips jerking helplessly as he spilled inside you, his composure shattering completely. Conner buried his face against your neck, muffling a guttural cry as his release filled you too, the stretch and heat almost unbearable.
The three of you shook together, loud and messy and desperate, clinging to each other like you might drown otherwise.
By the time it ebbed, you were limp between them, their arms keeping you upright. Both boys were still panting, still trembling, still buried in you, but all they could do now was hold you close.
"Is... is the pollen gone?" you asked, a little scared if they dragged you to another round.
"I think so, yeah." Conner managed to say, tracing patters that made you shiver.
You three stayed silent for a long time, both of them didn't stop hugging you or caressing you. Then, you thought something.
"Why you didn't try get the pollen of each other?" You frowned a little, looking between them.
"Trust me, we tried." Tim laughed a little like it was a vague memory.
"We didn't want to drag you into this." Conner pointed out, pressing his lips together.
batboys x fem!reader : kissing them while they're sleep...
DICK GRAYSON
He’s sprawled across your bed like he fell straight out of a mission and into a dream. One arm slung over his eyes, hair messy, chest rising slow under the blanket.
You lean in, just to brush your lips against his — a whisper of a kiss.
He stirs immediately. Of course he does. The man’s trained to wake at a pin drop, but this time… he doesn’t open his eyes.
A smile curls on his mouth instead, lazy and full of warmth.
“Mm,” he hums, voice rough with sleep, “was that real or am I dreamin’?”
You freeze, whisper something about him going back to sleep.
He hums again, turns toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.
“Then keep dreamin’ with me,” he mumbles, already slipping under again, lips brushing your hair like muscle memory.
JASON TODD
He sleeps heavy — the kind of exhausted that only comes from carrying too much.
There’s a gun on the nightstand, a scar by his mouth, and a softness in his face that only shows when the world’s finally quiet.
You lean down, heart pounding, and press a kiss to his lips — gentle, almost scared.
He tenses. For a second, his hand twitches toward the weapon, but when his eyes flutter open and he sees it’s you, everything melts.
“...What was that for?” he asks, voice gravel low, still half-asleep.
You shrug, whisper, “You looked peaceful.”
He chuckles, quiet and broken around the edges. “You’re dangerous, y’know that?”
He drags you down into his chest, rough fingers sliding through your hair.
Next breath, he’s out again — heartbeat steady under your cheek, hand still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
TIM DRAKE
He’s asleep at his desk. Again. Head resting on folded arms, surrounded by cold coffee cups and open files.
You sigh, move closer, brushing hair from his forehead. His lashes flutter, his lips parted just slightly. He looks so young like this — unguarded, human.
You lean down, kiss him softly. Just one small press of lips — fleeting, tender.
He stirs. Blinks once, confused.
“...Wh—?”
“Go back to sleep,” you whisper.
He blinks again, eyes finding yours, unfocused and hazy. A sleepy smile ghosts across his face.
“You kissed me?”
You nod.
He sighs, a quiet, drowsy laugh slipping out. “Finally,” he murmurs before his head drops back down, out cold again — like he’s been waiting for that for weeks.
DAMIAN WAYNE
He’s not a deep sleeper — raised by assassins, after all — but tonight he’s still. Titus is at his feet. His hand’s resting loosely on the hilt of a blade by the pillow.
You hesitate. He looks so peaceful it feels almost cruel to wake him.
But you can’t help it. You lean in and brush your lips against his.
He stirs instantly, his eyes flashing open.
“Who—” he starts, then stops when he sees you.
You whisper, “Sorry. You were sleeping.”
He blinks. Processing. The tension in his shoulders eases.
“…That was unwise,” he mutters, voice low, but his ears are bright red.
You smile. “You didn’t push me away.”
He huffs quietly, looking away. “You caught me off guard.”
Later, when he thinks you’re asleep, he leans closer — and presses the softest kiss to your temple.
a/n: Thought of this idea whilst daydreaming about pomegranates. Implied relationship. Hopefully not too ooc
w/c: 224
Tim knows how much you adore pomegranates. You snack on them all the time, even during the Twilight movie marathon you two are currently having.
Your bowl of pomegranate (seeds) was basically empty, and you were now trying to peel another pomegranate.
Anyone who has peeled a pomegranate before knows that it takes forever. Thus resulting in you dozing off in the middle of peeling said pomegranate, as well as in the middle of the movie.
From the corner of his eye, Tim noticed that you had fallen asleep.
“Asleep already?” He said softly as he took the pomegranate and bowl from your hands, being careful not to wake you up accidentally.
Tim peeled the fruit with ease, even getting up to grab another one. When he finished peeling the second pomegranate, he placed the bowl back into your lap. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he was impressed with himself at how quickly he finished the task.
“Huh-” you jolted awake, startled from the sudden weight on you.
You look down and notice that the bowl is full, and you turn towards Tim.
“Did you-”
“I did.”
It was touching; you couldn’t deny it. Pomegranates were sometimes a hassle to deal with, but he was patient enough for you. It was a nice thought until you realized…
“YOU FORGOT TO PAUSE THE MOVIE!”
Try to guess my favourite batboy...
Dick ver. will be posted tomorrow next
Featuring: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Duke, Damian, Clark, and Wally
Debrief: in which you ask your boyfriend to lay on top of you.
Case Notes: for this request from @123-just-ignore-me, enjoy it babe!
Bruce Wayne
You barely finish asking before he’s already setting down his book, giving you that small, almost imperceptible nod. Bruce doesn’t do things halfway, not when it comes to you.
He stretches out beside you, shifting carefully until his full weight is draped over you, steady and grounding. His chin rests in your hair, his heartbeat slow and steady against your chest.
“Better?” he murmurs, low and rumbling like distant thunder.
You hum, “Perfect. Soul sufficiently crushed.”
There’s a soft huff of laughter you feel more than hear. He squeezes you gently, the kind of hold that says he’d stay here forever if you asked him too.
Dick Grayson
The second you say, “Be my personal weighted blanket,” his face lights up like you just gave him the best mission of his life, “Finally! I’ve been training for this moment.”
He launches onto the couch dramatically, sprawling across you like an octopus, arms and legs everywhere. He wiggles until you’re giggling and trapped under his warmth.
“Crushing your soul into mine in three… two…” he whispers, then hugs you tight enough you squeak. He laughs against your neck, pressing a kiss there, “There. Now you’re never escaping.”
It’s silly, it’s playful, and it’s exactly the comfort you needed.
Jason Todd
When you say it, he smirks, cocking an eyebrow. “You sure? I’m heavy, sweetheart.”
But he’s already easing down, settling across you with surprising gentleness for someone his size. He lets his weight rest on you, his head tucking into the crook of your neck, arm wrapped firmly around your middle.
You sigh happily, “Yes. This is perfect.”
Jason chuckles, voice muffled against you, “Congrats. You’ve officially turned me into a human paperweight.”
But he doesn’t move. Not even a little. His hand rubs slow circles into your back, his warmth seeping into your bones. If anything, he presses closer, because nothing in the world feels safer than being this close.
Tim Drake
He blinks at you, caught off-guard, “Uh—you want me to… crush my soul into yours?”
You nod, grinning. “Yes. Exactly. That is the assignment.”
Tim laughs softly, cheeks pink, but he obeys without hesitation. He climbs onto the bed and carefully lowers himself onto you, bracing his arms so he’s not too heavy, until you tug him down all the way.
“Oh,” he breathes, settling fully on top of you. His weight is warm, comforting, like a cocoon. He nuzzles into your neck, surprisingly clingy.
“This is nice,” he admits in a drowsy voice, “You’re not allowed to make me move, ever.”
And within minutes, he’s melting, his steady breathing syncing with yours as if your souls really have fused together.
Duke Thomas
He tilts his head at your request, a slow grin spreading across his face, “You want me to be your human blanket? I can do that.”
He stretches out carefully, settling his chest across yours. He’s tall, but he shifts around until it’s cozy and snug.
“Better? You cozy?” He murmurs against the side of your head, how he’s tucked himself in on top of you, and you hum in agreement, giving him a nod.
The longer he stays, the quieter he gets, until you feel him relax completely. His weight grounding you, his warmth humming gently into your bones.
Damian Wayne
When you tell him to “crush his soul into yours,” his brows shoot up,“That’s… ridiculous.”
But the next moment, he’s already climbing onto the bed, lying stiffly on top of you like it’s a tactical operation. His chin lands on your collarbone, arms crossed as if he’s pretending this isn’t supposed to be comfort, just efficiency.
“Am I… sufficient?” he mutters, though his voice softens when you shift his arms to wrap around you.
You laugh and whisper, “Perfect. Don’t move.”
There’s a tiny pause before he exhales, settling fully against you, his weight grounding, “Tt. Fine. But only because you asked,” he says, though his fingers curl into the sides of your shirt like he has no intention of ever leaving.
Wally West
The second you ask, he practically teleports onto you, moving faster than you can blink. One moment you’re speaking, the next you’re pinned under red hair and laughter.
“Personal weighted blanket? Babe, I’m your personal gravity field.”
He sprawls across you dramatically, limbs everywhere, making sure you’re properly squished. He even vibrates just slightly, the warmth radiating through you like a heated blanket.
“Too much? Not enough? Want me to add extra cuddle-pressure?” he teases, nuzzling into your neck.
You giggle helplessly, wrapped in his sunshine energy, and Wally just hums, content to hold you there forever, like he’s finally found the one place he doesn’t have to rush.
Clark Kent
Clark chuckles, low and warm, when you make your request, “Are you sure, sweets? I don’t think you realize how heavy I actually am.”
But you only grin, so he carefully lowers himself over you, impossibly gentle despite his size. His arms cradle you as though you’re the most precious thing in the world, and the warmth radiating from him is steady, constant, like sunlight.
“This okay?” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your hairline.
You sigh happily, “Better than okay. Soul successfully crushed.”
His chest shakes with laughter, and then he holds you tighter, strong enough that you feel completely encased yet safe beyond question. “Good,” he whispers, “because I don’t think I’ll ever let go.”
⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇
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cw: angst, brief mentions of casual sex, brief mention of guns, fwb!Jason Todd
She stood on his front porch with a slight slump, which bent her back into a bow-like arch in a way that indicated her lowered guard. Her eyes flickered over her phone screen, over the text she'd read over and over and over again. The last few words from him before she decided to take matters into her own hands and show up to his place.
jason: "not rlly feelin it tn. let's cancel."
No matter how many times she'd read glowing blue bubble, every echo of the text in her head felt like a hard punch to the gut, something so familiar yet so abruptly painful. But, just like every time, a voice in her head told her to hold out the hope, which she never seemingly ran out of when it came to matters of the heart.
A creak made her lift her face from the glow of the phone. Her eyes lingered on the door, whose mint-green paint was already beginning to turn dull and chip off. The other side of it seemingly came alive with the dim yellow glow of his living room slowly spilling through the gaps in the hinges of the door and more creaks on his walnut floorboards, which could be made out to be the slow, tired drags of his feet. The footfall made her straighten up and furrow her brows slightly. He must've used the fire exit. The hand that clutched her phone lifted for her knuckles to plant three sharp knocks onto the wood crusted with paint and enamel. The footfall paused completely before it started to turn more cautious.
Jason was already having a shit day; an ache slowly rippled through the muscles of his right shoulder, where he'd taken a particularly lethal blow with the flat rear of a smoking AK-47. His ears rung even after having been so long since the shower of bullets in the dark, dusty warehouse. His bed was still a mess from the morning that he didn't bother himself with it, given that his migraine was splitting his head in half (remnants of which still flared up every time he moved too fast). Then, the knock on the door sounded which made him freeze in his movements. His hand, which he picked up a glass with, one he intended to fill up and finally pound some hydration into himself, stilled in mid-air. His eyes widened like saucers when his head whipped around to stare at the direction of the sound. His hand slowly lowered the glass and made it's way to the barrel of his gun tucked in his utility belt. Slowly, he made his way toward the door across his living room, his gaze turning intense again as he eyed the wood. His back lay straight and flat against it as he turned his head cautiously to look out through the peephole. "Oh, fuck me," he breathed out before quickly reaching over to slide a drawer open and slam the gun into. "One second!" he called through the door again before cursing softly as he began tugging the latex off his torso hastily.
The furrow within her brows deepened into a slight frown as she heard quick shuffling and distant curses from his side. Then, she jumped slightly when he swung the door open. The dim light from the wall lamp beside his door cast a yellow glow on his features, softening the sharp edges on his expression. "What do you want?" He asked with a sharp bob of his head as his arms crossed in front of his chest, which was covered by a creased Batman hoodie.
Her eyes lingered slightly at his exposed forearms for a moment before returning up to meet his hard, crinkled gaze.
"Hi..." she huffed out softly and gave him a smile.
His gaze caught onto hers like a latched on hook. A sweet scent wafted over from her, or more so from the plastic bag hovering a few inches above the ground from her left hand. Some tenderness somewhere inside him couldn't help but crawl up to his skin and soften his expression to reveal the exhaustion behind his irritability.
"Didn't answer my texts," she stated softly. The way her eyes searched his hopefully made something in him churn.
"Had a work emergency," his shoulders shrugged in feigned casuality.
She didn't really know much about his line of work and frankly, she didn't care. Nights she spent with him, she'd notice new bruises, newer fresher cuts somewhere on his body but barely questioned it. It's gotham after all, she figured. He's doing whatever needs to be done to keep food in his belly.
Today, he donned a fresh, maroon bruise right on his cheekbone, one she eyed for a moment before returning her gaze to meet his.
"Well, I wanted to ask you to hang out anyway," she mumbled out lowly and held up the bag in her hand. "I brought those churros you like. They were out of chocolate though so we gotta make do with maple syrup."
Her words pushed Jason deeper into a spiral of doubts. She wants to spend a perfectly good Friday night with him? Her with lashes that stood stiff with mascara. Her with stray hair which bent crooked into a shapeless frizz because of the Gotham weather. Her with her plump cheeks with glowed under the dim lamp, a light blush dusted over her face which almost looked like the real thing.
The simmer inside Jason's chest that she brought about was harrowing. It started one of the days she'd stayed over at his. At the crack of dawn when she traced her nimble fingers over his scarred skin while her eyes were barely even open. When they went to that park together and everyone was staring at his hulk-like stature as he dragged his monstrously large self down the Gotham pavements but she did not give a care in the world. Instead she babbled on about her day, her job, her friends, her new annoying neighbour. When he palmed himself through his Red Hood branded sweatpants while staring at the ceiling with that lovesick daze, it wrung his chest out painfully. The sound of her voice echoing through his mind, the mental image of the smile on her face, it all made Jason want to scream. Why would someone like her associate themself with a monster like him?
The churn in his chest intensified when she continued in that soft voice, the anger and frustration of the day mixing with it to bubble over into this plaguing irritation over nothing.
"I was gonna ask you if you wanted to talk a little?" Her eyes glided over his features, trying to read them. "Order some more food, maybe? Watch a movie?" A sheepish laugh shook in her throat lowly, but quickly died down at his next words.
"Why would we do that?"
She froze in her movements, her doe eyes widening slightly as she stared at him. "Huh?"
Jason's teeth gritted against each other, anger and frustration clouding his feelings. The pain had now crawled up his throat, spewing out in the form of words in that sickening tone of his.
"Why would we do any of that together?" He asked in a low croak, his words taking the form of bitter, acidic, cruel venom as he spoke to her. "Lemme make one thing clear, yeah?" His lips stuttering slightly as his mouth kicked into autopilot before he could think. "We're not dating. We won't share food or watch movies, hell, we won't share the same space unless we're having sex." He would never say that. He would never say that to her in his right mind.
Her smile turned small slowly with every word that he shot at her. A familiar pain began plaguing her chest and throat and that same voice in her head barked out a laugh. Her eyes dropped to the floor when they threatened to pool with tears. Fucking idiot, it taunted right in her ear. Desperate little idiot whore. The pain clogged her voice right in her windpipe and started to form a painful lump of unspoken words.
Jason's words, a blanket of anger and irritation finally concluded with a choked, "Get outta here, (name)."
She didn't really remember what happened after she bolted out of there. Her way home, her fiddling with her keys to open her door and almost tripping in the dark as she tried to make her way across the living room, itnwas all a blur of silent tears that turned everything to a mere haze. The only thing she does remember was stripping her clothes off as quickly as she could, her face contorting into an ugly, loud, unattractive sob, her hand reaching out to twist the cold metal of the shower open.
The next few hours was already a practice. Her nails freshly manicured a few hours ago clawing at her skin under the hot water until it was red and raw, trying to remove lingering touches, kisses, bruises, his scent, his voice, him. It was routine, it wasn't new, she'd done it before, she told herself, multiple times. Whore. The boys at school weren't wrong after all. She would never be anything more. She'd let people into herself and they'd never stay. It was like some sick twisted prophecy that not even the water could wash away.
“Quit sticking your fingers in my mouth.” Tim grumbles as you perch on top of him, thighs on either side of his body as you lodge a finger in his mouth.
Currently, Tim was supposed to be working on a case that Jason needed help on, something about elderly robbery– the elders being robbed or the robbers being elders was still undisclosed– but it sure was hard to investigate when you've found a new pass time in exploring his mouth (and not in the fun way).
“But Duckie,” you crone, head falling to his shoulder but do nothing to move your fingers away from his face. “You’ve already taken a liking to biting me, pinching my eyes, interlocking our toes, picking my nose” Tim lists absentmindedly as you let out a drawn sigh, “ughh but i just want to fuse with you”.
Tim rolls his eyes, continuing to type away on his computer. “I'm sure you’re able to come up with a way to actually let us fuse” He says in a knowing tone, “but that's no fun, and the biology and anatomy of it all is way too tedious” you grumble and push your fingers deeper into your mouth.
Finally, Tim pulls away, taking a hold of your wrist and takes it out of his mouth. Tim gives you a stern glare which makes you pout.
“What did I say?”
“Not to stick my fingers in your mouth unless we're having sex”
“Unless we’re having sex” Tim nods affirmatively, finally pushing his chair away from his desk and swiftly pulls both of you up.
That's enough work dedicated for Jason today (too much in his opinion). Tim carries you easily to his bed and throws you down like you weigh nothing– vigilante training sure comes in handy. He pulls his shirt over his head and crawls on top of you, settling in his place– on top of your sternum.
The moment of silence settles between you two, soaking in the tranquility.
And then Tim finds that your hand has wandered to his mouth, again.
Jason pretends he doesn’t care about youe hair at first. He’s so Jason about it: rolls his eyes when you complain about frizz, makes some sarcastic comment like, “Tragic, babe. World’s ending ‘cause your curls don’t sit right”
But later? He’s caught staring. And eventually? His hands are always in it: gripping it when you kiss, tugging it when he’s being cocky, absentmindedly twirling a strand when you're on the couch.
He’d never admit it out loud, but he loves the texture, the messiness, the way it’s different every day.
! He Loves the Wildness of It
Jason thinks your curls/waves match his personality. Not neat, not polished—alive, untamed, a little rebellious. He loves that about you.
He’ll straight-up say: “Fits you. You’ve got fight in you, even in your damn hair.”
You're tying it back before a spar, muttering about hating the frizz.
Jason leans on the railing, smirking. “Nah, keep it wild. Scares people off before you even throw a punch.”
! Bedhead Is His Kryptonite Too
Morning curls/waves = Jason losing his mind. But unlike Dick’s soft awe, Jason teases.
“Jesus, babe. Did you wrestle a tornado in your sleep? Gonna need a weed whacker to get through that.”
But then he brushes a curl out of your face with ridiculous gentleness, betraying how much he actually loves it.
! Hair-Care Curiosity
Jason pretends he doesn’t care about your hair products… but he pays attention.
He’ll know which conditioner you're low on, grab it for you without you asking, and leave it on the bathroom counter with a casual: “You were out. Don’t make it a big deal.”
He’s definitely the type to sit behind you while you're detangling and offer: “Want me to help?” He’s clumsy but surprisingly careful with his big hands.
! Hair Pulling = His Love Language
Jason is intense in relationships, and your hair becomes part of that intensity. When you kiss, he’s always fisting a handful of curls/waves. When you're walking, he might tug your back playfully by your hair instead of your hand.
It’s possessive, but not in a bad way—more like: you’re mine, and I love it.
The apartment was dark, lit only by the city glow through the blinds. You shoved at Jason’s chest as he teased you for the third time that night, voice dripping with sarcasm.“You’re impossible.”
Jason smirked, leaning back against the wall with that cocky tilt to his mouth. “And you’re still here. Guess you like impossible.”
You rolled your eyes, turning to walk away—but his hand shot out, fingers tangling in your curls, tugging just enough to pull you back against him.
“Jason—”
“Don’t ‘Jason’ me,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “You know exactly what you’re doing when you toss your hair around like that.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering. His grip wasn’t cruel, wasn’t careless—it was steady, commanding. He tilted your head just enough that you had to look up at him.
“You drive me crazy,” he said, lips brushing her temple. “These curls, this attitude… you think I can just ignore it?”
You swallowed, trying to hold your ground. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jason’s laugh was dark, amused. “Maybe. But you’re still melting right here.” His hand tightened just slightly in your hair, pulling your head back enough for his mouth to find yours: hungry, rough, like he’d been waiting all night.
The kiss stole your breath, stole your balance, until you were gripping his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. He kissed like he fought—intense, unrelenting—but even in the roughness, there was care. He let go the second you tugged his wrist, fingers sliding instead into your curls like he was grounding himself there.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard.
Jason’s voice dropped, softer now but no less intense.
“You don’t even get it, do you? The way I can’t stop touching you. The way this—” his fingers tangled once more in your hair, gentler this time—“drives me insane.”
Your lips parted, but he kissed you again before you could answer, pulling you closer, deeper.
! His Favorite Excuse to Touch
Jason’s not huge on PDA in front of others, but with your hair, he gets away with more than he realizes. He’ll tuck strands behind your ear when he leans close, drag his fingers through when you're tired, or grab a handful when you're kissing, ike it’s second nature.
You're on the couch, some old movie playing, your head in his lap. Jason absentmindedly twists a strand of your hair around his finger, over and over, until you laugh.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping my hands busy,” he mutters. “What, you want me to stop?”
You shake your head. “Didn’t say that.”
! Post-Patrol Ritual
After patrol, your hair’s usually wild—matted from your mask, sticking out from sweat or rain. Jason loves it. To him, it’s proof of how hard you fought, how strong you are. He’ll run his hand through it and kiss you before you even have a chance to complain.
You stumble into your apartment after a brutal night. You groan, tugging at your tangled waves. “God, I look like hell.”
Jason pulls you against him, curls his hand in your hair, and kisses you hard. “Hell’s never looked this good, sweetheart.”
! Quiet Moments
Jason is rough most of the time, but in the quiet moments, your hair becomes a comfort to him. He’ll fall asleep with his face buried in it, or rest his chin on your curls when you're lying in bed. It grounds him, reminds him he’s safe.
You're curled against him on the couch, his arm draped over you. He shifts slightly, burying his nose in your hair.
“You always do that” you murmur.
“Do what?”
“Fall asleep in my hair.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, half-asleep: “Smells like home.”
hiiiiiii i just wanna say i love ur work so much. i was wondering if i could request a jason todd hurt/comfort fic. i recently had a really scary experience outside of a bar, and it has been taking a toll on me. maybe something like reader and jason fight over something silly, and then something like that happens to reader and he comforts them after and feels bad about the fight before? with a lot of fluff and reassurance. maybe he gives them a bath or something:) THANK YOUUUU
Never Let Me Go - Jason Todd
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn! reader
Genre: hurt/comfort, angst -> fluff
Word Count: 2.3k
Summary: after an argument with Jason, you're left to fend for yourself outside of a bar
CW: attempted assault, attempted SA, chasing, slight violence, dissociation/shock (reader), arguing, alcohol, hurt/comfort, pet names (Jason calls reader baby/hun), bathing together, jason is snarky at first
sorry this took so long! really hope you're feeling better, but if you (or anyone else reading this) ever need to talk, my inbox is always open <3 i talk about my own struggles with ptsd on this blog, and i want everyone to be able to feel safe enough to talk about theirs, too
i tried to keep the assault scene short and brief, but i've also added cuts before and after in case anyone would like to skip it.
(title slightly based on this song)
“You know that stuff is pure sugar and no alcohol, right?”
You roll your eyes when Jason gestures to your drink with a look of distaste, hiding his snark behind the rim of his glass. You’re tempted to remind him that the foamy beer he’s pounding back has even less alcohol than your Cosmo, but think the better of it. He’s in a bitchy mood, and there’s no point making it worse.
He’d gotten into a fight with Bruce the night before, and had practically gone on a rampage through Gotham’s underground. The anger radiated off of him still when he’d showed up at your apartment an hour earlier, even after he’d flashed you a tense smile and planted a tentative kiss to your lips.
You’d told him at least three times since then that he didn’t have to come with you—given the bar was around the corner from your home, and you could stumble home from it drunk, backwards and in your sleep—but Jason had insisted. As if you ever thought Jason would be able to relax knowing you’re out at a bar in the heart of Gotham, despite your assertions that you would only be having a couple drinks and maybe some chili fries.
You swish your glass around, watching the raspberry coloured booze slosh on the sides. “We can go home if you’re not feeling up to this,” you say gently. “I don’t mind.”
He gives his broad shoulders an irritating shrug. “You wanted to get out of the house, we’re out of the house.”
Though he doesn’t say it, you can hear the unspoken words crackling through the air. What more do you want from me?
“But do you want to leave?”
Jason’s eyes narrow, black pupils forcing out imperial blue. “I go where you go.”
It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to resist tugging at your hair. Though it’s been years since he lived in Wayne Manor, and even longer since he studied under Bruce, the lessons he learned have never left him. Including this form of aggravating, diplomatic speech where his answers gave no answers at all.
“Whatever,” you sigh under your breath, crossing your legs and tilting your body back to your drink.
Jason scoffs, “whatever? Really?”
“Yes, really!” You’re grateful that the mix of conversations and the drone of 90s rock are loud enough to cover up your rising voice. “I just wanted to get out of the house for once and you’re being mean.”
“I’m being mean?” There’s a cruel smirk on his lips. “The only reason I’m here is because of you, so that you wouldn’t have to be alone.”
“I never asked for that.”
Your heart races painfully in your chest. You’ve never liked arguing, especially not in public when the both of you have been drinking and especially not when Jason is already chafing under the expectations of others. It’s a nightmarish combination that leaves electricity sizzling in the air and everyone in the room on edge.
He chugs the rest of his beer, not even bothering to wipe away the tiny bit of white foam that catches on the shadow above his upper lip. “Fine then,” he grumbles, and tosses a fifty onto the counter. “I’ll see you.”
He leaves no room for protest, already barreling his way through the tables. By the time you’ve even processed what just happened, he’s already at the door, back muscles tensing beneath brown leather as he yanks it open hard enough to shake the hinges.
You wait until you hear the familiar rev of his motorcycle before ordering another round.
It’s late by the time you decide to pay your tab and head home. Your phone has long since been dead weight in your pocket, but even if it weren’t, you wouldn’t have bothered to check it. There was a part of you that hoped Jason would come back, that he would apologize, but that part is about as dead as your phone is.
It’s brisk outside now, and cold rain sprinkles from above. The dark rain clouds block out the moon, dim flickering street lights the only light you can see. You take a long, deep breath that clouds the air as you release it, rubbing your freezing forearms. Home is just around the corner, but that’s still an eight minute walk. Minimum.
A groan slips past your lips as you lean against the outside of the building, peering into the dark streets for any sign of a cab. A rock skids across the ground to your left and you snap your head in the direction it came from.
A man saunters towards you, his body encased in shadows. “Need a ride?”
A shiver rises up your spine. You shuffle further to your right, trying to put more distance between you and the stranger.
He doesn’t take the hint. He moves closer, purposefully slamming his boots harder into the ground to get your attention. “I said,” he repeats, “do you need a ride?”
“No,” you swallow hard, adding a quick, “thank you.”
You don’t know this man, but you despise him. You despise his imposition, the southern twang of his voice, the fact you’re instinctually polite to him so that you don’t risk pissing him off.
Despite your plea, he keeps coming towards you. “I reckon you do.”
The alarm bells in your head start to shriek. You shove off of the wall, stumbling only slightly before you regain your balance and take off down the sidewalk. It’s dark and though you can no longer see him when you glance over your shoulder, you can hear the pounding of his boots on the pavement behind you.
And then his cold, clammy hands lock around your wrist and tug you hard. You strain against his grasp, using your entire body weight to get away, to go anywhere but here.
He’s so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the warmth of his body. Not warm the way Jason is, but warm the way a fire you shouldn’t go near is. You cry out desperately. The bar is still within sight, someone has to come out, someone has to see.
“Why not just let me show you a good time?” He says, “I’m a really nice guy if you give me a chance.”
You drive your elbow into his arm and his grip loosens enough for you to tug away. You rip your wrist from his grasp, but as you do, you lose your balance and crash onto the dirty, wet Gotham pavement. With how cold you are and the adrenaline your heart is furiously pumping through your body, you barely feel the impact.
You can’t see the expression on his face as you drag yourself across the pavement, but you hear a low chuckle. You imagine it’s similar to that of a wolf zeroing in on its prey.
And then, a booming voice cuts through the darkness. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Jason sounds pissed, but it's maybe the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. The most beautiful string of words in the English language.
The man spins on his heels away from you just in time to catch a harsh uppercut to the face. A loud crack reverberates through the buildings, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes on the concrete next to you.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, looking up at Jason through your lashes. “You’re—how?”
“Oh, baby. Baby, baby,” he sighs, dropping to his knees on the pavement next to you. His new jeans are probably ruined from touching the ground—as are yours—but that seems to be the least of his concerns right now.
He cradles your head in his lap, his hands trailing up your damp, aching skin for any sign of injury. You shiver, closing your eyes and letting Jason hold you. The adrenaline flooding your veins has not yet diluted, and the calloused warmth from Jason’s hands is the only thing keeping you from floating away.
“I didn’t leave, baby, would never leave you. I was waiting around back when I heard you and,” he sighs, “I’m so sorry.”
His words are faint, so faint, and more gentle than you’ve ever heard him speak. Though he clutches you tightly to him, the feeling registers as barely a whisper. And then you’re on your feet, propped up against his side as he helps you back to where he propped his bike.
Your mind is somewhere else now. You’d have completely forgotten about your own body if it weren’t for the frantic, rhythmic shove of Jason’s heart against his ribcage with every step you take.
You’re not sure how you got back to your apartment, but you’re sure it was through no small effort on Jason’s part. Your waist is warm from where his hand rests—he’s refused to let you go for even a moment since he saw you on that pavement.
You shiver violently even after you return to the warmth of your home. Jason had wrapped you in his jacket but even that did little to stop the shaking.
He cups your face, a soft intensity in his eyes. “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?”
You barely react to his touch, or to his words. It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re in shock—Jason’s seen it more than enough times in his lifetime to recognize it at a glance.
The shivering, that faraway and glassy look in your eyes, the way your lips move as if they’ll form words but no sound comes out. Your pupils themselves have almost doubled in size from the adrenaline coursing through your system.
He’d take the crowbar a thousand damn times if it meant he would never have to see you like this. He would give away all that he has, and all that he is, to never subject you to this kind of pain.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and starts towards the dark hallway leading to your bedroom and bathroom.
You let out a choked gasp—the most sound you’ve managed since earlier—and Jason whips around. Blue eyes snap to yours, looking more like broken glass through the tears catching on your own lashes.
Don’t leave, you want to say. Not even for a minute, not even for a second. But your words fail you, and all you have to fall back on is a gasp of air and the tears in your eyes.
Jason understands, though. “Let’s go together, then.”
He grabs one of your hands in his, and holds your waist with the other. You walk like that down the hall, Jason holding you tight and guiding you to your bathroom. He helps you settle down on the toilet seat while he runs a hot bath.
Jason has you sit on the side of the bathtub, only your bare feet resting in the warm water. He sits with you, his legs on either side of your own and his arms around your waist. Already, the shaking has subsided and your eyes have started to clear. Relief floods his system, wiping away the guilt that’s been bubbling in his stomach.
He waits a few minutes, before saying, “let’s get you out of those clothes and into the bath.”
It’s posed more like a question, his fingers tracing inquisitive circles on your hip. He’s asking, you realize, if it would be okay for him to help you undress. If you’re comfortable being naked in front of him right now. The kindness of the gesture has your shoulders dropping from your ears.
“Y-yeah,” you manage.
Jason keeps his touch firm, steady, while he peels your dirty shirt over your head. He has you raise your feet above the water so he can help you with your pants and underwear, discarding your clothes in a pile on the tiled floor.
He squeezes your shoulders reassuringly when he sees you hesitate at the side of the bathtub before finally stepping in and letting your aching body settle in the warm water.
It’s an immediate relief. The chill your skin has taken on, the ice running through your blood, starts to defrost.
Jason watches you relax into the warm porcelain, your impossibly tense muscles finally loosening. “Feeling any better?” He asks quietly.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble quietly.
He grabs a washcloth from the drawer beneath the counter. “Hey, none of that.”
“I just,” you take a deep, shaking breath, “if we had never gone out tonight, none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t have had to help me and—”
Jason splashes warm water over your head. “None of that,” he repeats. “I don’t want to hear any of that.”
“But—”
“Nothing that happened tonight was any fault of yours.” He brushes the wet washcloth across your face, wiping away stray tears. “You did nothing wrong. I should never have left you, plain and simple.”
“It’s not your fault either, Jay.”
He strokes the washcloth over your forehead. “I’m supposed to protect you, hun. I didn’t do a very good job of it tonight.”
“Get in here with me?” You clutch his forearm.
He chuckles. It’s been a very, very long time since Jason Todd could comfortably fit in a normal sized bathtub, but for you, he’d do anything. He’s gentle climbing in the bath behind you, propping his legs around the outside of yours so you can comfortably lay back on him.
It’s a cramped fit, it couldn’t possibly be comfortable for anyone—but Jason sucks it up for your sake. Despite the ways his knees ache from the angle he keeps his legs, it all feels worth it when you lay your head on his chest.
“Thank you for being here,” you say quietly.
He plants a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “For you? Anything.”
And you know he means it.
(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)
jason is one of those lucky ones. as soon as his head hits the pillow, he’s out like a goddamn light. and right now, you are insanely jealous of him. you hadn’t been able to fall asleep properly for the past few nights. combine a ton of stress, a poor sleep schedule and general anxiety, and you have a recipe for a bad case of insomnia.
normally you’d be long asleep by the time jason came back from patrol; you’d be so far gone, you’d barely notice him climbing into bed and cuddling close to you. no such luck tonight. as you listen to him take off his gear, you turn to him and whine. “i can’t fall asleep.” you had tried everything. you’d soothed yourself with lavender scented lotions, drank whatever concoctions you could come up with, your phone has been playing soft music with rain sounds for the past three hours. absolutely nothing helped. you were getting frustrated, which only helped to keep you up.
“huh?” his voice already laced with drowsy sleep, “oh yeah, sure.” he got up out of bed and wobbled over to the living room. your shared bookcase had plenty of stories; not a lot of them were suited for bedtime though. he doubted edgar allan poe’s collection of vampiric tales would help. maybe you’d fall asleep to it, but it also might give you nightmares… his eyes fell on a choice perfectly suited for this situation. a few seconds later he came back with a book in his hand. you had fully prepped yourself for this, you’re as cozy as you could be, snuggled up in your blankets, plushie squeezed close to you. “are you ready for your story?” he gave you a quick peck on the forehead and started.
the cats nestle close to their kittens,
the lambs have lain down with the sheep.
you’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear.
please go the fuck to sleep.
you giggle at his choice of book, noticing just the tiniest bit of desperation at the last line. you feel bad for keeping him up, he probably must be so tired after patrol. but you were so close to losing your mind; a few minutes of no sleep more and you would have gone to cry in the bathroom. insomnia really is a bitch. it’s okay though, jason really would do anything for you, including reading you silly bedtime stories so his love can fall asleep. he holds back a smile, quickly shushes you and continues.
the wind whispers soft through the grass, hon.
the field mice, they make not a peep.
it’s been thirty-eight minutes already.
jesus christ, what the fuck? go to sleep.
your eyelids are getting heavier; the heat from his body calming you more than any chamomile tea ever could. you try not to yawn too much, jason’s deep raspy voice lulling you to dreamland. he notices your body relaxing next to him, one of his hands stroking your back, and goes on.
we’re finally watching our movie.
popcorn’s in the microwave. beep.
oh shit. goddamn it. you’ve gotta be kidding.
come on, go the fuck back to sleep.
the second he finishes the book, he hears the soft snoring noises coming from his right. jason smiles down at your sleeping form and sets the book down next to him; his movements are so slow and deliberate. he’d never forgive himself if he woke you up now. a last kiss on your head for tonight and, yet again, he’s off to sleep, immediately. lucky bastard.
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