NOR Û« êŁà§ 8TEEN, she/they, joaquin torres lvrgirl
comic book centered writing blog // requests are: open!!
masterlist âź carrd âââ Ëđ§· Ì !!
"i feel so alone without you"
Misplaced Lens Cap

blake kathryn
DEAR READER
Stranger Things


Origami Around

ç„æ„ / Permanent Vacation
ojovivo
dirt enthusiast
Game of Thrones Daily
sheepfilms
Sade Olutola
i don't do bad sauce passes
Keni
KIROKAZE

PR's Tumblrdome
I'd rather be in outer space đž
hello vonnie
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Czechia
seen from India
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Belgium

seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Italy
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seen from Panama

seen from United States
@batbugenergy
NOR Û« êŁà§ 8TEEN, she/they, joaquin torres lvrgirl
comic book centered writing blog // requests are: open!!
masterlist âź carrd âââ Ëđ§· Ì !!
"i feel so alone without you"

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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no but fr tho i am a recovered c.ai user and idk some of your stuff kinda gives off the 20+ hr ai chat logs i had with bots like the way you use descriptions donât make any sense and are very awkward like that in that one adrian chase fic you wrote something along the lines of âhaving a crush on adrian chase is like keeping a secret in fluorescent lightsâ and you use a lot of common ai phrasing and sentence structures like ânot a, not b, but c.â or âadjective. adjective. adjective.â âŠnot trying to be nit picky or anything and ur right to prove me wrong and cuss me out if itâs not true but just a little concern i have, no shade.
hi there!
while i said i am on hiatus, i did decide to log onto tumblr just to make sure i wasn't missing anything important, and i'm glad i did.
while i think it's important to call out authors who use AI, it is not this perfect "because you use x, y, and z, you must be using AI to write for you," because AI learns off of actual authors and pulls from published pieces.
the way that i write is the way i was taught & feel most comfortable with. yes, i do use lists. it's one of my favorite things to do, along with the em dash (which i recently learnt how to actually do, it's option, shift, - !!)
i do all my writing on my notes app, so that i can access it across multiple devices & easily catalogue exactly what i'm writing (i find the 'folders'/'tabs' on google docs to be confusing), and due to that i can't offer any sort of actual proof because notes (to my knowledge) doesn't have the option to look at version history.
however, i can promise that i do not use AI in any of my work, nor have i ever. all i can do is hope you have enough trust in me to believe that when i say it. i have been a writer since i was in fourth grade and writing short stories about chris evans singing bon jovis 'you give love a bad name' and fighting evil clowns, since fifth grade when i was writing riverdale fanfiction, all throughout middle school on wattpad, and even early high school writing criminal minds fanfiction on tumblr as well (the account is since deactivated, sorry!). my wattpad handle is nocturnlightz (teen wolf fanfiction), if you want to go investigate my works from 2020 as well. i have other old tumblrs dedicated to other fandoms i wrote in that id be happy to share with you as well!
on my other social media platforms, i am very anti-AI, and if you want to DM me i'd be happy to share them as proof! i do not feel like putting my tiktok and/or instagram out there to be attached to this account publicly however. i definitely could've been more anti-AI on here i realize, and have spoken out more, but i only ever logged on to post and barely scrolled through anything.
all of this is to say:
i do not use AI in anything i have ever written or published here or anywhere else. AI has no place in the arts or in our society as a whole, and it is killing our planet.
i do not condone the use of AI anywhere.
anything posted by me is written by me, and it is my own personal terribleness that is posted. no one elses.
once again, i'd be happy to speak more with you one-on-one about the matter to clarify anything else!
and also, a reminder to please stop accusing authors of using AI, seeing as most of us do not (i cannot speak for everyone though). being accused of using AI to write something that takes anywhere from hours to days to write is really disheartening, and causes a lot of authors to abandon writing all together! in this day and age, it is almost impossible to determine if someone is using AI because AI uses authors to learn, and it is getting smarter each day.
the witch hunt will just force even more authors into quitting, and then our fandom spaces will be as dry as the sahara desert.
something very suddenly came up and I fear I will be going on a hiatus for a time period uh đ sorry chatâŠ
if you're too shy (let me know)
pairing: clark kent x readerâsuperman x reader
summary: clark kent is the definition of a southern gentlemen, however that also means he isnât accustomed to the fast-pace dating scene of metropolis. good thing youâre there to help him slow down.
word count: 4.3k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. happy valentines to everyone !!
series masterlist â main masterlist
you meet clark kent on a tuesday.
tuesdays are never dramatic. they are beige days. unremarkable days. days that taste like burnt coffee and stale printer ink.
so of course, thatâs when he happens.
youâre halfway through arguing with perry over column spaceâgesturing with a pen like itâs a weaponâwhen you notice a presence beside you. not looming, exactly. he never looms. clark kent occupies space like heâs apologizing for it.
âum,â he says softly, like heâs interrupting a prayer. âmaâamâuhâyou dropped your notebook.â
you turn, still fueled by rage-induced adrenaline, and find him holding the corner of your battered reporterâs notebook with two careful fingers, like it might explode if mishandled.
heâs tall. taller than tall. broad-shouldered in a way that looks accidental, like someone stacked too many good traits onto one person and then forgot to adjust the humility dial.
his tie is slightly crooked, and glasses sit a fraction too low. his posture suggests heâs constantly trying to fold himself smaller.
you grin. âwow. a gentleman with an accent? donât let the rest of the bullpen hear, country. youâll ruin your reputation before you even get it.â
he flushes instantly.
itâs impressive, honestly. youâve seen politicians less reactive.
âohâno, iâum. itâs nothing,â he says, and ducks his head, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.
you take the notebook from him. your fingers brush his, and he freezes.
you clock it immediately. the stiffness. the hesitation. the way his breath seems to stutter.
interesting.
âthanks, country,â you say brightly. âyou just saved democracy. or at least my grocery list.â
he lets out a small, startled laugh, like he didnât expect his body to make that sound.
and just like that, the dynamic is set.
youâre everything he isnât.
youâre loud in the newsroom. not obnoxiousâjust alive. you talk with your hands. you argue like itâs a sport. you laugh like itâs a dare. youâre confident, unapologetic, and allergic to shrinking.
clark, meanwhile, writes like heâs trying not to be noticed. his articles are devastatingly precise. humane. kind. brutally honest in a way that never feels cruel.
he never raises his voice. he never interrupts. he never makes a scene.
and yetâsomehowâyou keep ending up assigned to the same stories.
âpartner up,â perry orders one morning, waving his hands. âkent, you handle background. youââ he points at you, ââbring the heat.â
clark nods immediately. âyes, sir.â
you flash him a grin. âready to bring the heat, smallville?â
he nearly drops his pen.
âiâmânotâuhââ he clears his throat. âyeah. of course.â he sounds like heâs bracing for impact.
which, honestly, is fair.
you notice things.
you notice how clark listens to you like youâre the only sound in the room. you notice how he laughs quietly at your jokes, even when youâre pretty sure they werenât that funny. you notice how he turns red when you stand too close. you notice how he never quite meets your eyes when the conversation turns personal.
and, maybe most interestingly, you notice how careful he is with you.
not in a patronizing way. not in a fragile way.
more like heâs holding something precious he doesnât believe belongs to him.
youâre working late one night, the newsroom dim and humming with that low electric fatigue that settles in after midnight.
clark sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. he looks more like himself this way, slightly less put together, slightly more real.
âyouâre staring,â you mutter without looking up.
his pencil stops moving. âiâsorry. i wasnâtââ he falters, then admits softly, âyou just⊠work very intensely.â
you glance up, smirking. âis that a complaint?â
âno!â he says quickly. âno, not at all, itâsâumâitâs impressive.â
that word lands heavier than it should.
you lean back in your chair, studying him. âclark kent, are you flirting with me?â
he goes scarlet.
âiâwhat? no. i wouldnâtâi donâtââ he looks like he might short-circuit. âiâm sorry. i didnât meanââ
you laugh. ârelax. iâm teasing. mostly.â
he tries to smile. it comes out crooked, shy, sincere.
you realize something then.
heâs not oblivious, heâs terrified.
thereâs a rhythm to the way you work together.
you chase leads. he verifies facts.
you kick down doors. he makes sure no one gets hurt in the process.
you call sources at reckless hours. he sends follow-up emails that somehow sound like handwritten letters.
sometimes, your leg bumps his under the conference table, and he stiffens like heâs been struck by lightning. sometimes, you catch him looking at you when he thinks youâre not paying attention. sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you asked him, point-blank, what he feels.
you donât.
not because youâre scared.
but because itâs⊠fun. the tension. the slow burn. the way he seems to hover at the edge of saying something and never quite steps over the line.
one evening, after a long assignment, you end up walking out together.
metropolis hums around you. neon. sirens. wind curling down the streets.
âyou ever get tired of this?â you ask him, gesturing at the city. âthe noise. the chaos. the pressure?â
he thinks for a moment. âno,â he says quietly. âit reminds me that people matter.â
you blink at him.
god, heâs earnest.
âthat might be the most clark kent answer in history,â you say, smiling.
he chuckles softly. âand is that⊠bad?â
âno,â you hum. âitâs refreshing.â
thereâs a beat.
you catch him glancing at you, then looking away again like it physically pains him to hold eye contact.
âyou know,â you say casually, âmost people wouldâve made a move by now.â
his heart stutters so hard you swear you can see it.
âa move?â he echoes.
you tilt your head. âyeah, you know coffee? dinner? a risky workplace flirtation? youâve had plenty of openings.â
he swallows. âi didnât want to make you uncomfortable,â he admits. âor assume anything.â
you soften despite yourself. âthatâs considerate,â you say gently. âbut youâre allowed to want things, clark.â
he looks at you like that sentence is brand new. âi do,â he murmurs before he can stop himself.
your breath catches.
he looks horrified at his own honesty.
âi meanâiâwhat i meant wasââ he stumbles, face burning. âiâm sorry. i shouldnâtââ
you step a little closer.
âhey,â you say quietly. âif youâre too shy⊠you can just say so.â
his eyes flicker up to meet yours for half a second longer than usual.
âiâm⊠working on it,â he says.
and something about the way he says it makes your chest feel too full.
later that night, lying in bed, you think about clark kent.
the way his voice softens when he talks to you. the way he holds doors open like itâs a sacred duty. the way he looks like heâs constantly trying not to take up space, despite being physically incapable of doing anything else.
you wonder what it would take to make him brave. you wonder if heâs thinking about you too. you suspect he is.
heâs not very good at hiding it.
you start noticing how close clark kent stands to you.
not close close. never anything bold. never anything that could be called intentional. but closer than he stands to anyone else. close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when you lean over a document together. close enough that your elbow brushes his sleeve more often than coincidence would allow.
he always freezes when it happens.
not like heâs offended.
more like heâs afraid of what might happen if he doesnât freeze.
you find that strangely compelling.
the story that really bonds you happens in the rain.
a whistleblower. corporate corruption; the kind of thing that makes people nervous, that makes phones go silent, that makes editors suddenly careful.
you and clark spend days chasing leads, cross-referencing financial trails, knocking on doors that open only a crack.
you work like a storm. he works like a steady current.
together, youâre dangerous.
late one night, soaked from a sudden downpour, you duck under the overhang outside the daily planet. your jacket is damp, hair frizzing, pulse still buzzing from adrenaline.
clark stands beside you, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat.
âyou okay?â he asks quietly.
you exhale a breath that feels like steam. âexhausted, wired... ready to flip a table.â
he smiles, soft and private. âyou always look like that right before you publish something incredible,â he says.
you blink. âthatâs oddly specific.â
âi pay attention,â he says before he seems to realize how that sounds.
he goes red.
you laugh, gentler than usual. âyouâre allowed to look, clark.â
âi know,â he says. then, quieter, âi just donât want to make you uncomfortable.â
you tilt your head. âand if i told you i wasnât?â
he looks at you. really looks at you.
for a heartbeat, he doesnât look away.
rain rattles against the pavement. the city hums. the world keeps moving, oblivious to the small, electric moment happening between you.
âiâd still be careful,â he says.
something in your chest tightens.
âwhy?â
âbecause,â he says, voice barely above the rain, âi care what you think.â
the words hang there.
you feel them settle under your ribs.
you start texting more.
at first itâs strictly work. links, deadlines, notes.
then itâs memes. headlines that make no sense. a blurry photo of a terrible vending machine dinner.
clark replies faster than he probably should.
sometimes his responses are overly formal. sometimes theyâre unexpectedly dry. occasionally, he makes a joke so quiet and sharp you wonder how many people miss it.
late one night, you send: âur still up?â
a pause. âyes. i couldnât sleep.â
you consider your next message, then type: âme neither. wanna admit why?â
three dots appear. disappear. reappear. âbecause i keep replaying conversations in my head.â
your breath hitches. âwith who?â though you already know.
a longer pause. âyou.â
you stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot. âu know u can just say things the first time, right?â
a moment later: âiâm afraid iâll say the wrong thing.â
you type: âtry me.â
another pause. this one stretches.
Finally: âi like you. i just donât always know how to exist near you without feeling like iâm doing something wrong.
your heart stumbles.
you type slowly this time. âyouâre not doing anything wrong. youâre just being you.â
three dots. âthatâs what scares me.â
in person, it gets harder.
you catch him glancing at you when you laugh. when you argue. when you concentrate so hard your tongue peeks out between your teeth.
once, you lean over his desk to grab a file, and your shoulder brushes his chest.
he inhales like the air just vanished.
you pull back, studying him. âclark?â
he swallows. âyes?â
âyou okay?â
âyes maâam,â he says too quickly.
you step closer, lowering your voice. âyou donât have to flinch every time i get near you.â
âiâm not flinching,â he says, but it sounds like a confession.
you soften. âyou look like you think iâm going to disappear.â
he meets your gaze, tentative and open. âsometimes,â he admits, âit feels like you belong to a world that moves faster than i do.â
you smile gently. âso keep up.â
âiâm trying,â he murmurs.
thereâs a night when the power flickers in the newsroom.
backup generators hum. screens glow. outside, thunder mutters like distant applause.
youâre both still working. of course you are.
you bring him coffee. he thanks you like youâve given him something sacred.
you sit on the edge of his desk.
âso,â you say lightly, âwhy havenât you asked me out yet?â
he nearly chokes. âiâi didnât thinkââ
âyou didnât think iâd say yes?â
âi didnât think it was appropriate,â he says carefully. âor fair. orââ
you swing your legs slightly. âclark. look at me.â
he hesitates. then he does.
you hold his gaze, refusing to let him look away.
âdo you want to ask me out?â you ask.
he breathes in, slow and controlled. âyes,âÂ
you grin. âthen ask.â
he pauses. looks terrified. then, quietly, honestly: âwould you⊠like to get dinner with me sometime?â
thereâs nothing flashy about it. nothing smooth. no bravado.Â
itâs perfect.
âi would,â you smile. âvery much.â
his relief is immediate and almost heartbreaking.
he smiles like heâs been given permission to breathe.
later, as you pack up to leave, he walks beside you again.
the city feels different now. brighter. expectant.
at the corner, you stop.
âhey,â you say softly.
he turns to you.
âif you ever feel too shy,â you say, âyou can let me know.â
he smiles, warm and bashful and real. âand if i do?â
âthen iâll meet you halfway.â
his voice is steady when he replies, âi think⊠iâd like that.â
clark kent treats your first date like itâs a diplomatic summit.
he arrives early. of course he does. heâs wearing a suit that looks like itâs been pressed within an inch of its life, tie straightened three times too many, hair just slightly more tamed than usual.
you show up five minutes late on purpose, because you refuse to let him think this is an interview.
when he sees you, his breath stutters like he forgot how lungs work.
âyou look⊠incredible,â he says, immediately flustered by the fact that he said it out loud.
you grin. âyou clean up like a man trying very hard not to cause property damage.â
he laughs, relieved.
the restaurant is warm and dim and humming with soft conversation. candlelight glows between you. every little sound feels louder than it shouldâthe clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices, the quiet hum of the city outside.
clark sits across from you, posture careful, hands folded like heâs afraid to knock something over.
you rest your chin in your hand. âyou always this nervous smallville?â
he considers lying. he doesnât.
âyes,â he says simply. âaround you.â
your chest tightens. âthatâs not exactly a reason to be afraid,â you say more gently.
âi know,â he says. âbut it feels⊠important to get this right.â
âyou donât need to get it right,â you say. âyou just need to get it honest.â
his eyes lift to yours. âokay,â he says quietly. âhonest, then.â
conversation comes easily, which almost feels unfair given how tense the air between you is.
you talk about work. about your childhood. about the first stories that made you want to chase stories of your own.
clark listens like every word is something he intends to keep.
when you talk about ambition, he watches you with something like awe. when you talk about fear, he watches you with something like devotion.
at some point, you realize his knee is almost touching yours under the table.
not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.
you wonder if he notices. you suspect he notices everything.
after dinner, you walk.
metropolis at night feels like a living thing. lights pulsing, trains roaring, wind tugging at coats and hair.
clark keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert, like heâs constantly bracing for something.
âyou know,â you say lightly, âyouâre allowed to flirt.â
he nearly trips. âiâi donât know how,â he admits.
you step a little closer. âtry.â
he thinks for a long second. âyou⊠um⊠make the world feel louder,â he says. âin a good way.â
you stop walking.
turn to face him.
âthat might be the most clark kent flirtation iâve ever heard,â you say softly.
he blushes, but he doesnât look away this time. âi meant it,â he says.
you hold his gaze.
for once, he holds yours back.
you end up on a quiet street corner, traffic distant, the cityâs noise softened into a low, steady hum.
the moment stretches.
you can feel it pulling tight between you.
âso,â you say quietly, âis this the part where you overthink everything?â
he smiles ruefully. âusually.â
âand?â
âiâm trying not to.â
your heart thrums.
he looks at you like heâs standing at the edge of a cliff.
âiâve wanted to do this for a while,â he admits.
âdo what?â you whisper.
he hesitates. then steps closer.
not rushing. not overwhelming. just enough to close the space heâs been so afraid to claim.
his voice is low. âbe brave.â
you tilt your head slightly, giving him the opening without forcing him to take it.
his hand lifts, hovering like heâs unsure whether heâs allowed.
âmay i?â he asks.
your pulse spikes.
âyes,â you say.
his fingers brush your cheek. he looks like he might fall apart.
slowly, carefully, he leans in.
the kiss is soft.
not urgent. not hungry.
just warm and tentative and full of everything he hasnât known how to say.
when he pulls back, he looks stunned by his own courage.
you smile. âwell,â you murmur, âyou survived.â
he lets out a breathless laugh. âbarely.â
later, actually walking you home instead of wandering aimlessly, he keeps glancing at you like heâs trying to memorize the fact that this is real.
at your door, he hesitates again.
âthank you,â he says. âfor⊠being patient with me.â
you step closer.
âclark,â you say gently, âif youâre too shyââ
he smiles. ââiâll let you know,â he finishes.
âexactly.â
he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
as he walks away, you watch him go, heart buzzing.
you know this is only the beginning.
heâs still holding back; still keeping secrets, still afraid of taking up space.
and youâre already wondering what will happen when he finally stops.
dating clark kent feels like discovering a hidden room in a familiar building.
everything is quieter. softer. more deliberate.
he opens doors for you. walks on the street-side of the sidewalk. remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the story you once mentioned in passing, the song you hummed absentmindedly while fact-checking.
he never rushes you. he never assumes.
and yet, the longer this goes on, the more it feels like heâs holding back something enormous.
you notice it in the pauses.
in the way he sometimes goes still when sirens echo in the distance. in the way his jaw tightens when the news mentions disasters, crime, people in danger. in the way he sometimes looks at the sky like heâs listening for something only he can hear.
once, in the middle of a conversation, he just⊠vanishes.
you blink, check the hallway and the stairwell.
thirty seconds later, he returns, breath barely altered.
âeverything okay?â you ask.
âyes,â he says too quickly. âi just⊠needed a moment.â
you believe him. you also know thereâs more to it.
the feelings deepen anyway.
you sit on the newsroom roof one evening, city lights spilling out below you like stars that forgot how to behave.
clark brings takeout. you bring sarcasm.
âyou ever think about the future?â you ask, leaning back on your hands.
he follows your gaze across the skyline.
âall the time,â he says.
âdoes it scare you?â
âonly when i think about losing people,â he admits.
you glance at him. âpeople like me?â
his breath catches.
âyes,â he says without hesitation.
the honesty knocks the air from your lungs. you smile to hide it. âsmallville, youâre getting bolder.â
âonly because you make me feel like iâm allowed to be,â he says.
you almost call him out on it.
on the strange disappearances. on the impossible timing. on the strength he pretends not to have when he lifts things that should strain him.
but you donât.
not because you donât notice. because you trust him.
and because part of you wants to see if heâll tell you on his own.
one night, the tension spikes.
a major story breaks. chaos, sirens, helicopters. the newsroom turns into a battlefield of ringing phones and shouted updates.
youâre chasing leads when the building shudders.
distant explosions. screams somewhere outside.
you feel fear curl in your stomach.
before you can even turn, clark is at your side.
âstay here,â he says urgently.
you grab his sleeve. âclarkââ
his eyes lock onto yours, blazing with emotion he canât quite hide. âi promise,â he says, voice low and steady, âi will come back.â
then heâs gone.
minutes pass. then more.
your heart hammers against your ribs.
when he finally returns, his hair is wind-tossed, his glasses slightly askew, suit rumpled in a way that makes no sense.
âyouâre okay,â you breathe.
âyes,â he says softly.
but he looks like someone who just carried the weight of the world.
later, when the adrenaline ebbs, you corner him near the empty copy room.
âclark,â you say quietly, âwhat arenât you telling me?â
he stiffens.
âiâm notââ
âyou disappear. you come back shaken. you act like the cityâs pain is personal,â you press gently. âiâm not asking to accuse you. iâm asking because i care.â
he looks like he might break.
âi want to tell you,â he admits.
âthen do it.â
he hesitates, voice trembling. âiâm afraid if i do⊠youâll see me differently.â
you step closer.
âclark kent,â you say softly, âi already see you differently. thatâs the point.â
his eyes shine with emotion he rarely lets surface. âyou make me want to be honest,â he whispers.
âthen be honest.â
he almost does.
you can feel itâright there, hovering on his tongue.
but fear wins.
âsoon,â he says instead. âi promise.â
you nod.
âsoon,â you echo.
the romance deepens anyway.
soft kisses at crosswalks. hands brushing in elevators. late-night phone calls where his voice sounds lower, more unguarded.
once, half-asleep, he murmurs, âyou deserve someone brave.â
you smile into the dark.
âthen keep practicing,â you whisper.
you donât find out on a quiet day. of course you donât.
you find out on a day when the sky fractures.
a crisis erupts downtownâpanic, collapsing scaffolding, screaming sirens, people flooding the streets in fear. the newsroom explodes into motion, and so do you.
you grab your coat, your phone, and your resolve.
and then you realize clark is gone.
again.
you donât think. you just move.
outside, wind howls between buildings, carrying dust and debris. emergency crews shout over one another. somewhere above, something massive groans under strain.
you push through the crowd, heart racing.
âclark?â you breathe, like the city might answer.
and then,Â
a shockwave.
the world lurches. people scream. you stumble backward as part of a structure gives way overhead.
you brace for impact.
it never comes.
instead, arms catch you mid-fall. strong, unyielding, impossible.
you gasp as youâre lifted effortlessly out of harmâs way.
you look up.
clark.
not hunched. not hiding. not shrinking.
he stands full-height, coat torn at the shoulder, tie gone, the left frame of his glasses shattered. his face is tilted away, but you could recognize that tie anywhereâthe one martha bought for him when he first got hired at the planet, the tie you used to tease him for. wind presses against him like it means nothing.
his face is bare of pretense. his looks⊠unmasked.
âclark?â you whisper.
he looks at you with something like fear and relief and love tangled together. âiâm sorry,â he says softly.
behind him, metal groans and settles. sirens wail. people stare.
you stare back at him.
and suddenly, everything makes sense.
the disappearances. the timing. the restraint. the weight he carries like itâs a duty carved into his bones.
âyouâreââ your voice trembles. âyouâre him.â
he doesnât pretend not to understand. âyeah,â he says.
you laugh once, breathless and stunned.
âof course you are,â you murmur. âclark kent, mild-mannered reporter, secretly the literal impossible.â
he winces like he deserves that.
âi wanted to tell you,â he says. âbut can we talk about this later, baby? please?â
âwhatâs there to talk about?â
âi have to much to tell you, i promise. i just⊠i was afraid.â
you search his face.
âafraid of what?â you ask quietly.
âof losing you,â he admits. âof you thinking everything about me was a lie.â
your chest tightens. âyou idiot,â you whisper, voice thick. âthe only thing that wouldâve hurt is you thinking i couldnât handle the truth.â
he looks at you like that sentence might shatter him.
later, when the city settles and the adrenaline fades, you sit with him on a quiet rooftop.
the skyline stretches around you like a held breath.
he stands at the edge, wind tugging at his hair, looking like a man who has carried too much for too long.
âi never wanted to deceive you,â he says. âclark kent is still me. i just⊠didnât know how to be both with you.â
you step closer. âyouâve always been both,â you say. âyouâre gentle. youâre kind. youâre awkward. youâre brave. youâre infuriatingly self-sacrificing.â
a faint smile flickers over his face.
âand i like all of that,â you add.
he turns to you fully, eyes bright with emotion.
âyouâre not afraid?â he asks.
you shake your head.
âiâm not afraid of you,â you say. âiâm afraid for you.â
he exhales shakily.
âiâve wanted to be honest with you for so long,â he admits. âbut i didnât think i deserved someone who could see all of this and still stay.â
you reach for him, resting a hand over his heart.
âyou donât get to decide what you deserve,â you say softly. âthatâs my call.â
he laughs quietly, teary and relieved.
âyouâre incredible,â he murmurs.
you tilt your head. âand youâre still too shy,â you tease gently. âeven when you can literally lift a building.â
he smiles more fully now. âiâm braver with you,â he says. âyou make me feel like iâm allowed to want things.â
âgood,â you say. âbecause i want you.â
the words feel like stepping into open air.
he looks stunned. then certain. then impossibly tender.
he cups your face and kisses you like heâs finally stopped holding back.
not rough. not consuming.
just honest.
like everything else heâs finally letting himself be.
wow really quick I just want to say how much I enjoyed your I take care of you Adrian fic. I think your characterization of him was really good and I think you nailed his protectiveness pretty well.
if you donât mind my basic request, let me set the sceneâŠ
you have a crush on your fennel fields coworker adrian, but heâs much too busy planning out how to show you he likes you as vigilante. he does weird shit like killing bad guys and writing your initials with a heart around it in their blood.
so obviously, youâre really put off by the all weird things vigilante does, and you have no idea why youâre the object of his affections. youâre pretty terrified honestly đ
maybe one day you tell adrian about these weird things happening to you, and he realizes he might be freaking you out but he tries to wingman himself telling you itâs ACTUALLY romantic and you just look at him like wtf?? I dunno I just really love when silly Adrian is written in his fennel fields work setting and identity shenanigansâŠ
no pressure to write this obvi đ«¶ thank u for hearing me out !!
tysm for all the love!!!
the idea of adrian flirting via murder is actually canon to me because homeboy canonically had very few friends & spent a lot of time playing dnd so i just know his skills with flirting are⊠weak.
i tried my best to write this out in a way that makes sense & ended up getting a little carried away, but you can read it here! (it did unfortunately get tagged as mature... probably for the repeated blood talk but guys im just a girl okay???)

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hearts in... blood?
pairing: adrian chase x coworker!readerâvigilante x reader
summary: adrian chase is just your sweet, semi-awkward, dorky coworker who you happened to fall for... without realizing heâs the masked vigilante who loves you too loudly. what starts as a workplace crush becomes your nightmare and your heartbreak, and healing means deciding whether love can survive after terror.
word count: 5.8k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. based on this ask. i got a little carried away... oopsies!
main masterlist
you learn early on that having a crush on adrian chase is like trying to keep a secret in a room full of fluorescent lights.
everything about him makes it hard to be normal.
he laughs too loud at jokes that werenât meant to be funny. he stands a little too close in break rooms. he treats paperwork like it personally offended him. he calls you âbuddyâ and âpalâ and âchampâ with the same sincerity someone might reserve for a priest or a therapist.
and he works closing shifts with you at fennel fields, a restaurant that sounds fake even when you say it out loud.
you try to keep your feelings contained. you do. you keep them tucked neatly behind hostess stands, behind polite smiles, behind the mental list of reasons this is a bad idea.
reason number one: adrian is⊠adrian.
reason number two: you work together.
reason number three: you suspect he might actually be insane.
still, your stomach flips every time he says your name.
âhey, you,â he says one night, during a slow period where only two tables were busy and you were overstaffed, leaning against the hostess stand like heâs been rehearsing the pose in a mirror. âyou busy?â
you glance at your tablet. âalways.â
he nods like that confirms a theory. âcoolcoolcool. same.â
he does not elaborate. he never elaborates. he just stands there, rocking on his heels, eyes bright with a sort of contained excitement, like heâs waiting for fireworks only he can see.
you wait. he waits.
eventually he gives you a thumbs-up and walks away.
you stare after him, trying to decide whether to laugh or scream.
you choose neither. you choose longing. regrettably.
the vigilante rumors start as background noise.
you hear them in passing: on the radio, from coworkers gossiping, from strangers whispering at bars. a masked man. brutal methods. crime scenes that feel more like statements than accidents.
you donât pay much attention at first. thatâs gothamâs business. thatâs the cityâs endless appetite for theatrics and violence.
until it brushes too close to you.
the first incident is small.
youâre walking home from work, keys threaded between your fingers because youâre not stupid, when you notice police tape blocking off a nearby alley.
red and blue lights smear across wet pavement.
(morbid) curiosity gets the better of you. it always does.
you step closer. inside the alley, it's a mess. but nothing is splattered. nothing is random. it's careful. deliberate.
someoneâvigilante, you assume, because heâs known for his creative and messy violenceâhas written your initials on the brick wall.
thereâs a heart around them.
your stomach drops through the floor.
you stare, breath shallow, pulse in your throat. it feels like the world narrows down to those letters, that shape, that impossible implication.
an officer notices you hovering. âmaâam,â he says, gentler than he has any right to be, âyou shouldnât be here.â
you nod mutely and back away, but the image brands itself behind your eyes.
your initials. a heart. blood.
that night, you sleep with the lights on.
the second incident is worse.
you wake up to a news alert on your phone. another understood criminal dead. another theatrical scene. another moral argument splashed across headlines.
a blurry photo accompanies the article.
you zoom in.
carved into a wooden surfaceâmaybe a crate, maybe a wallâis your name.
not initials this time. your full first name.
thereâs a little heart carved at the end of it, the lines uneven like someone rushed.
you feel sick. you tell yourself itâs a coincidence. you tell yourself itâs paranoia.
you tell yourself that in a city of thousands, the odds of this being personal are microscopic.
still, you start locking your doors twice. you start jumping at footsteps behind you. you start feeling watched in ways that donât feel like imagination.
at work, adrian is oblivious. or if heâs not, heâs doing a terrifyingly good job pretending.
âmorning, sunshine,â he says one day, handing you a cup of coffee you absolutely did not ask for.
you blink at it. âdid you steal this?â
he gasps. âsteal is such a harsh word. i prefer reallocated.â
you almost laugh. almost. instead, the words spill out before you can stop them. âadrian⊠have you heard about vigilante?â
his reaction is immediate. too immediate. his posture straightens like a soldier hearing a code word. his eyes sharpen, something electric passing behind them.
âyeah,â he says lightly. âcool guy. not that i know him or anything, because i personally am nothing more than a measly bus boy⊠but yeah, no, totally know of him.â
your mouth opens. closes. âcool?â you echo weakly.
he nods, grinning. âtotal badass. real romantic type, too.â
you stare at him like heâs grown a second head. âromantic,â you repeat. âhe writes peopleâs names in blood.â
adrian winces. âokay, when you phrase it like that, it sounds bad.â
âit is bad.â
âwellâŠâ he leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. âsometimes love makes people do big gestures.â
you recoil before you can stop yourself. âbig gestures,â you say flatly, âshould not involve murder.â
he considers that. âhuh,â he says. âagree to disagree?â
you look at him with a look that screams, âwhat the fuck?â
he looks pleased with himself.
you donât mean to tell him. it just⊠happens.
one afternoon, when the office feels too bright and your nerves feel like overexposed film, you let it slip.
âthe vigilante thing,â you say quietly, eyes on your keyboard. âheâs been⊠doing stuff. surrounding me.â
adrian freezes. âwhat kind of stuff?â he asks, voice suddenly too careful.
you swallow.
âhe wrote my initials at a crime scene,â you admit. âin blood. i mean, i think they were mine because then it was my full name. carved. i donât know why. i donât even know him. i donâtââ
your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. you hate that fear sounds like weakness.
adrianâs expression shifts.
guilt. panic. something almost⊠wounded.
âheâs probably just,â adrian says, scrambling, âuh. you know. trying to be nice. my mom always said when boys are mean, itâs because they like youânot that heâs being mean! but you know⊠yeah.â
you blink at him. ânice.â
âyeah,â he insists, nodding too hard. âheâs⊠misunderstood. heâs probably, like⊠really into you.â
your laugh is sharp and humorless. âif heâs into me,â you say, âiâm terrified.â
adrian hesitates.Â
ââŠheâd never hurt you,â he says, too fast.
you finally look at him. âwhy are you so sure?â
for a moment, he looks like he might actually tell you the truth. instead, he grins.
âbecause iâm a great judge of character. like a wounded puppyâ
you stare. âthatâs notââ
he gives you finger guns.
you consider filing a formal complaint against reality.
that night, you dream of blood turning into ink. you dream of hearts sketched in red. you dream of a voice whispering your name like itâs sacred.
and somewhere in the city, adrian chase puts on a helmet, stares at his hands, and wonders how to love you without terrifying you.
he is⊠not doing a great job.
after you tell adrian, you start noticing the way he looks at you.
you donât realize it at first. youâre too busy being afraid. too busy flinching at sirens, double-checking locks, memorizing escape routes in grocery stores.
but slowly, the pattern emerges.
he watches you like heâs trying to memorize you in case you disappear.
when someone startles you, heâs instantly at your side. when your voice shakes, his softens. when your smile falters, his does tooâlike it physically hurts him to see.
it unsettles you.
it also makes your chest ache.
one evening, you leave work late.
the back office is quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing like insects. you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the side door, hoping to beat the weight that settles on you every night.
âhey,â adrian calls.
you turn.
heâs jogging toward you, jacket half-zipped, hair messier than usual.
âyou okay walking home alone?â he asks.
you try for a joke. âare you offering to escort me like a medieval knight?â
he smiles, but it wobbles. âyeah. something like that.â
you hesitate.
you donât want to be a burden. you also donât want to be alone.
ââŠokay,â you decide after a moment of silence.
he brightens instantly, like the sun came out just for him.
outside, the city feels sharp-edged. streetlights halo puddles. somewhere far away, sirens cry like wounded animals.
you walk side by side, shoulders almost brushing. almost.
âyouâve been quieter,â adrian says gently.
you shrug. âiâm fine.â
he doesnât accept that. he never does.
âyouâve been scared,â he says instead. âabout vigilante.â
your jaw tightens.
âi donât know why he picked me,â you whisper. âi donât do anything special. iâm not⊠important. i donât deserve that kind of attention.â
adrian stops walking. you stop too, startled.
he looks at you like youâve just insulted something holy.
âdonât say that,â he says, voice low.
you blink. âsay what?â
âthat youâre not important.â
something raw flickers in his expression.
âyou matter,â he says. âmore than you think.â
the way he says itâlike itâs personal, like it costs him somethingâmakes your throat burn.
you look away. ââŠthanks,â you murmur.
the word feels too small.
later that night, vigilante strikes again.
you donât see anything about the scene itself. you see the message.
someone uploads a photo before the police scrub it from the internet. it spreads anyway. it always does.
carved into metal this time, jagged and uneven: YOU DESERVE BETTER.Â
thereâs a heart next to it.
you stare until your vision blurs.
you should feel flattered, maybe. you should feel protected.
instead, you feel hunted.
the next morning, you confront adrian.
you corner him in the break room, heart hammering like itâs trying to escape your ribs.
âhe did it again,â you say.
adrianâs jaw tightens. âwhatâd he do?â
âhe left another message,â you say bitterly. âhe keeps⊠centering me in his violence. i donât want that. i never asked for it.â
adrian looks like heâs trying not to break in half.
âhe probably thinks heâs helping,â he says carefully.
you laugh without humor. âby attacking people?â
ââŠyeah.â
you stare at him.
âwhy are you defending him?â you demand. âitâs disturbing. itâs scary. itâsââ your voice falters. âit makes me feel like i donât have a choice,â you finish quietly.
adrian flinches like you slapped him.
âi donât want to feel owned by some masked stranger,â you say. âi want to feel normal. i want to feel safe.â
he looks at you like he wants to confess to a crime. âyou are safe,â he says softly.
ânot like this.â
silence settles between you. thick. heavy. charged.
you realize, suddenly, how close he is. close enough to see the faint scar near his eyebrow. close enough to notice how his hands tremble when he tries not to move them. close enough to feel the heat of him.
your crush tightens into something sharper. something dangerous.
âi donât think heâs a monster,â adrian says finally. âi think heâs just⊠bad at love.â
your heart stutters. âyou think attacking people for someone is love?â you whisper.
he hesitates. âi think,â he says quietly, âheâs trying to say something he doesnât know how to say.â
ââŠwhat?â
adrianâs gaze drops to your mouth. then lifts to your eyes. âi think heâs trying to say heâd die for you.â
the words land between you like a live wire.
your pulse goes wild.
âthatâs not romantic,â you say weakly. âthatâs terrifying.â
âi know,â he says. âbut some people only know how to love in extremes.â his voice cracks on the last word.
you donât know why, but it makes your chest ache.
over the next few weeks, your fear and your feelings twist together until you canât separate them.
adrian starts bringing you lunch when you miraculously get scheduled in mid-morning. saving you a seat in the breakroom. walking you home whenever he can.
he never pushes. never crosses the line. never says what you suspect is sitting on the tip of his tongue.
sometimes, though, you catch him staring at you like heâs memorizing a goodbye.
it makes you want to grab him by the collar and demand answers.
it also makes you want to lean in.
one night, you almost get hurt. key word is almost.
it doesnât last long. vigilante appears like a nightmare in motionâbrutal, efficient, terrifying.
when itâs over, the man is unconscious, without a doubt down for the count (you hardly think he'll ever attempt anything even slightly criminal ever again). and youâre shaking so badly you can barely stand.
vigilante steps toward you. you flinch. he freezes.
for a moment, he looks less like a myth and more like a person who has no idea what to do with his hands.
âyouâre safe,â he says. his voice is distorted, but thereâs something underneath it that sounds⊠familiar.
you hug your arms around yourself. âstop,â you whisper. âplease. just⊠stop doing this for me.â
he stiffens. âi canât,â he says.
âwhy?â
he swallows hard. âbecause i love you.â
your breath punches out of you.
the confession feels like being struck by lightning.
âyou donât even know me,â you say.
âi do,â he insists. âi know more than you think.â
tears sting your eyes. âiâm scared of you,â you admit.
the words seem to physically wound him.
ââŠi know,â he says. then he disappears before you can say anything else.
the next day, adrian looks wrecked. dark circles under his eyes. jaw tight. smile forced.
âyou okay?â you ask softly.
he nods. âalways.â
you donât believe him.
âyou donât have to protect me,â you say quietly.
his voice comes out raw. âi want to.â
the way he says itâlike a confession, like a promiseâmakes your heart twist painfully.
you realize something terrifying: youâre falling harder. and you donât know which version of him youâre more afraid of losing. the adrian who walks you home, the sweet boy with the wire-framed glasses who tells you (incorrect) animal facts. or the adrian who defends the man who terrifies you out of something close to love, but nearing worship.
you start dreading the sound of his voice.
not because you donât want to hear it.
because you want to hear it too much.
every time adrian says your name, it feels like pressing on a bruise you refuse to admit exists.
he keeps hoveringâcareful, gentle, orbiting you like youâre something fragile he might shatter if he moves too fast.
you donât know how to tell him that sometimes, the gentleness hurts worse than distance.
you stop sleeping.
every time you close your eyes, you see violence arranged like love. you hear vigilanteâs distorted voice telling you he loves you, like itâs a vow carved into bone.
you wonder what kind of person inspires that. you wonder what kind of person deserves it. you wonder if youâre a terrible person for wishing it wasnât happening.
at work, you snap at adrian for the first time.
he brings you coffee. you donât take it.
he asks if youâre okay. you tell him to stop asking.
he tries to joke. you donât laugh.
you watch the hurt flicker across his face, quick and sharp and hidden, and guilt coils in your chest.
âsorry,â you mutter later.
he shakes his head immediately. âyou donât have to apologize. youâre allowed to feel messed up.â
you look at him. âare you ever messed up?â you ask quietly.
for a second, his mask cracks.
âconstantly,â he says.
it sounds like a confession. maybe itâs closer to a plea.
the messages escalate.
not just names anymore. not just hearts. now there are sentences.
NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU LIKE I DO,
IâD BURN THE WORLD IF YOU ASKED,
YOUâRE SAFE WITH ME. ALWAYS.
you read them with shaking hands.
they donât feel like gifts.
they feel like chains.
you break down one night on your apartment floor.
your phone is face-down. your lights are off. your chest feels like itâs caving in.
the words you could never speak hurt more than anything else.
the next day, you accidentally say them out loud.
you and adrian are alone in the break room. the air smells like stale coffee and burnt toast.
âi wish,â you say bitterly, âi could just like some normal guy who doesnât scare me, and have him like me back.â the second the words leave your mouth, you want to swallow them back.
adrian goes very still. ââŠyeah,â he says after a moment. âthatâd be nice.â
but something in him goes quiet. you feel like youâve just stepped on something alive.
he pulls away after that.
not dramatically. subtly.
he still smiles. still helps. still shows up.
but the warmth dims. the closeness retreats. the way he used to look at youâlike you were a miracle he didnât deserveâgoes carefully blank.
you didnât realize how much you relied on it until itâs gone.Â
you miss him immediately. you hate yourself for it.
one night, vigilante finds you again.
youâre on your way home, rain soaking through your jacket, when you sense him before you see him.
he steps out of the shadows like he was carved from them.
you donât scream this time. youâre too tired.
âyou need to stop,â you say flatly.
he looks like you just stabbed him. âiâm protecting you,â he insists.
âi donât want your protection,â you snap. âi want my life back.â
his voice trembles.
âyour life is my life.â
âthatâs the problem,â you say, and it comes out crueler than you mean. âi donât want to be someoneâs obsession.â
the word hangs between you. obsession.
it devastates him.
âiâm not obsessed!â he says, too quickly. âi just⊠love you.â
âlove shouldnât feel like a cage,â you whisper.
he looks like he might fall apart right there in the street. ââŠi donât know how to love quietly,â he admits.
your heart twists painfully. âi donât know how to live loudly,â you reply.
you walk away before he can answer. you donât look back.
the next morning, adrian looks like he hasnât slept in a year.
you catch him staring at you like heâs bracing for impact. you finally break.
âdid i hurt you?â you ask softly.
he laughs, but itâs hollow. âyou could never hurt me.â
you shake your head. âthatâs not true.â
you step closer, lowering your voice. âi said i wanted someone normal,â you admit. âthat wasnât fair. i wasnât talking about you specifically. i didnât meanââ
he cuts you off, voice tight. âyou meant it.â
silence stretches between you.
âyou deserve normal,â he says. âyou deserve someone who doesnât⊠complicate your life. not the way vigilante does.â
your chest aches. âi deserve you,â you almost say. but fear blocks the words.
later that week, vigilante disappears from your life.
no new crime scenes. no new messages. no new hearts carved in red.
you should feel relieved. instead, grief settles into you like poison.
you catch yourself staring at adrianâs busboy station, waiting for him to look at you the way he used to.
he doesnât.
you realize something too late.
you didnât just lose a terrifying admirer. you might have lost the one person who loved you more than he loved himself.
vigilante doesnât come back into your world.
days pass. then weeks.
no blood-written hearts. no warped love letters carved into walls. no sense of being watched with feverish devotion.
heâs still around, still taking out bad guys. just not for you. thereâs no reverence in his attacks, no veneration.
the city keeps breathing without him. you donât.
you start to realize the terror was tangled with something warmer. something validating. something terrible and tender and overwhelming.
you were someoneâs entire universe. and now you feel like an abandoned planet. you hate yourself for that.
adrian keeps his distance. heâs still kind. still helpful. still there. but thereâs a careful emptiness in him now. where there used to be longing, thereâs restraint. where there used to be warmth, thereâs politeness. where there used to be love, thereâs silence.
you miss it so much it feels like withdrawal.
you try to pretend youâre okay. you laugh at the right times. you answer calls. you make small talk. but inside, you keep replaying everything you said.
you wonder how those words sounded to someone who loved you like oxygen. you wonder if you carved them into him.
one evening, the employee door gets stuck. if the building manager actually liked the employees, youâd be allowed to leave out the main door. but the alarm goes on automatically after closing, and you donât have the patience to turn it off.
so now itâs just you and adrian. fluorescent lights. a soft mechanical hum. nowhere to run.
you stand on opposite sides of the doorway like youâre afraid of contaminating each other.
the silence grows unbearable.
âdid he stop because of me?â you finally whisper. âyou donât have to act like you donât know him, adrian. itâs obvious.â
adrian doesnât pretend not to understand. ââŠyes,â he says.
the word lands like a punch to the gut.
your chest tightens. âis he⊠okay?â
for a moment, adrian looks like he might lie. then he exhales. âheâs barely holding it together.â
your throat burns. âi didnât mean to hurt him.â
âi know,â adrian says softly. âi mean, he knows. i just know that youâd never hurt anyoneâŠâ the sadness in his voice ruins you. âbut you managed hurt him anyway.â
you close your eyes. âi was scared,â you whisper.
he nods. âhe knew that.â
âthen why does it feel like i abandoned him?â
adrianâs jaw tightens. âbecause,â he says quietly, âto him, your fear mattered less than your comfort. and he wouldâve destroyed himself to give you peace.â
tears gather whether you want them to or not. âthatâs not healthy,â you murmur.
âno,â adrian agrees. âbut it was real.â
the door finally gets unjammed, your manager standing on the other side giving the both of you an expectant look.
neither of you moves at first.
then adrian steps out like heâs walking away from something heâs already lost.
that night, you dream of vigilante sitting on a rooftop alone, helmet in his lap, hands shaking as he tries to convince himself he deserves the pain.
you wake up crying.
the next week, you finally snap.
you find adrian in the parking lot after work, staring at the skyline while sitting on the hood of his car. he looks like heâs considering vanishing into the atmosphere.
âtell me the truth,â you say breathlessly.
he turns. thereâs a guardedness in him now that wasnât there before. âwhat truth?â
âyou are him,â you say.
silence. the city hums around you. wind tugs at his jacket.
finally, he nods. ââŠyeah,â adrian admits. âi am.â
your heart cracks straight down the middle.
everything reframes at once: the coffee, the concern, the hovering, the hearts, the messages. the way he looked at you like you were sacred.
you stagger back a step. âyouââ your voice breaks. âyou were writing my name in blood!â
he flinches like he deserves it. âin my defense, i thought it was romantic,â he whispers miserably. âi thought if i went big enough, youâd feel how much i cared.â
âi thought i was being hunted.â
his voice trembles. âi wouldâve died before letting anyone hurt you.â
âthatâs not love,â you breathe, voice low and eyebrows furrowed.
âi know,â he says. ânow.â
you drag a hand over your face. âi liked you,â you admit, voice shaking. âat work. adrian. the real you.â
he laughs bitterly. âheâs the real me too.â
âi still want you,â you admit helplessly. âwhoeverâwhateverâyou are.â
the confession tastes metallic, like iron in your mouth. he looks at you like thatâs the cruelest thing you could possibly say.
âyou donât get to say that now,â he murmurs. ânot after i taught myself how to stop reaching for you.â
your heart splits open.
âi donât want you to stop,â you whisper.
he steps back.
âi have to,â he says, voice breaking. âbecause loving you like i do isnât fair to you.â
tears spill freely now.
âso i just lose you?â you ask. âbecause you loved me wrong?â
he looks wrecked. âyou lose me,â he says softly, âbecause i loved you too much.â
for a moment, it feels like you might collapse.
âplease,â you whisper. âdonât disappear.â
he almost breaks. âi wonât,â he promises. âbut i canât be what you want.â
you donât fix anything. you donât even try.
he walks away.
and now you have to live with the version of him who learned how to love you from a distance.
you donât talk for a while after the truth.
not because you donât want to.
because you donât know how to exist near each other without reopening something raw.
at work, you become careful. polite. measured. gentle in a way that feels like handling glass.
he doesnât hover anymore. doesnât bring coffee. doesnât look at you like youâre oxygen.
and you learn, quietly, how much that absence hurts.
you start therapy.
you donât call it because of him, but it is.
you talk about fear. about intensity. about how love can feel like drowning if it doesnât come with air. you talk about guilt, too. because you never stopped caring. you just didnât know how to survive the way he cared.
adrian starts tryingâawkwardly, sincerelyâto become someone safer. not smaller. not less. just gentler.
he cracks fewer crazed jokes. he reins in the impulsiveness. he listens more than he speaks.
sometimes you catch him pausing before acting, like heâs asking himself: will this scare her? will this hurt her? will this be too much?
it softens something in you.
one day, you stay late again.
heâs there too.
the back office is quiet, rain ticking against the windows like a second clock.
he clears his throat, âiâve been trying to⊠get better,â he says.
you look up. âbetter how?â
he shrugs, embarrassed. âless intense. less⊠me at my worst.â
you smile faintly. âi donât want you to erase yourself,â you say. âi just want to feel safe standing next to you.â
he nods. âthatâs fair.â thereâs a pause. ââŠdo you feel safer now?â he asks.
you consider it honestly. âa little,â you admit. âyeah.â
the relief on his face is small but real. like a win.
outside, he offers to walk you home again. not like a knight. not like a guardian. just like someone who cares.
you say yes.
your hands brush once on the sidewalk. you both freeze. neither of you pulls away immediately.
the contact is brief, but it lingersâwarm, careful, almost sacred.
later that week, vigilante returns to your life.
not with an overwhelming presence. not with hearts. not with messages carved into walls.
he stops a robbery quietly. leaves no signature. no theatrics. no trace of you. but you know itâs him, and you know itâs for you.
when you see it on the news, your chest tightensâbut not with fear this time.
with pride. with relief. with something soft and aching.
you run into adrian the next morning.
âyouâre acting different,â you say gently.
he smiles, a little shy. âiâm trying to love you in a way that doesnât hurt you.â
your heart twists.
âthat means more than you think,â you whisper.
he hesitates.
ââŠdoes it mean thereâs still a chance?â the question is quiet. vulnerable. unarmed. you donât answer immediately.
âi donât know,â you say honestly. âbut i want to find out.â
the hope in his eyes is cautious. earned. earnest.
âslow,â he says. âwe can go slow.â
you smile. âiâd like that.â
over time, you relearn each other. as two flawed people trying to build something healthier than what came before.
he asks before stepping closer. you speak when something scares you. you both apologize more than you used to.
sometimes it still hurts.
sometimes you still flinch. sometimes he still worries heâs too much. sometimes you still worry youâre not enough.
but now, the pain feels like a healing cut.
the healing isnât dramatic.
it doesnât arrive with speeches or sudden certainty. it happens in small, almost invisible ways.
in adrian asking, âis this okay?â before sitting closer. in you saying, âthat scared me,â instead of swallowing it. in both of you choosing honesty even when it feels uncomfortable.
you donât fall back into each other. you walk. step by step.
you start doing normal things together. coffee after work. late-night movies. sitting on opposite ends of the couch until one of you drifts closer without realizing.
thereâs still history in the air.
sometimes you catch a flicker of the old intensity in his eyesâand your chest tightens. sometimes he catches the old fear in your postureâand he backs up without being asked.
youâre learning each otherâs edges. youâre learning how not to cut.
late one night after a particularly brutal shift, you find yourself on the rooftop of his apartment, the city spread out below like a living heartbeat, the two of you sitting side by side.
your knee brushes his. this time, neither of you flinches.
âi used to think love had to hurt to be real,â he says softly. âthatâs what my friends said. what my parents showed.â
you tilt your head. âand now?â
âi think love should feel like safety,â he murmurs. âeven when itâs intense.â
your chest warms. he looks at you like that whatever look youâre giving him has rewrote his entire life.
ââŠcan i try something?â he asks.
your pulse picks up.
âwhat?â
he swallows.
âcan i hold your hand?â
the request is simple. the meaning is not.
you hesitate only a second before nodding.
âyes.â
his fingers brush yours firstâtentative, almost reverentâbefore threading through them.
his hand trembles. so does yours.
but neither of you lets go.
you sit like that for a while. breathing. listening. existing together without fear.
finally, he whispers, âcan i kiss you?â
not like a demand. not like an impulse. like a promise he wonât break.
your heart beats slow and full.
âyes,â you whisper back.
he leans in carefully.
not rushed. not desperate. not overwhelming.
his lips meet yours like heâs afraid to bruise you.
the kiss is soft.trembling.a little unsure.
but it doesnât hurt.
it feels like a wound closing. it feels like forgiveness. it feels like choosing each other, again.
when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
something akin to hope ignites itself in your chest.
love wonât erase what happened. it canât. but what it can do is grow around it.
like ivy climbing a cracked wall. like skin knitting over an old wound. like a heartbeat that learned a new rhythm.
you and adrian canât ever pretend the past didnât exist. but you can refuse to let it own the future.
mornings become a quiet ritual.
you wake to sunlight pooling across tangled sheets. adrian is usually half-awake already, blinking blearily at his phone, hair a mess, face relaxed in a way that once felt impossible.
âmorning,â he murmurs.
âmorning,â you reply.
sometimes he kisses your forehead. sometimes heâll be overly talkative, spewing off random animal facts that youâre fairly certain canât be true (octopuses definitely donât have eight hearts, but heâs adamant they do). sometimes he bumps his shoulder into yours. sometimes he just watches you like heâs still amazed he gets to be here.
you like all of it.
he still goes out at night sometimes. but vigilante is different now. no fear-inducing messages. no theatrics. no obsession carved into crime scenes.
he moves quietly. protects without spectacle. leaves no trace of you behind.
when he comes home, he doesnât look haunted anymore. he looks tired. looks human. looks like someone trying.
and you meet him at the door with warm light and steady arms.
one evening, you sit on the couch together, legs tangled, a movie playing neither of you is watching.
he absentmindedly traces circles over your knuckles. âdo you ever regret it?â he asks quietly.
ââŠregret what?â
âgiving me another chance.â
you consider him.
the man who loved too loudly. the man who learned to love gently. the man who chose to change instead of clinging to being right.
you smile.
âno,â you say. âi regret that we hurt each other. but i donât regret choosing you.â
his eyes shine.
âgood,â he murmurs. âbecause choosing you is like, my favorite thing.â
at work, youâre known as the calm one. the grounded one. the one who smiles more than she used to.
and adrianâstill weird, still awkward, still unmistakably himselfâwalks beside you without hovering.
when coworkers tease, he laughs. when things get hard, he steadies himself before reacting. when he looks at you, itâs no longer like youâre a miracle heâs terrified of breaking. itâs like youâre a partner.
sometimes you talk about the old days.
not with shame. not with fear.
with honesty.
âi was scared,â you admit once.
âi was too much,â he replies. âlike, way too much. in my defense though, chris told me chicks dig violence, and they like men to be protective, so i totally thought thatââ
you squeeze his hand. âwe grew,â you say.
he nods. âtogether.â
one night, back on the rooftop where everything once shattered, he laces his fingers through yours.
âyouâre not afraid of me anymore,â he says softly.
you lean into his shoulder.
âno,â you answer. âiâm not.â
he exhales, like a prayer finally answered. âand iâm not afraid of loving you wrong,â he adds. âbecause now i know how to love you right.â
you tilt your head up and kiss himâeasy, warm, certain.
the city glows beneath you.
the past stays where it belongs.
and the future feels wide open.
years from now, love wonât look like panic or obsession.
it will look like grocery lists. inside jokes. hands brushing in the kitchen. quiet kisses before bed.
it will look like scars that donât ache anymore. it will look like a man who learned how to hold without hurting. it will look like you.Â
stronger, softer, still standing.
darling, you're my lover
pairing; various x reader
chapters; fourteen
status; ongoing; begins 2/1 and ends 2/14
extra: none of this will be beta read. we die like real men. my valentines contribution :3
main masterlist
(1) if you're too shy (let me know) â clark kent x reader (4.3k)
(2) every breath you take â adrian chase x reader
(3) begin again â bucky barnes x reader
(4) you're still the one â jason todd x reader
(5) so high school â johnny storm x reader
(6) still into you â loki laufeyson x reader
(7) miss americana â bruce wayne x reader
(8) pancakes for dinner â steve rodgers x reader
(9) everything has changed â dick grayson x reader
(10) you are in love â bob reynolds x reader
(11) i saw sparks â wally west x reader
(12) the look of love â tony stark x reader
(13) nothing's gonna hurt you â john walker x reader
(14) suddenly i have a valentine â clark kent x reader
i take care of you!
pairing: adrian chase x ER nurse!reader
summary: you never realized how dangerous it could be working in an ER in a town as quiet as evergreen. thankfully, adrian chase is there to look out for you, if you would call killing anyone who scares you looking out for you.
word count: 3.1k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. based on this idea of mine. adrian is lowk a creep in this but he means well okay <333
main masterlist
evergreen isnât the kind of town people disappear from.
itâs the kind of town where the grocery store clerk knows your coffee order, where traffic lights feel unnecessary, where the emergency room is quiet enough at night that you can hear the vending machine hum if you listen hard enough. you took the job here because it promised calm. predictable. safe.
and for the most part, it is.
which is why you notice him the first time he walks in.
itâs late in your shiftâalmost three in the morningâwhen the automatic doors slide open and let in a man who looks like he took a wrong turn somewhere between cosplay convention and midlife crisis. heâs tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually but strangelyâlike he dressed himself in the dark and decided confidence would carry him the rest of the way. he doesnât look hurt. he doesnât look sick.
he looks curious.
he approaches the desk with an easy grin, rests his elbows on the counter like youâre already friends.
âhey,â he says. âquick question.â
you blink. âare you a patient?â
ânot right now,â he says cheerfully. âbut, let us just say hypotheticallyââ
you sigh internally. hypotheticals never end well. âwhatâs your question?â you ask anyway.
he leans closer, lowering his voice like heâs about to tell you a secret. âwhich artery makes people bleed out the fastest?â
you stare at him.
he watches you stare. completely unbothered.
ââŠexcuse me?â
âlike,â he continues, gesturing vaguely with his hands, âif someone were to get stabbedâaccidentally, obviouslyâwhere would be the worst place? time-wise.â
your mouth opens. closes. opens again. âsir,â you say carefully, âif youâre asking about harming someoneââ
âno, no,â he interrupts. ânot harming. research.â
âresearch for what?â
he thinks about it for a moment, then smiles wider. âwriting, in a mary shelley-esque bet.â that tracks, somehow.
you give him a flat look. âwe canât answer questions like that.â
âoh. okay.â he nods, unfazed. âwhat about freezer burn?â
you pause. ââŠwhat about it?â
âwhat temperature does it start at?â
you rub your temple. âwhy?â
âdetails matter.â
you consider calling security. but evergreen trauma medical center doesnât really have securityâjust a bored cop who naps in his cruiser outside the diner. and the man in front of you doesnât feel threatening. he feels⊠earnest. like a golden retriever with homicidal curiosity.
âi can tell you about frostbite,â you say. âfreezer burn isnât something we covered in school.â
âperfect.â
and just like that, youâre explaining tissue damage and temperature thresholds to a stranger whose eyes light up every time you say something technical. he listens like itâs the most fascinating thing heâs ever heard, nodding along, asking follow-up questions that are way too specific for comfort.
when you finish, he beams. âyouâre really smart,â he says.
ââŠthanks.â
âiâm adrian,â he adds, holding out his hand.
you hesitate, then shake it. âyou canât keep coming in here just to ask questions.â
he grins. âwatch me.â
he leaves a few minutes later, waving like heâll see you tomorrow.
you assume you wonât.
youâre wrong.
adrian becomes a fixture.
he always comes in lateâafter the rush, when the ER is quiet enough that you can hear the heart monitors beep in rhythm. sometimes he brings coffee. sometimes he brings pastries from the bakery downtown. he never pretends to be a patient. he never crosses a line.
he just asks questions.
sometimes theyâre harmless.
âwhat happens if you stay awake for too long?â
âcan adrenaline really make you lift a car?â
âdo people feel pain differently when theyâre scared?â
other times⊠not so much.
âhow long can someone survive with internal bleeding if they donât know itâs happening?â
âwhatâs the difference between a bruise from a fall and one from being grabbed?â
âis it possible to snap a neck without killing someone?â
you start answering selectively. carefully. you tell yourself heâs a writer. a true crime author, maybe. or a screenwriter. youâve met weirder. hell, youâve dated weirder.
you donât notice when the ER starts to feel⊠safer.
it was always safe, technically. evergreen doesnât see much violent crime, aside from the random attacks from the masked crusader who calls himself vigilante (who names themself after their job?). but little things change.
dr. shen mentions a patient who made a crude comment, who lingered too close, who made her uneasy in a way she canât quite explain. you nod sympathetically, offer solidarity. a few weeks later, you see his face on a missing person poster taped to a lamppost outside the grocery store.
you feel a flicker of discomfort. then you shrug it off. people leave town all the time.
nurse callahan complains about a regular who gets handsy when heâs drunk. you roll your eyes with her, promise to keep an eye out next time. there is no next time.
the woman with the bruisesâthe one who always says she fell, who avoids eye contact, who comes in every few weeks like clockworkâstops coming in altogether. months pass before you see her again, laughing in a coffee shop, hair freshly cut, eyes bright. she tells you her husband left town suddenly. just packed up and vanished.
you smile. wish her well.
your motherâs voice echoes in your head: bad things happen to bad people.
you donât connect the dots. you donât notice the red visor watching from rooftops when you clock out at ungodly hours after swapping shifts with other nurses.
you donât notice how adrianâs posture changes when you vent about a patient who scared you. you donât notice how carefully he listens.
but adrian notices everything.
you start to look for him without meaning to.
itâs subtle at firstâjust a flicker of disappointment when the doors donât slide open at the usual time slot, a moment of anticipation when they do. adrian never comes in during chaos. he always waits until evergreen settles into its nightly hush, when the ER lights feel too bright for how empty the waiting room is.
tonight, heâs late.
youâre halfway through charting when you hear footsteps and glance up instinctively. heâs there, leaning against the counter like he belongs behind it, not in front of it. heâs wearing a hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it too many times.
âhey,â he says.
you relax without realizing you were tense. âyouâre late.â
âyeah.â he grins. âgot⊠held up.â
you donât ask by what.
he peers past you at the quiet ER. âslow night?â
âalways,â you hum in response. âthatâs evergreen for you.â
âgood,â he says softly. then, louder: âso! question.â
of course. you close the chart and face him. âif this is about arteries againââ
ânope.â he raises his hands in surrender. âthis oneâs about bruises.â
you pause. âbruises.â
âyeah. likeââ he gestures vaguely at your arm. âhow long does it take before they show up? after someone gets grabbed.â
your stomach tightens. âdepends,â you say slowly. âforce, location, the person. why?â
he shrugs, too casual. âjust wondering how people miss them.â
you donât like the way he says that. like itâs personal.
before you can respond, dr. shen walks past, clipboard tucked under her arm. adrianâs gaze flicks to her automaticallyâsharp, assessing. noticing the way her shoulders stiffen when she spots him, the way she speeds up.
he notices things.
âyou okay?â he asks you, eyes still tracking her retreat.
âyeah,â you say, though youâre not sure why he asked. âwhy?â
he hums. âshe seems⊠tense.â
you snort. âthatâs residency.â
âmm,â he says, unconvinced.
he asks a few more questionsâlighter ones this time, about sleep deprivation, about why some people faint at the sight of blood and others donât. eventually, your shift ends.
âyou walking out?â he asks.
you nod, grabbing your bag. âyeah.â
âiâll walk with you,â he says, like itâs a given.
outside, the air is cool and still. the parking lot is mostly empty, streetlights buzzing softly. you donât think twice about letting adrian fall into step beside you. he keeps a respectful distance. always does.
âyou ever feel unsafe here?â he asks suddenly.
the question catches you off guard. âwhat?â
âin evergreen,â he clarifies. âat work.â
you think about it. about missing posters. about hands that lingered too long. about bruises explained away.
ââŠnot really,â you say. âwhy?â
âno reason.â he smiles. âjust curious.â
he stops at the edge of the lot. watches you unlock your car.
ânight,â he says.
ânight, adrian.â
you donât notice the way he waits until youâre inside before he leaves.
the first time you almost connect the dots, itâs because of nurse callahan.
she corners you in the break room, eyes wide, voice low. âdid you hear?â
âhear what?â
âthat guy,â she says. âthe drunk who kept grabbing me. they found his car abandoned outside town.â
your heart stutters. âwhat?â
âyeah. keys still inside. wallet too.â she shivers. âcreepy, right?â
you force a laugh. âguess he skipped out on some debts or something.â
âguess so,â she says. then, quieter: âgood riddance.â
that night, adrian comes in whistling.
you watch him more closely than usual as he leans on the counter, asks you about concussions. he seems lighter. happier.
âbusy night?â you ask.
ânah,â he says. âpretty productive, though.â
your pulse ticks up. âproductive how?â
he grins. âoh, you know. got some stuff done.â
you study his face. thereâs no guilt there. no hesitation. just an easy warmth directed entirely at you.
you tell yourself youâre imagining things.
it becomes a pattern.
every time someone at work scares youâreally scares youâsomething happens to them.
a man who threatens a tech disappears.
a belligerent drunk who throws a chair gets arrested for something unrelated and never comes back.
you never see adrian do anything. you never hear him confess. but he always seems to know.
âyou okay?â he asks one night, after you finish recounting a patient who made your skin crawl.
âyeah,â you say, tired. âjust⊠people suck sometimes.â
âthey donât have to,â he says mildly.
you laugh. âthatâs optimistic.â
he tilts his head. âis it?â
thereâs something in his eyes then. something sharp behind the friendliness. like a blade wrapped in velvet.
you should be afraid.
instead, you feel safe.
the night everything clicks is quiet. too quiet.
youâre walking out later than usual, parking lot empty, when you hear footsteps behind you.
you tense.
âhey,â adrian says quickly. âsorry! didnât mean to scare you.â
you exhale, embarrassed. âyou didnât.â
he falls into step beside you, closer than usual. you can smell metal on him. iron.Â
blood.
you stop.
he stops too. instantly.
âadrian,â you say slowly. âare you hurt?â
he blinks. âwhat?â
âyou smell like blood.â
a beat. then he smiles. âoh,â he says lightly. âyeah. that!â
your heart starts pounding. âthat what?â
he studies your face, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. then he sighs. âi was hoping you wouldnât notice yet.â
your breath catches. ânotice what?â
he steps closer. not threatening. intimate. âthat i take care of things,â he says softly. âfor the doctors and nurses here. for you.â
the parking lot feels suddenly very empty.
âwhat does that mean?â you whisper.
he reaches outâslowly, giving you time to pull awayâand brushes his thumb against your wrist, right over your pulse.
âit means,â adrian says, voice warm, reverent, âthat nobody who hurts you gets to keep doing it.â
the world tilts.
âyouâre joking,â you say. âthis isâthis is some writer thing, right?â
he chuckles. âoh, i am a writer.â
your stomach drops. âof what?â
âjustice,â he says brightly. and then, like he canât help himself, he adds: âalso murder.â
your pulse is a roar in your ears. âyouâre serious?â you breathe.
he nods. âyeah.â
silence stretches between you.
âyouâve been watching me,â you say.
âprotecting,â he corrects. âthereâs a difference.â
âthere really isnât.â
he shrugs. âagree to disagree.â
you should run. instead, you ask, âwhy me?â
his expression softens in a way thatâs almost frightening. âbecause,â he says, like itâs obvious, âyou save people. you care. you listen. and the world keeps trying to hurt you anyway.â
he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
âi wonât let that happen.â
your knees feel weak.
âyouâre not scared,â he observes, delighted.
âi should be,â you whisper.
âbut youâre not.â
âno,â you admit. âiâm not.â
his smile is slow. possessive. âgood! because i really like you.â
you donât sleep that night.
you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over until they lose meaning and then regain it all at once.
âi take care of things for you.â
every instinct you haveâevery training, every ethical boundaryâscreams that you should report him. that you should quit. that you should run as far away from evergreen as possible.
but another part of you, quieter and far more dangerous, keeps inventory.
youâve walked to your car alone for months without fear. no one touches you at work anymore. the people who made your skin crawl are gone.
and adrian never once crossed a line with you.
when he shows up the next night, youâre already waiting.
he hesitates when he sees your expressionâguarded, serious, no hint of your usual tired amusement.
â...okay,â he says carefully. âyou look like youâre about to either punch me or ask me out. iâm hoping for the second one.â
âsit,â you say.
he does exactly as you tell him to. he always does.
you fold your arms. âhow long?â
he exhales. âhow long what?â
âhow long have you been doing this,â you say. âfor me.â
he doesnât joke. doesnât deflect. he looks at you like this matters.
âa few months,â he admits. âsince the guy who cornered you by the supply closet.â
your stomach drops. âyou saw that?â
âi heard it,â he says. âyour voice changed.â
that sends a chill straight through you.
âyou followed me,â you say.
âi watched,â he corrects. âthereâs a difference!â
âstop saying that.â
he winces. âokay. yeah. fair.â
you lower your voice. âhow many people, adrian?â
he tilts his head, considering. âthatâs⊠a loaded question. i mean, i've got a bet going with my friend about who can get the coolest one, so i keep trying stuff. and because iâve liked, saved the world a couple times, and iâve been to alternate dimensionsââ
âanswer it.â
âdo you want the number,â he asks gently, âor do you want to keep sleeping at night?â
your jaw tightens.
âthatâs what i thought,â he murmurs.
you should feel disgust. horror. fear.
instead, you feel something dangerously close to relief.
âyou donât get to decide who lives or dies,â you say, even as your voice wavers.
he nods. âyouâre right.â
that surprises you.
âi donât want to,â he continues. âbut someone has to. and iâm really good at it! itâs like a total win-win situation for everyone.â
you swallow. âwhat if youâre wrong?â
âiâm not,â he says immediately. then softer: âbut if i ever was⊠iâd stop.â
you meet his eyes. âfor what? or even who?â
âfor you.â
the weight of that settles heavy in your chest.
âyou scare me,â you admit.
his mouth quirks. âyeah, no, that tracks. like, i totally see where youâre coming from. iâd honestly be a little more worried for you than usual if you werenât scared of me!â
âbut,â you add, barely audible, âyou make me feel safe.â
something in adrianâs expression breaks open at thatâsomething raw and unguarded. âi work really hard at that,â he says quietly.
silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid.
âyou canât keep doing this,â you whisper.
âi can,â he says. âbut i wonât if you tell me not to.â
you search his face for a lie. find none.
ââŠi donât want to know,â you say finally.
his brows knit together. âwhat?â
âi donât want details. i donât want names. i donât want blood on my hands by association.â you steady yourself. âbut i wonât turn you in, because youâre him arenât you? youâre that vigilante guy. you take down the actual bad guys.â
relief floods his face so fast it almost knocks him over.
âalso,â you continue, heart pounding, âif i say someone scares meâreally scares meâyou donât act unless i ask. those are my terms.â
he nods immediately. âdeal.â
âyou swear?â
âi swear,â he says. âon⊠you? i really hate my mom, so if i swear on her that means nothing. but on you, it means something.â
that shouldnât mean anything.
it does.
evergreen never notices the difference.
thatâs the thing about safetyâitâs invisible when it works.
life settles into something that almost looks normal. you work. you sleep. you come home. adrian starts showing up at your place with alarming regularity, like a stray cat that figured out your schedule and decided it lived there now.
he learns your routines.
which mug you always reach for first. how you kick your shoes off by the door. the way you hum under your breath when youâre exhausted but trying not to be.
âyou know,â you tell him one night, watching him fold laundry like itâs a sacred ritual, âmost people would find this creepy.â
he glances up, visor-less, soft-eyed. âmost people donât deserve you.â
you snort. âthatâs not how that works.â
âsure it is,â he says. âyouâre the baseline.â
he makes dinner. nothing fancyâpasta, mostlyâbut he insists on cutting vegetables with surgical precision. you watch his hands more than you should.
âyou ever wish things were simpler?â you ask.
he considers. âno.â
âreally?â
âsimple usually means someoneâs lying,â he says. âthis is honest.â
that shouldnât be comforting. it is.
the first time you come home shakenâreally shakenâyou donât even have to explain.
adrianâs already there, sitting on your couch, helmet resting beside him like a promise. he looks up the moment the door opens.
âwhat happened?â
you drop your bag. your hands are trembling.
ânew attending. he grabbed me,â you say. ânotâbad. but enough.â
his jaw tightens.
âi told him to stop,â you add quickly. âhe laughed.â
adrian stands slowly. carefully. like heâs afraid sudden movement might scare you. âwhat do you need?â he asks.
the room feels very still.
you think of ethics. of rules. of the version of yourself that existed before adrian chase. then you think of walking to your car alone.
âi donât want to see him again,â you say.
adrian nods. once. âokay.â
you donât ask questions.
the next day, the man doesnât show up for his shift. or the next.
or the next.
you feel the familiar twist of guiltâand the equally familiar release that follows.
some nights, adrian comes back bloodied and buzzing with energy, curls up beside you like nothing happened. other nights, he stays home, lets the city fend for itself.
those nights are your favorite.
you lie in bed together, his arm heavy around your waist, your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns into his skin.
âyou ever think about stopping?â you ask once.
he hums. âdo you want me to?â
you consider it. the quiet. the safety. the way the other women at work suddenly have nothing to fear either. âno,â you admit.
âthen no,â he says simply.
he presses a kiss to your temple. âiâm yours. thatâs the rule.â
you should argue.
instead, you smile and close your eyes.
evergreen remains peaceful.
the ER stays quiet.
and sometimesâwhen you leave work late and the night air feels too openâyou catch the faint reflection of red in a darkened window. watching.
guarding.
loving.
you donât wave. you donât have to. adrian already knows youâre safe.
because if you werenât, heâd fix that. every time.Â
thinking about adrian chase x ER nurse! reader after catching up on season 2 of the pitt â she thinks he's either an author or wants to pursue some sort of med career based on the weird questions he asks, meanwhile he's just trying to find new ways to kill people to brag to chris abt
heartbreak girl!
pairing: clark kent x readerâsuperman x reader
summary: you're stuck calling clark kent every time your heart breaks, not realizing the cure has been patiently waiting on the other end of the line all along. that is, until the day you finally stop chasing the wrong person and turn toward the one who always chose you.
word count: 3.2k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. studying for midterms has hit me like a train so forgive me for not posting this past week... i've got 6 other drafts locked and loaded tho
main masterlist
you donât mean to call him.
thatâs the worst part.
your thumb hovers over your phone, muscle memory kicking in before logic has a chance to intervene, and when you finally register the name glowing on your screen, itâs already ringing. one ring. two.
clark kent answers on the second, like he always does.
âhey,â he says, soft and careful, like heâs afraid a louder tone might startle you into hanging up. âeverything okay?â
no. obviously not. but you swallow anyway.
âyeah,â you lie, because lying is easier than explaining how your chest feels like itâs folding in on itself. âi justâare you busy?â
thereâs a pause. not the kind that means hesitation. the kind that means heâs making sure.
âi can make time,â he says. always.
you exhale, shaky, and thatâs all it takes.
it comes pouring out of you like a broken record.
clark has been in love with you for two years, three months, and eleven days.
he doesnât keep track on purpose. it just⊠sticks. some moments lodge themselves into him deeper than others, impossible to shake loose. the first time you laughed at one of his stupid puns during a late deadline night. the way you say his name when youâre tiredâdragging the a just slightly, like youâre leaning into it. the way you always steal his pen and then deny it with a straight face.
he knows better than to hope for anything more.
because you talk about him.
the doofus.
you never call him that, of course. you call him by his name, with that same softness you never quite aim at clark. you tell clark everythingâhow exciting it felt at first, how unpredictable, how passionate. you use words like intense and complicated like theyâre virtues instead of warning signs.
clark listens.
he always listens.
he listens when you call him from the planetâs stairwell, whispering because you donât want lois to overhear you crying over someone who very clearly does not deserve it. he listens when you sit across from him at lunch, poking at your salad and asking if youâre âbeing dramatic,â and he lies through his teeth and tells you youâre not.
because heâs a sucker.
for anything that you do.
the newsroom is chaos, as usual.
phones ringing, keyboards clacking, perry barking about deadlines while jimmy nearly trips over a cable again. youâre perched on the edge of clarkâs desk, legs crossed at the ankle, spinning one of his pens between your fingers.
âyouâre gonna break that,â clark says mildly.
you grin. ârelax! iâll buy you a new one.â
âyou say that every time.â
âand yet,â you reply, tapping the pen against his notepad, âyou keep letting me steal them.â
clark smiles, helpless. âyeah. i guess i do.â
you donât notice the way his shoulders tense when your phone lights up. you donât notice how his smile fades just slightly when he sees the name on the screen.
you hop down from his desk. âitâs him,â you say, unnecessarily, already stepping away. âiâll be right back.â
clark nods, because thatâs what he does.
he watches you walk toward the elevators, already answering, already softening your voice.
he tells himselfâlike he always doesâthat heâs just being a good friend.
you call clark later that night.
of course you do.
itâs nearly midnight, metropolis quiet in that way that only exists between sirens, and clark is sitting alone in his apartment with an untouched mug of tea when his phone lights up again.
your name.
his heart stutters, traitorous thing.
âyou okay?â he asks immediately, sitting up straighter.
you laugh, but it cracks halfway through. âwow. you didnât even let me say hi.â
he exhales. âi take that as a no.â
and then youâre crying.
full-on, breathless, hiccupping sobs, like youâve been holding it together all day and now thereâs nothing left to brace against. clark closes his eyes, jaw tightening, as he listens to you unravel.
âhe says he needs space,â you say, voice thick. âthat heâs not in the right headspace for a relationship. and i justâclark, what does that even mean?â
it means he doesnât deserve you, clark thinks.
out loud, he says, âit means he doesnât know what he wants.â
you sniff. âso itâs not me?â
âno,â clark says immediately. too quickly. âitâs not you.â
you breathe out, like thatâs something you needed permission to believe.
âhe says he still cares about me,â you continue. âthat this hurts him too.â
clarkâs grip tightens around his phone. âdoes it?â he asks gently.
you hesitate.
âi donât know,â you admit. âhe sounded⊠distant. like he was already gone.â
clark leans back against his couch, staring up at the ceiling.
you end up crying.
and he ends up lying. âitâs gonna be okay,â he tells you. âyouâre gonna get through this.â
you sniff again. âyou always say that.â
âbecause itâs true.â
thereâs a long silence on the line. not awkward. just heavy.
âthank you,â you say finally. âfor being a friend.â
the words land like a bruise.
âalways,â clark replies, because he doesnât know how to be anything else.
when the call ends, he stays there, phone pressed to his ear long after the screen goes dark.
going in circles.Â
again.
the next few days blur together.
youâre quiet at work, distracted, staring at your screen like the words might rearrange themselves if you look hard enough. clark brings you coffee without being asked. you accept it with a tired smile.
âyouâre too good to me,â you say.
he laughs softly. âitâs just coffee.â
but itâs not. itâs everything he can give without crossing a line you havenât invited him over.
you vent to him between assignments, voice low and furious now instead of broken. how he didnât text back. how he left you on read. how he posted like nothing was wrong.
âhe treats you so bad,â clark says before he can stop himself.
you glance at him, surprised.
he clears his throat. âi meanâanyone would be upset.â
you sigh. âi know. i justâclark, why does it hurt so much when i know i deserve better?â
because youâre still hoping heâll change, clark thinks.
because you havenât looked at the person standing right in front of you, another voice adds, traitorous and aching.
he swallows. âbecause you cared,â he says instead. âand caring always costs something.â
you study him for a moment, expression softening.
âyouâre really good at this,â you say. âtalking me down.â
he smiles, small and sad. âlots of practice.â
you call him again that night.
and the night after that.
sometimes itâs tears. sometimes itâs anger. sometimes itâs just silence, punctuated by the sound of you breathing on the other end while clark stays awake, listening, anchoring you without asking for anything in return.
âiâll call you tomorrow,â you say one night, voice sleepy. âlike⊠ten?â
clark glances at the clock. 2:13 a.m.
âyeah,â he says. âtenâs good.â
when the line goes dead, he stares at his phone and lets himself imagineâjust for a secondâwhat it would be like if someday you called him first because you wanted him, not because you were hurting.
sometimes heâs so close to confession it scares him.
but youâre not ready.
and he knows it.
so he waits.
you donât expect him to show up. thatâs the thingâyou never do.
youâre sitting on your couch in yesterdayâs clothes, phone facedown on the coffee table like it personally betrayed you, when thereâs a knock at the door. not loud. just firm enough to be real.
you almost donât answer it.
when you do, clark is standing there with a paper bag in one hand and that same careful expression he always wears when heâs not sure how fragile you are.
âhi,â he says.
you blink at him. âclark?â
âiââ he clears his throat. âitâs eleven-thirty. you didnât answer your phone.â
you glance over your shoulder at the couch, the blanket, the mess you havenât had the energy to clean. âsorry. i just⊠forgot.â
he hesitates, then lifts the bag slightly. âi brought food. and, uh. coffee. decaf. i remembered.â
something in your chest cracks open.
you step aside without thinking. âyou didnât have to do that.â
âi know,â he says gently. âi wanted to.â
you let him in.
clarkâs apartment has always been immaculate when youâve visited. your place is⊠not.
there are tissues everywhere. a half-empty glass of water sweating onto your table. the quiet is thick, broken only by the hum of the city outside.
clark sets the bag down and takes it all in without comment. no judgment. just presence.
âyou wanna talk?â he asks.
you shrug. ânot really.â
âokay.â
you wait for him to push. he doesnât.
he sits beside you instead, close enough that youâre aware of the warmth of him, the solidness. itâs grounding. infuriatingly comforting.
minutes pass.
then: âhe texted me,â you say suddenly.
clarkâs jaw tightens. you donât see it. âyeah?â
âhe said he misses me.â you laugh, sharp and humorless. âisnât that hilarious?â
clark exhales through his nose. âwhat did you say?â
ânothing. i havenât replied.â
a beat.
âiâm proud of you,â clark says.
you glance at him, surprised. âreally?â
âyeah,â he says. âthat takes strength.â
you swallow. âit doesnât feel like it.â
âit will,â he promises.
you lean back against the couch, eyes burning. âi donât understand how he can just⊠walk away. like i didnât matter.â
clark turns toward you fully now. his voice is steady, but thereâs something underneath itâsomething restrained.
âyou mattered,â he says. âyou still do.â
you shake your head. âthen why wasnât i enough?â
clark almost says it.
the words are right there. you were enough. you still are. youâre just looking in the wrong direction.
instead, he says, âsometimes people donât know how to hold onto good things.â
you close your eyes, and without really meaning to, you lean into him.
clark freezes.
your shoulder presses into his arm. your head tips closer, resting just beneath his collarbone. itâs such a small thing. such an intimate thing.
he doesnât move away. he doesnât pull you closer either. he lets you decide.
you start doing things together that arenât strictly necessary.
late-night walks, because you âcanât sleep.â grocery runs, because you âdonât trust yourself not to buy ice cream for every meal.â you sit beside each other on the planetâs roof during lunch breaks, watching helicopters drift by.
people notice.
jimmy raises his eyebrows one afternoon. âyou two dating now?â
you laugh. âwhat? no.â
clarkâs smile falters for half a second before he schools it. âjust friends.â
âoh,â jimmy says, unconvinced. âcool. cool cool.â
lois notices too.
she watches the way clark tracks you across the room, the way you lean toward him without realizing. one evening, when youâre not around, she crosses her arms and looks him dead in the eye.
âyouâre in love with her,â she says flatly.
clark sighs. âi know.â
âand she has no idea.â
âshe has an idea,â he corrects. âshe just⊠doesnât see it that way.â
lois softens. âyou gonna tell her?â
clark glances toward your empty desk. ânot like this.â
âwhy?â
âbecause sheâs hurting,â he says quietly. âand i donât want to be the guy who waits for her to break so i can swoop in.â
lois studies him for a long moment. then: âyouâre too good.â
he smiles faintly. âyeah. i hear that a lot.â
you call him at exactly ten the next night.
âiâm not crying this time,â you announce.
clark laughs. âiâm glad.â
âi might scream, though.â
âstill counts as progress.â
you pace your apartment, phone tucked against your ear. âhe keeps liking my posts. is that a thing? is that a sign?â
clark bites his tongue.
âno,â he says carefully. âitâs a breadcrumb.â
âa what?â
âsomething small enough to keep you hoping,â he explains. âbut not enough to mean anything.â
youâre quiet. âthat sucks,â you say eventually.
âyeah,â clark agrees. âit does.â
you hesitate. âclark?â
âmm?â
âwhy are you always so⊠good to me?â
he stops dead in his tracks.
because i love you.
âbecause you deserve it,â he says instead.
you hum, thoughtful. âyou know, if i ever date again, i want someone like you.â
clark closes his eyes. âthatâs⊠nice,â he manages.
âbut,â you add, oblivious, âi donât think i could ever date you. it would be weird.â
weird.
the word settles between you like a verdict.
âoh,â clark says. âyeah. totally.â
you donât hear the way his voice dips. âyouâre my best friend,â you continue warmly. âi donât want to mess that up.â
âof course,â he says.
after the call ends, clark sits in the dark for a long time, staring at nothing.
stuck.
again.
the breaking point comes on a thursday.
you show up at work late, sunglasses on, jaw tight. clark notices immediately.
âwhat happened?â he asks, low.
you shake your head. âi donât wanna talk about it.â
he lets it goâfor all of ten minutes.
when he finds you in the stairwell again, hands shaking, phone clenched in your fist, he doesnât ask.
he just opens his arms.
you walk into them.
this time, he holds you.
really holds youâone hand steady at your back, the other resting carefully against your shoulder. you bury your face into his chest, breathing him in, and for the first time in weeks, you feel safe.
âhe told me heâs seeing someone else,â you whisper.
clarkâs heart breaks quietly, efficiently.
âiâm sorry,â he murmurs into your hair.
âhe said it just happened,â you choke out. âlike i was nothing.â
âyouâre not nothing,â clark says fiercely, before he can stop himself.
you pull back just enough to look at him. your eyes are red, searching. âthen why does it feel like i am?â
clarkâs hands tighten just slightly.
because he treats you so bad, and iâm so good to you. because iâm right here. because i can take away your hurt.
he swallows. âyou donât belong to the people who hurt you,â he says slowly. âyou belong with someone who chooses you. every day.â
something shifts in the air between you.
you stare at him, breath hitching, like youâre seeing him for the first timeânot as the safe place to land, but as a possibility.
âclark,â you whisper.
he holds your gaze, heart pounding. this is it. the edge. the moment heâs been waiting for and dreading all at once.
but you pull back.
âiâm sorry,â you say suddenly. âiâthis is too much. i need some air.â
you slip past him before he can respond.
clark stays in the stairwell long after youâre gone, hands still curved like they remember the shape of you.
someday, he tells himself.
someday itâs going to happen.
you donât sleep.
you lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the look on clarkâs face in the stairwell over and over until it stops being background noise and starts being⊠something else.
the way he held you. the way his voice changed when he said you werenât nothing. the way his hands lingered like he didnât quite trust himself to let go.
you sit up.
because suddenly, it feels obvious.
every late-night call. every coffee. every time he showed up without being asked. every careful step he took around your feelings, even when his own were clearly bleeding through the cracks.
you think of all the times you cried over someone who couldnât even text you backâand the one person who never failed to answer.
âoh,â you whisper to the empty room.
oh.
clark doesnât come into work the next day.
you notice immediately.
you tell yourself youâre not panicking. youâre just⊠concerned. because heâs reliable. because he always texts if heâs running late. because he would never leave you hanging.
you text him first. âhey. everything okay?â
three dots appear. disappear.
then: âyeah. just took the day off. needed it.â
your chest tightens. âdo you want company?â
a pause. longer this time. âyou donât have to do that.â
thatâs not an answer.
âi want to,â you type.
another long stretch of silence.
âokay,â he finally replies. âyeah.â
clarkâs apartment looks exactly like you remember it. clean. quiet. safe.
he opens the door and for a second you just stand there, staring at each other like neither of you is quite sure what rules apply anymore.
âyou okay?â you ask softly.
he nods. âyeah. just⊠tired.â
you step inside anyway.
you donât sit on opposite ends of the couch this time. you sit closeâclose enough that your knee brushes his. neither of you moves away.
âi owe you an apology,â you say suddenly.
clark blinks. âyou donât owe me anything.â
âyes, i do,â you insist. âiâve been⊠using you. not on purpose. but still.â
he exhales. âyou were hurting.â
âi know. but you were hurting too.â you swallow. âwerenât you?â
clark looks at you for a long moment. âi didnât mind,â he says finally.
âthatâs not the same thing,â you reply.
silence settles, heavy but honest.
âclark,â you say. âwhy didnât you ever tell me?â
his hands tighten together. âbecause you werenât ready.â
you shake your head. âyou donât know that.â
he looks up at you then, eyes open and unguarded. âi do. because iâve been waiting.â
the word lands between you, soft and devastating.
âhow long?â you whisper.
he smiles faintly. âa while.â
you laugh weakly. âyouâre ridiculous.â
âyeah,â he agrees. âiâve been told.â
you take a breath. âsay it.â
he freezes. âsay what?â
âthe thing youâve been biting your tongue over,â you say gently. âthe thing you never let yourself scream out. the thing we both know you want to say.â
clark closes his eyes. when he opens them again, thereâs no hiding left.
âi love you,â he says. âi have for a long time. i didnât want to be the guy who took advantage of your heartbreak. i just wanted to be hereâuntil you didnât need me anymore.â
your heart aches at the words.
âwhat if,â you say slowly, âi donât want to stop needing you?â
clarkâs breath catches.
you reach for him then, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve like youâre afraid he might vanish.
âi kept looking at the wrong person,â you continue. âi kept chasing someone who never chose me. and you were right here, choosing me every single day.â
his voice is barely above a whisper. âyou donât have to say this just because youâre hurting.â
âi know,â you say. âthatâs how i know itâs real.â
you lean inânot rushing, giving him time to pull back if he wants to.
he doesnât.
when you kiss him, itâs gentle. careful. like both of you are afraid of breaking something fragile and precious. his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like itâs something sacred.
when you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.
âi think,â you murmur, âyou might be my cure.â
clark laughs softly, breath warm against your lips. âyeah?â
âyeah.â
itâs not fireworks right away.
itâs better than that.
itâs late-night talks that donât end in tears. itâs hands brushing in daylight. itâs realizing that love doesnât have to hurt to be intense.
one morning, weeks later, you wake up tangled in clarkâs arms, sunlight spilling across the room.
âyou know,â you say sleepily, âi used to think love was supposed to feel like heartbreak.â
clark kisses your hair. âiâm glad you were wrong.â
you smile, eyes closing again.
because this time, you finally see the truth.
he was right here.
and youâre not letting him go.

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make you notice (someone like me)
pairing: adrian chase x readerâvigilante x reader
summary: you love him quietly, the way people love when theyâre afraid of being wrong. he loves you loudly, because he doesnât know how else to ask you to stay.
word count: 3.2k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men.
main masterlist
you learn quickly that adrian chase does not know how to exist quietly.
he exists at people. loud, sideways, uninvited. like a thought you didnât ask for that keeps looping anyway.
âhey,â he says, popping up beside you as you clean your weapons at the long metal table in the safehouse. his helmet is off, hair flattened on one side, eyes too awake for midnight. âdid you know that if you stab someone in the thigh instead of the chest, statistically they bleed out slower but scream louder?â
you donât look up. you swap out a blade, test its balance in your palm. âyes.â
âoh,â he says, visibly disappointed. âokay. did you knowââ
âadrian,â you interrupt, calm and even, âif you keep talking, i will stab you in the thigh.â
he beams. âthatâs my girl.â
you donât correct him. you never do.
thatâs the thing about you: you listen. you always have. you absorb things the way other people deflect them. you donât interrupt. you donât escalate. you donât announce yourself. you just stay.
people mistake that for indifference.
adrian doesnât. at least, he says he doesnât. but sometimes, late at night, when the others are gone and the city hums low through concrete walls, you can see the doubt itch under his skin.
you feel it now, in the way he lingers instead of leaving, in the way he watches your hands more than your face.
he leans back against the table. âso⊠you and chris were talking earlier.â
you finally glance up. just once. âwe were arguing.â
âuh-huh.â he nods, lips pressed thin. âsounded friendly.â
âit wasnât.â
âyou laughed.â
you frown slightly, searching memory. âhe said something stupid.â
âyeah, that tracks.â
you go back to your blades. adrian doesnât move.
the silence stretches. you know better than to rush it. adrian fills quiet the way water fills cracksâeventually, inevitably.
âyou like him?â he asks.
the question is casual. too casual. thrown like it doesnât matter. it does.
âno,â you say.
he lets out a breath you donât think he realized he was holding. âcool. coolcoolcool. because, you know, heâs kind of the worst. heâs my best friend, but i know the dude isnât the greatest person. i mean... his dad is, well, you know. his dad is his dad.â
âi know.â
âalso emilia might literally kill him.â
âyes.â
âand sheâs your best friend.â
âyes.â
âand theyâve been doing that weird almost-dating-not-dating thing for, like, forever.â
âyes.â
he squints at you. âthen why does it feel like you like him?â
you pause. not because you donât know the answerâbut because you do. âi donât,â you say finally. âi listen.â
adrian blinks. once. twice. ââŠoh.â
you risk another glance at him. he looks almost startled, like something just clicked out of place.
âthatâs it?â he asks. âyou just... listen?â
âyes.â
âhuh.â he rubs the back of his neck. âokay. well. that explains⊠some stuff.â
you wait. you always do.
he doesnât elaborate.
later, when the team breaks for the night, you head for the roof.
you like the city from above. it feels honest up there: ugly, and glowing, and endless. painted faces, fill the places you canât reach. you lean your elbows against the ledge and let your gaze drift downward, counting lights, counting breaths.
you donât hear adrian approach. you rarely do. heâs quieter when he wants to be. âcan i ask you something?â
you nod.Â
âwhy do you never⊠react?â
you tilt your head. âreact to what?â
âanything.â he gestures vaguely. âme. missions. chris being a dick. people almost dying. likeâdonât get me wrong, youâre great in the field. scary, actually. but off-mission youâre just⊠flat.â
you consider this. âi donât feel things loudly,â you say. âthat doesnât mean i donât feel them.â
he watches your face, searching for something. âdo you feel me?â
the question lands heavier than he intends. you donât answer right away.
you think about the way he always sits next to you in the van, even when there are other seats. about how he talks at you because he knows you wonât shut him down. about how he notices when youâre tired before you notice yourself. you think about the way he jokes when heâs scared. the way he gets reckless when he feels invisible. you think about the wars he wages inside himself, shaping something like poetry out of noise and blood and need.
âyes,â you say. itâs quiet. honest. unadorned.
adrian laughsâbut it comes out wrong. too sharp. âright, sure.â
you turn to face him fully. âi mean it.â
he shakes his head. âyou say that to everyone.â
âi donât.â
âyou listen to everyone.â
âi donât.â
he scoffs. âyou literally listened to chris rant for twenty minutes about tactical formations like he invented them.â
âbecause emilia needed me to,â you say. âshe asked.â
that stops him. ââŠshe did?â
âyes.â
âoh.â his shoulders drop a little. âokay. that makes sense.â
you watch him process. you donât rush him.
he stares out over the city now, jaw tight. âsometimes it feels like iâm screaming into the void,â he admits. âlikeâi do all this stuff. i joke, i talk, i bleed. and nobody actually sees me.â
you swallow. âi see you,âÂ
he laughs again, softer this time. âyeah, but you see everyone.â
âthat doesnât make it less real.â
he looks at you then. really looks. the words echo somewhere between you, unspoken but heavy. âi just want you to notice me,â he says, voice barely above the wind. âlikeânotice me.â
you donât reach for him. you donât make grand declarations. thatâs not how you love.Â
instead, you stay.
you stand there beside him, shoulder to shoulder, listening to his breathing even out, memorizing the way the city reflects in his eyes.
you hopeâquietly, fiercelyâthat itâs enough.
the next mission goes sideways in the first three minutes.
itâs supposed to be a simple extractionâwarehouse, low-level metahuman smugglers, grab the asset, get out. youâve done worse half-asleep. but something is off the second your boots hit concrete.
you feel it in your chest before you see it.
âtoo quiet,â you murmur into comms.
âwow,â adrian says from somewhere to your left, voice bright through the channel. âlook at you using words.â
you ignore him. you always doâuntil it matters.
chris barrels ahead anyway. he always does. big presence, big voice, bigger ego. emilia is covering the rear, tense and focused, and you knowâyou knowâthatâs the only reason sheâs letting him take point.
âchris,â you say. âslow down.â
he doesnât.
adrian clicks his tongue. âman has the situational awareness of a drunk raccoon.â
you almost smile. almost.
the ambush hits fast. gunfire ricochets, shrapnel screams, and the quiet shatters into noise and motion. you move without thinkingâdrop, roll, fire, advance. your world narrows to angles and timing and breath.
you register adrian at your side, fluid and reckless, knives flashing. you register chris taking a hit he shouldnât have. you register emilia swearing viciously over comms.
you donât register the way adrian keeps glancing at you until later. until after.
when itâs over and the warehouse smells like smoke and copper, chris is patched up and loud about it, emilia is pretending she wasnât scared, and adrian is⊠quiet. thatâs when you worry.
heâs sitting on a crate, helmet off, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it personally offended him. blood streaks one side of his jawâsomeone elseâs, you think. his hands are shaking.
you crouch in front of him.
âadrian,â you say.
he flinches. âoh. hey,â he says, too fast. âwe done?â
âyes.â
âcool.â
you wait. he doesnât look at you.
âchris almost got himself killed,â he mutters.
âyes.â
âand you ran to him.â
you replay the moment in your head. the calculation. the choice. âhe was exposed,â you say. âyou werenât.â
âuh-huh.â
âyou had cover.â
âright.â
âyou were not in danger.â
he finally looks up at you then, eyes sharp and hurt and a little wild. âso you picked him.â
âno,â you say. âi picked the problem.â
his jaw tightens. âfunny. feels personal.â
you search his face, slow and careful. âthis isnât about the mission,â you deduct.
he laughs, brittle. âwow. youâre so observant.â
âadrian.â
âwhat?â he stands abruptly, pacing. âyou always do this. you say everything like itâs a report. like it doesnât matter.â
âit matters.â
âdoes it?â he gestures toward where chris is loudly recounting his near-death experience. âbecause you seem pretty invested in him.â
âi am invested in the team.â
âsee?â he throws his hands up. âthat. that right there. you hide behind that.â
you stand too, matching his space but not his volume.
âi donât hide,â you say. âi prioritize.â
âthen prioritize me!â he snaps.
the words hang between you, raw and unfiltered.
emilia glances over, concern flickering. chris doesnât notice. he never does.
you lower your voice. âthis isnât the place.â
âthatâs convenient,â adrian says. âit never is.â
you donât argue. you just step closerâenough that only he can hear you.
âi listen to you,â you say. âevery time.â
he swallows. âyou laugh at chrisâs jokes,â he says quietly.
âtheyâre not jokes,â you reply. âtheyâre complaints.â
âthatâs worse.â
you almost smile again. almost.
back at the video store, the tension doesnât dissipate. it clings, heavy and sour.
adrian avoids you. heâs never done that before.
you notice it in the way he sits across the room instead of beside you. in the way he talks around you instead of at you. in the way his jokes sharpen, turn outward, aimed at anyone who isnât you.
it feels wrong.
you donât chase him. you donât corner him. thatâs not how you care. you wait.
it happens on a night that should have been calm.
no mission. no alarms. just the low hum of the video store settling into itselfâemilia curled up on the couch with her knees tucked in, pretending sheâs not watching chris pace; chris pretending heâs not watching her back. the air is thick with everything no one is saying.
adrian is perched on the arm of a chair, spinning a knife between his fingers, restless. too restless.
you notice. you always do. âyouâre going to drop that,â you say.
he grins without humor. âyou worried?â
âyes.â
that earns you a lookâsharp, searching. he opens his mouth to say something, then stops.
chris chooses that moment to speak. âhey,â he says, gesturing between you and adrian. âyou two good? youâve been weird all night.â
adrian stiffens.
you answer calmly. âweâre fine.â
chris snorts. âyou say that about everything.â
emilia shoots him a warning look. âchris.â
âwhat? iâm just sayingââ he shrugs. âitâs hard to tell with her. she doesnât exactly wear her heart on her sleeve.â
the words arenât cruel. they still cut.
adrianâs knife stops spinning.
you feel it thenâthat subtle shift, like the moment before a storm breaks.
âi think,â adrian says lightly, too lightly, âthatâs kind of her thing.â
chris raises his hands. âdidnât mean anything by it, man.â
âi know,â adrian says. âyou never do.â
emilia stands. âokay, thatâs enough. i mean âsheâ is right hereââ but itâs already too late.
âyou ever notice,â adrian continues, eyes locked on chris now, âhow she listens to you like youâre saying something important? like you matter?â
your chest tightens.
chris frowns. âwhatâs your problem?â
âmy problem?â adrian laughs. âmy problem is you always get all the attention and what do i get? i mean, câmon man... no one takes me seriously. no one notices me!â
the room goes quiet.
you step forward. âadrian.â
he turns on you, hurt flashing into something sharper. ânoâdonât. donât do that calm voice thing. not right now.â
chris looks between you, confused. âis this about me?â
âyes,â adrian snaps. âno! i donât know.â
emilia moves closer to you instinctively. âadrian, breathe.â
he doesnât. âiâm tired,â he says, voice breaking through the bravado. âiâm tired of being the joke. of being the loud one. of watching her choose everyone else and pretending it doesnât kill me.â
you flinch.
chris scoffs. âshe doesnât choose me.â
âshe runs to you,â adrian fires back. âshe laughs with you.â
âi donâtââ chris stops, glances at you. âdo you?â
you donât answer him. youâre watching adrian unravel, and you knowâyou truly knowâif you donât act now, you might lose him to the noise in his own head.
âi choose emilia,â you say suddenly.
everyone freezes.
you turn to chris. âshe's my best friend, and you hurt her. constantly. whether you mean to or not.â
emilia sucks in a breath.
chris pales. âiââ
âi listen to you,â you continue, steady but firm, âbecause she needs me to. not because i want you.â then you turn to adrian. âi choose you because i want to.â
silence.
adrianâs eyes are wide, unguarded. âsay that again.â
you step closer, placing yourself directly in front of him. no shields. no distance. âi choose you,â you repeat. âi always have.â
his laugh comes out broken. âthen why does it feel like iâm begging?â
âbecause you donât trust quiet love,â you say. âand i donât know how to be loud.â
he stares at you, chest heaving. âi just want to be somebody to you.â
âyou are,â you say. âyouâre the one i notice first. the one i listen for. the one i wait with.â
something in him finally cracks.
he covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. you donât hesitateâyou reach out, anchoring him, fingers curling into his sleeves like youâre afraid heâll disappear.
âiâm ready now,â he whispers. âiâve been ready.â
you rest your forehead against his. âi know.â
the room exhales.
emilia turns away, discreet. chris looks like heâs been punched in the gut.
laterâmuch laterâwhen the video store is quiet and the city hums beyond the windows, you and adrian sit on the roof again.
this time, he leans into you without asking.
âhey,â he murmurs. âif iâm too muchââ
âyouâre not,â you interrupt.
he smiles into your shoulder. âyouâre still kind of cold.â
âyes.â
âbut you stay.â
â...yes.â
he hums, content. âi could use somebody like you.â
you close your eyes, listening to the rhythm of him, finally certain he feels heard.
the city never really sleeps. it just lowers its voice.
you notice that more after adrian starts staying the night on the roof with you. not every night. heâs still restless, still kinetic, still full of sharp edgesâbut some nights, when the noise in his head gets too loud, he finds you without saying a word.
and you let him.
tonight is one of those nights.
heâs stretched out beside you on the concrete, hands folded on his chest, staring up at the sky like heâs trying to read something written there just for him. you sit with your back against the ledge, knees drawn in, listening to his breathing sync with the cityâs pulse.
âyou ever miss home?â he asks suddenly.
you consider the question. âsometimes.â
âwas it loud?â
âno,â you say. âit didnât need to be.â
he smiles faintly. âfigures.â
silence settles againânot awkward, not heavy. familiar. âi used to think,â he says after a while, âthat if i didnât make noise, iâd disappear.â
you glance down at him. âyou donât.â
âyeah. i know that now.â he turns his head toward you. âbecause you still see me when iâm quiet.â
you nod once. thatâs your confession.
he sits up, leaning closer, elbows on his knees. âcan i ask you something else?â
âyes.â
âdo you ever want more?â his voice is careful, hopeful without pushing. âor is thisââ he gestures vaguely between you. ââenough?â
you donât answer immediately. not because youâre unsureâbut because youâre precise.
âi want consistency,â you decide. âi want someone who stays. who doesnât need to be louder to feel real.â
he swallows. âi can try.â
âyou already do,â you reply.
he laughs softly. âgod, you make everything sound like a vow.â
you look at him then, really look. the mess and the sincerity. the boy who made himself a weapon because he was afraid no one would hear him otherwise.
âi donât say things i donât mean,â you tell him.
his expression shiftsâsomething warm and stunned and reverent. âokay,â he says quietly. âthen⊠i mean it too.â
he reaches for your hand, slow enough that you could pull away.Â
you donât.
his fingers curl around yours, warm and solid. he squeezes once, like heâs grounding himself in the fact that this is real.
âiâve been roaming around,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âalways looking down at all i see.â
you tilt your head, listening.
âand i didnât realize,â he continues, âthat the person i needed was the one who never looked away.â
your thumb brushes over his knuckles. itâs small. intentional.
he closes his eyes.
âyou ready?â he asks.
âyes,â you say. âiâve been ready.â
he smilesâsoft, unguarded, finally at easeâand leans in. the kiss is gentle, unhurried, like something earned instead of taken. no spectacle. no urgency. just two people choosing each other in the quiet.
when you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.
âpromise me something?â he whispers.
you nod.
âif i get loud againâif i spiralâremind me that youâre still here.â
you press a kiss to his temple. âi wonât need to remind you. iâll just stay.â
he laughs, breathless and happy. âyeah. that tracks.â
you sit together until the sky begins to pale, until the city starts to wake again. when the others join you later, nothing looks different.
everything is.
because love doesnât always announce itself. sometimes, it just listens.
mornings with adrian are louder than nights.
he hums when he brushes his teethâoff-key, committed. he narrates his every movement in the kitchen like heâs hosting a cooking show no one asked for. he argues with the coffee machine like it can hear him.
you sit at the small table, legs tucked beneath you, watching steam curl from your mug. you listen.
âokay, see, this is why i donât trust technology,â he says, slapping the side of the machine. âback home i had a percolator that loved me.â
âit didnât,â you reply.
âit did. it knew my vibes. hated my mom, but sheâs also a bitch, so that makes sense.â
you sip your coffee.
he grins at you over his shoulder. âyouâre smiling.â
âi always smile.â
âno, you donât,â he says, triumphant. âthat was a me smile.â
you donât deny it.
he brings you breakfastâtoast slightly burnt, eggs overcooked, presentation chaotic. he sets the plate in front of you like itâs an offering.
âfuel for the emotionally reserved,â he declares.
âthank you,â you say sincerely.
he softens every time you say it like that.
later, you sit on the couch while he cleans his weapons at your feet, helmet discarded, focus intense. he talksânot because he needs noise, but because he wants to share.
you listenânot because you have to, but because you choose to.
emilia drops by unannounced, takes one look at the two of you, and smirks. âwow. heâs⊠domesticated.â
adrian scoffs. âi am feral.â
âyou folded his laundry,â she says.
âthat was a tactical decision.â you hide your smile behind your mug.
at night, when the world goes quiet again, he curls into you like itâs instinct. his head fits under your chin perfectly, like he was made for this exact space.
âyou still here?â he murmurs sometimes, half-asleep.
âyes,â you answer every time.
and he always relaxes. every time.
because he doesnât need to be loud to be seen anymore. because you never stopped listening. because some love doesnât shout.
it stays.
if i go crazy (still call me 'superman'?)
pairing: clark kent x readerâsuperman x reader
summary: you know he would never hurt anyone, yet that is never enough. clark kentâsupermanâis constantly reminded that he isn't human, that he could break at any moment. what happens when that break nearly happens?
word count: 4.6K
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. i'm rly proud of this one so pls be nice okay
main masterlist
you learn about the video the same way you learn about most catastrophes: from the way the newsroom goes quiet all at once.
not the productive quietâno. this is the kind where keyboards stall mid-clack, where someone exhales too loudly and everyone hears it. the kind of silence that presses against your ears until it pops.
âhey,â someone mutters. âis thatââ
your phone buzzes before they finish the sentence.
BREAKING: LEAKED KRYPTONIAN RECORDING APPEARS TO SHOW SUPERMANâS PARENTS CLAIMING HE WAS SENT TO EARTH TO âRULEâ HUMANITY.Â
you donât react right away. you just stare at the headline like it might rearrange itself into something less radioactive if you give it time.
across the bullpen, clark kent freezes.
itâs subtleâblink-and-you-miss-it subtleâbut youâve worked beside him long enough to notice the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands hover uselessly over his keyboard like heâs forgotten what theyâre for.
you watch him swallow.
someone turns up the volume on a laptop. tinny alien acoustics fill the roomâcrystalline echoes, a language that isnât meant for human throats. subtitles crawl along the bottom of the screen.
âto fulfill his destinyâ âearth will kneelâ âhe will lead themâ
a nervous laugh breaks out near the copy desk. someone mutters, âwell. thatâs not great.â
clark stands so abruptly his chair skids backward.
âiâuh,â he says, already grabbing his coat. his voice cracks, just a little. âchief probably wantsââ
âclark,â perry calls from his office doorway, phone already glued to his ear. his gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. âdonât go far.â
you and clark lock eyes for half a second.
something passes between you thenâpanic, maybe, or something quieter and worse. a shared understanding that the ground just shifted and neither of you knows where itâs going to settle.
youâve taken walks around the world with him before. late nights, stakeouts, quiet coffee runs where the city feels like itâs holding its breath. youâve watched him carry the weight of things he never talks about. youâve watched him watch the world like heâs afraid it might slip out of orbit if he blinks.
you feel it now, that same slow pull toward the dark side of the moon.
and thereâs nothing you can do.
an hour later, youâre rushing to the rooftop of the daily planets, emotions so jumbled inside you feel like you might spontaneously combust.
the city sprawls beneath you, loud and alive and utterly unaware of how fragile its faith is.
superman lands behind you without a sound.
you donât turn right away. you already know heâs thereâthe air changes when he arrives, like the world is paying attention.
âthanks for agreeing to this,â you say instead, steady. professional. you hold your recorder like a shield.
âyou asked,â he replies. itâs clarkâs voice, stripped of softness. lower. measured. every syllable carefully weighed like it might be used as evidence later.
you turn.
he looks the same. of course he does. blue suit, red cape, emblem bright against his chest like a target. but thereâs something in his eyes tonightâsomething raw and unsettled, like a fault line just under the surface.
youâve seen him upset before. controlled anger. righteous fury. this is different.
this is hurt.
âletâs get into it,â you say, because thatâs your job, and because if you hesitate you might never start. âearlier today, a recording surfacedââ
âiâve seen it,â he says quickly.
you nod. âthe video appears to show your biological parents claiming they sent you here to dominate earth. people are scared.â
his jaw tightens.
âare you?â the question slips out before you can stop it.
he studies you for a long moment. when he speaks again, itâs quieter. âno,â he says finally. âiâm not scared. iâm angry.â
you inhale slowly. âbecause itâs not true.â
âbecause theyâre wrong,â he says, heat flashing now. âbecause they donât get to decide who i am.â
the wind tugs at his cape, restless.
you glance at your notes. you already know whatâs coming next. the questions people are asking. the ones trending. the ones no one else will dare ask to his face.
you brace yourself.
âpeople want to know,â you say carefully, âwhat would happen if the video was true.â
his eyes snap to yours.
âwhat if,â you continue, heart hammering now, âyou woke up one day and decided humanity wasnât worth saving anymore?â
a muscle jumps in his cheek. âi wouldnât,â he says immediately.
âbut what if you did?â
silence stretches between you, thin as wire.
âiâve spent all these years, saving metropolis and other cities and countries, proving that i wonât,â he says, voice tight. âwhy is that not enough?â
you hate this part. you hate that youâre the one holding the knife. you hate that heâs looking at you like youâre the one twisting it. âbecause people are asking if your morality is conditional,â you say. âif it depends on how we treat you. on whether we disappoint you.â
âiâm not a god,â he snaps.
the sound echoes off the buildings below.
you donât flinchâbut something in your chest does. âi never said you were.â
âno,â he says bitterly. âbut they do. every day. either iâm their savior or their executioner. thereâs no room for anything in between.â he turns away from you, hands clenched at his sides.
you watch him like thisâbroad shoulders bowed just slightly, like the weight finally got to himâand something in you aches.
you remember the way clark once stayed up all night helping you fact-check a piece that wasnât even his. the way he brings you coffee exactly how you like it without ever asking. the way he listensâreally listensâlike every word you say matters.
you took those things for granted.
âso let me ask you this,â you say softly. âif the world turns on you⊠if they decide youâre a threatââ
he laughs, sharp and humorless. âthey already have.â
âif they push you,â you press, âand they push you⊠what happens when you finally break?â
he spins back toward you. âis that what you think?â he asks. âthat iâm one bad day away from becoming a monster?â
the question lands hard.
you meet his gaze and donât look away. youâre not sure what to say at first. how do you talk to a god that wonât accept he is one? a god that you can only see as your sweet, nonviolent coworker? âi think youâre strong,â you decide. âand i think youâre human in all the ways that count. and that means you can be hurt.â
his expression falters.
âi think,â you continue, quieter now, âthat scares people more than anything.â
the city hums below you. traffic. sirens. life going on, blissfully ignorant.
he exhales, long and shaky.
âiâve saved this world more times than i can count,â he says. âiâve picked it up and put it back on solid ground when it stumbled. and stillââ his voice breaks. âstill theyâre asking if iâm their doom.â
you step closer without thinking.
âif you go crazy,â you say, the words trembling on the edge of something too personal, âwill you still be superman?â
he looks at you like youâve just reached inside his chest. âand if iâm alive and well,â he asks quietly, âwill you still look at me the same way?â
your heart stutters.
this is the part youâre not supposed to cross. the line between reporter and subject. between truth and something far more dangerous.
you lower your recorder.
âi already do,â you breathe.
for a moment, the world holds its breath.
thenâsomewhere far belowâa cheer rises. someoneâs seen him. someone still believes.
superman closes his eyes.
and you realize, with startling clarity, that you might be the only thing keeping him tethered right now.
not his strength.not his powers.
you.
the interview detonates exactly the way you knew it would.
by the time you get back to the daily planet after your break, the building is vibratingâphones ringing off the hook, producers shouting from screens, interns sprinting like theyâve been drafted into a war they didnât sign up for.
your byline is everywhere.
SUPERMAN DENIES LEAKED KRYPTONIAN CLAIMS: âTHEY DONâT GET TO DECIDE WHO I AM.âÂ
you donât read the comments. you donât need to.
you can already hear them in your head.
what if he snaps? what if heâs lying? what if weâre already doomed?
clark is at his desk when you step off the elevator.
clark kent. rumpled suit. glasses slightly crooked. mild-mannered, kansas-born reporter who spills coffee and apologizes too much.
no one is looking at him. no one connects him to the man whose voice cracked on a rooftop an hour ago. thatâs the thing that makes your chest ache the most.
you pass his desk without stopping. if you look at himâif you really lookâyouâre not sure youâll be able to pretend. and pretending is the only thing keeping him safe.
âhey,â he says softly anyway.
just your name. quiet. almost lost under the noise.
you stop.
from the outside, it probably looks like nothing. two coworkers pausing mid-chaos. a beat too long, maybeâbut no oneâs counting.
you turn just enough to face him.
his eyes search your face, blue and worried and unmistakably clark, not superman. not the symbol. not the headline.
you lower your voice. âyou okay?â
a pause. then, just as quietly: âare you?â
you almost laugh. you almost cry. âi did what i had to,â you sigh.
âi know,â he replies.
the way he says itâno accusation, no resentmentâhits harder than if heâd been angry. you grilled him on a rooftop in front of the world. you asked the questions that made his hands shake. and he still trusts you.
that trust feels heavier than anything you asked him to lift.
lois lane materializes at your side like she always does when things get interesting.
âwell,â she says, eyes sharp, voice breezy, âyou officially broke the internet. again.â
you glance at her.
sheâs watching clark tooânot like the others, not casually. thereâs calculation there. knowing. she knows. sheâs known for a while now. longer than you have.
âyou didnât go easy on him,â she adds, tone carefully neutral.
you donât look away. âi couldnât.â
clark swallows.
lois studies your face for a second longer, then nods once. approval. or maybe understanding.
âperry wants a follow-up,â she says. âlater. not today.â
she turns to clark. âyou good?â
he forces a smile. âyeah. justâprocessing.â
lois squeezes his shoulder, quick and familiar, then walks off.
when sheâs gone, the space she leaves behind feels too exposed.
clark clears his throat. âlisten, about earlierââ
âdonât,â you interrupt, too fast. you soften your tone. âwe canât. not here.â
his mouth tightens in agreement. he glances around the bullpen, at the oblivious coworkers, the glowing screens, the normalcy that feels almost obscene now.
âtonight?â he asks. âthe roof?â
you hesitate.
that rooftop is dangerous. itâs where the masks come off. where you stop pretending heâs just your coworker and youâre just doing your job.
but he looks like heâs barely holding himself together, and you knowâyou knowâthat he wonât let anyone else see it.
âtonight,â you agree.
the city is quieter after everyone has returned to their homes.
the roof smells like rain and concrete and ozone, like the air after something powerful has passed through.
clark is already there when you arrive.Â
not superman. just clark. no cape. no boots. just a jacket pulled tight against the cold, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesnât know what to do with them.
thatâs what guts you the most, every time.
the world thinks superman doesnât need anyone.
clark kent looks like he needs you desperately.
âtheyâre still running it,â he says without turning around. âevery channel. every site.â
you step up beside him, careful to keep space between you. âthey will for a while.â
âi know.â he exhales. âi just didnât realize how loud it would be.â
you watch the city lights flicker below, like a galaxy turned upside down.
âi keep thinking about what you asked,â he admits. âabout breaking.â
you say nothing.
âif i did,â he continues quietly. âif something inside me, you know, changed.â he swallows. âwould you be afraid of me?â
the question lands soft and devastating.
you turn toward him fully now. âclark.â
he flinches at his nameânot because it hurts, but because it means you see him. not the myth. not the power.
âyouâve been called strong,â you say. âyouâve been called weak. youâve been called everything in between.â
he lets out a shaky breath.
âbut i know your secrets,â you continue. âand iâll keep them. not because youâre supermanâbut because youâre you.â
he finally looks at you.
up close, his eyes are glassy. tired. human.
âyou took for granted all the times i never let you down,â he says softly, like heâs confessing something. âand i didnât even realize it.â
âyou never let me down,â you say.
his laugh is quiet and broken. âyou grilled me and then published an article within an hour.â
âand i still stood by you,â you reply. âboth can be true.â
something shifts between you then. the tension thatâs always been thereâthe glances held too long, the conversations that drifted dangerously close to personalâtightens, sharp and electric.
âyouâre my anchor,â he says before he can stop himself.
the words hang there, fragile.
âyouâre not supposed to need one,â you say, unsure of what else to add on. no words feel adequate at the moment.
âi know,â he replies. âthatâs what scares me.â
he steps closer. not touching. never crossing that final line. but close enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, steady and impossible.
âif i go crazy,â he murmurs, barely audible now, âwill you still call me superman?â
you donât answer right away. you reach out insteadâslow, deliberateâand take his hand.
itâs warm. solid. real.
âif you go crazy,â you say, âiâll still call you clark.â
his breath catches.
âand if iâm alive and well?â he asks.
you squeeze his hand. âiâll be right here. holding on.â
for the first time since the video leakedâsince the world tried to shove him into a destiny he never choseâclark kent leans into you like heâs allowed to rest.
and you realize, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that youâre his kryptonite.
not the thing that kills him.
the thing that keeps him human.
the first crack happens three days later.
itâs small. practically microscopic. the kind of thing only people who are looking for failure would notice.
superman is pulling a collapsed commuter train out of the river when his grip slips. just for half a second.
no one dies. no one is even seriously hurt. the train scrapes the concrete embankment harder than it should, metal screaming loud enough to rattle windows six blocks away. a dozen phones catch the moment from different anglesâhis jaw clenched, his arms shaking, the unmistakable hitch in his motion.
by the time he sets the train down safely, the damage is already done.
SUPERMAN STUMBLES DURING RESCUE. FIRST SIGN OF FRACTURE? IS HE LOSING CONTROL? IS OUR CAPED CRUSADOR NOW A DANGER TO US ALL?
you read the headlines from your desk, stomach hollow.
across the bullpen, clark spills coffee all over his notes.
âsorryâsorry,â he murmurs, blotting at the paper like it personally offended him.
no one notices. no one ever does. thatâs the cruelest part.
theyâre dissecting supermanâs body language on every screen in the officeâslowing the footage down, circling the slip in red like itâs a crime sceneâwhile clark kent sits ten feet away, quietly unraveling.
lois drops into the chair beside you, expression tight.
âhe didnât lose control,â she says under her breath.
âi know,â you reply.
âhe hesitated,â she continues. âthatâs different.â
you glance at her. âyou think theyâll care?â
lois exhales sharply. âno. i think theyâve been waiting for this.â
across the room, perry barks orders into a phone. âno speculationâstick to verified factsâno, i donât care what the blogosphere is sayingââ
your screen lights up with a dozen emails at once.
what if the video is true? what if heâs weakening? what happens when superman decides weâre the problem?
you close your laptop. you already know whoâs going to answer those questions.
and you already know how much itâs going to cost him.
he doesnât text you. he doesnât call.
by the time night falls, the silence is so loud it feels intentional.
you find him anyway.
the roof is empty when you arriveâtoo empty. the air feels wrong, like a held breath thatâs gone on too long.
âclark?â you call softly.
nothing. thenâwind.
not the dramatic kind. not the thunderous arrival metropolis is used to. just a quiet displacement of air behind you.
âi didnât want you to see that.â
you turn.
superman stands a few feet away, cape hanging heavy from his shoulders like itâs soaked through. his hands are clenched, knuckles white.
âsee what?â you ask.
he laughs, short and bitter. âthat.â
he gestures vaguely. at the city, the headlines, himself.
âi froze,â he says. âfor a second, i froze. and all i could think was: they were right.â
you step closer. âno, they werenât.â
âiâve never hesitated before,â he insists. ânever. and now? after the video⊠after the questionsââ his voice drops. âwhat if something did change?â
your chest tightens. âyou didnât freeze because you wanted to hurt anyone,â you say. âyou froze because you were afraid of proving them right.â
his eyes flick to yours. âand thatâs better?â
âyes,â you respond immediately. âbecause it means you care.â
he looks unconvinced. âi keep hearing your voice,â he admits. âon the roof. asking me what happens when i break.â
you swallow. âclarkââ
âwhat if that was it?â he interrupts. âwhat if that moment, that slip, that was the beginning?â
he looks enormous standing there, impossibly strong, and somehow more fragile than youâve ever seen him.
you reach for him before you can talk yourself out of it.
your hand lands on his arm. he stills instantly.
youâve touched him beforeâaccidentally, casuallyâbut this is different. intentional. grounding.
âyouâre not breaking,â you say firmly. âyouâre hurting. thereâs a difference.â
his breath stutters.
âyou donât get to decide that alone,â you continue. ânot when the rest of us keep putting the weight of the world on your shoulders and calling it destiny.â
for a long moment, he says nothing.
then, quietly: âi donât know how to do this without being superman.â
the confession slices straight through you.
âyou donât have to do it without being him,â you say. âyou just donât have to be only him.â
his eyes search your face like heâs looking for permission. for something dangerous.
âiâm so tired,â he whispers.
you step closer. close enough now that the space between you feels meaningless. âi know,âÂ
his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours.
the city disappears.
thereâs no symbol. no headlines. no destiny written in alien glass.
just two people standing on a roof, holding each other up.
âif i lose them,â he murmurs. âif the world decides iâm the enemyââ
âthen iâll still be here,â you say. âand lois will. and the people youâve saved who donât have platforms or hashtags.â
he lets out a shaky breath. âyou shouldnât have to do this.â
âtoo late,â you reply softly. âi already am.â
his hands hover at your waistânot touching, always careful.
âyouâre dangerous,â he says, almost smiling. âyou know that?â
you huff quietly. âfunny. they say the same about you.â
âno,â he says. âyouâre worse.â
you raise an eyebrow.
âyou make me want things,â he admits. ânormal things. impossible things.â
your heart pounds. âlike what?â
he hesitates. âlike staying,â he says. âlike choosing.â
the word lingers between you, electric.
before either of you can say more, his head snaps up.
sirens. far offâbut urgent.
he pulls back, duty already reclaiming him.
âi have toââ
âi know,â you sigh.
he looks at you like he wants to apologize for a hundred things he hasnât done yet.
âiâll be back,â he promises.
you nod. âiâll be here.â
he hesitates one last time.
thenâso gently it almost doesnât countâhe presses his forehead to yours again.
and heâs gone.
the next morning, perry assigns you another superman piece.
you argue. briefly. futilely.
âthey trust you,â he says. âwhether they should or not.â
you sit at your desk afterward, staring at the blinking cursor.
across the room, clark types furiously, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red like he didnât sleep.
no one connects the dots.
except lois, who watches you both like sheâs counting heartbeats.
your phone buzzes.
âdid i mess everything up?â
you type back without hesitation. âno. you picked people over fear.â
a pause. then: âis that enough?â
you look up at him. at the man pretending to be ordinary. at the god pretending not to hurt.
you type: âit always has been.â
he looks at his phone. then, just for a second, he smiles.
and you realize the world may never stop testing him.
but as long as he keeps choosing humanityâas long as he keeps choosing youâhe wonât float away to the dark side of the moon.
the leak hits at 9:12 a.m.
itâs not alien footage. itâs not another think piece dissecting supermanâs microexpressions. itâs worse because itâs human.
ANONYMOUS SOURCE QUESTIONS SUPERMANâS DUAL PRESENCE AT RESCUES AND DAILY PLANET. COINCIDENCE OR COVER?Â
you feel it before you understand it. that cold, instinctive drop in your stomach. the kind that comes from knowing someone tugged the wrong thread.
across the bullpen, clarkâs fingers stop moving.
he doesnât look at the screen. he doesnât have to. you can see the tension coil through him, sharp and immediate, like a muscle memory from disasters no one else remembers.
lois is on her feet in an instant.
âthatâs thin,â she snaps, already skimming. âcircumstantial at best.â
âitâs enough,â perry mutters from his office doorway. âenough to make noise.â
the article doesnât say clark kent is superman. it doesnât have to.
it points out overlapping timelines. near misses. a reporter mysteriously absent during three major incidents. it suggestsânot accusesâthat superman might have a âcivilian anchor pointâ in metropolis media.
you close your eyes.
someone, somewhere, is learning how to look.
clark finally exhales, slow and controlled. he pushes back from his desk and stands.
âiâm grabbing coffee,â he says mildly.
no one questions it.
youâre on your feet before you realize youâve moved. âiâll come.â
from the outside, it looks normal. coworkers. friends. two reporters escaping the chaos for caffeine. but when the elevator doors close, the air shiftsâheavy, electric.
âthat was close,â you murmur.
clark stares at the floor. âtoo close.â
âyouâre still safe,â you say quickly. âthey donât know. theyâre guessing.â
âguessing turns into patterns,â he replies. âpatterns turn into certainty.â
the elevator dings.
you donât go to the cafe.
you go to the stairwell instead, pushing through the door and into the echoing quiet. the concrete walls smell faintly of dust and oil, the city muffled to a distant hum.
clark stops two steps in.
âi canât keep doing this,â he says.
the words hit harder than any headline.
you turn to face him. âdoing what?â
âlying,â he says. âhiding. watching you take hits meant for me.â
âthatâs notââ
âit is,â he insists. his voice isnât loud, but itâs shaking now. âevery time you write about me, every time you defend me, youâre standing in front of the world while i stay behind the curtain.â
âthat curtain keeps people alive,â you say.
âitâs starting to get people hurt,â he counters. âwhat happens when they connect you to me instead?â
the thought twists your chest. âclark,â you say softly. âlook at me.â
he does.
âyou are not ruining lives by existing,â you tell him. âyouâre not betraying anyone by protecting yourself.â
âiâm tired of being afraid,â he admits.
the confession cracks something open between you.
you step closer. âthen donât be afraid alone.â
he laughs weakly. âthatâs the problem. i donât want you anywhere near this.â
âand yet,â you say, âhere i am.â
he watches you like heâs memorizing your face. âif i stopped,â he says quietly. âif i walked away from being supermanââ
your breath catches. âyou canât mean that.â
âi do,â he says. âat least for a while. let them breathe. let the noise die down.â
âand what about you?â you ask. âwhat happens to the part of you that needs to help?â
his jaw tightens. âi donât know.â
you reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. ârunning wonât make them stop,â you say. âand it wonât make you happier.â
he closes his eyes at the touch. âyouâre my weakness,â he murmurs.
you smile sadly. âno. iâm your reminder.â
he opens his eyes. âof what?â
âthat you get to choose,â you say. ânot krypton. not earth. you.â
for a moment, it looks like he might kiss you. the tension is unbearableâevery unsaid thing vibrating between you, dangerous and inevitable.
then loisâs voice echoes faintly from the stairwell above. âkent? you vanish again and i start assuming secret tunnels.â
clark exhales, stepping back.
the moment slips through your fingers like sand.
that night, superman doesnât appear.
not when a bridge locks up during rush hour. not when a warehouse fire eats half a block. other heroes respond. planes divert. systems compensate.
but the absence is louder than any cape.
WHERE IS SUPERMAN? HERO NOWHERE TO BE SEENâHAS HE ABANDONED US? DID HUMANITY PUSH HIM TOO FAR?Â
you watch the city from your apartment window, phone clenched in your hand.
no texts. no calls.
you try not to imagine him somewhere alone, wrestling with the kind of silence that eats people alive.
when the knock comes, it nearly stops your heart.
you open the door.
clark stands there, soaked to the bone, glasses fogged, hair plastered to his forehead like he ran through a storm instead of flew above it.
âi neededââ he stops, swallowing. âi needed to see you.â
you pull him inside without a word.
the door clicks shut. the world narrows.
he paces once, then stops, hands braced on the back of your couch like itâs the only thing keeping him upright.
âi didnât go,â he says. you can hear the guilty clinging to his words. âi heard the calls. i felt them. and i stayed.â
your chest aches. âwhy?â
âbecause i was angry,â he admits. âbecause part of me wanted to prove i could walk away.â
âand?â
âand i hated it,â he says. âevery second.â
you step closer.
âi kept thinking about what you said,â he continues. âabout choosing. about not being only one thing.â he looks at you thenâreally looksâand something decisive settles in his expression. âi donât want to stop being superman,â he says. âand i donât want to keep pretending i donât need anyone.â
your heart pounds.
âi donât want to lose you,â he finishes.
the words are quiet. terrifying. honest.
you close the distance between you. âthen donât.â
he reaches out, tentative, like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he moves too fast. his hand cups your cheek, warm and steady.
âtell me to stop,â he whispers.
you donât.
when he kisses you, itâs not explosiveâitâs reverent. like heâs afraid this moment might shatter if he breathes wrong.
you kiss him back anyway.
he exhales against your mouth, relief and longing tangled together, and for the first time since the video leakedâsince the world tried to rewrite his storyâclark lets himself be held.
later, when he rests his forehead against yours, you feel the weight shift again.
âtomorrow,â he says softly, âi go back.â
you nod. âtomorrow, i write the truth.â
he smiles faintly. âyou always do.â
half doomed (& semi sweet)
pairing: adrian chase x readerâvigilante x reader
summary: half-doomed and semi-sweet, you and adrian chase mistake teamwork for coincidence until the end of the world keeps failing to happenâand you realize some people donât save you by being fearless, but by choosing to stay.
word count: 3.1k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. inspired by fall out boys "disloyal order of the water buffalos" becuz thats my fav song rn!!
main masterlist
you are, by all accounts, difficult to work with.
you assume the worst. you catalogue exits. you expect betrayal the way other people expect rain. you call it realism; adrian chase calls it âbeing kind of a bummer, but in a poetic way.â
adrian chase, meanwhile, isâinfuriatinglyâfine.
not fine like detached or hardened or numb, which would at least make sense in your line of work. fine like cheerful. like earnest. like a man who will casually reload his weapon while explaining, in detail, how american bald eagles sound less majestic than movies would have you believe.
you are teammates.
specifically: 11th street kids teammates (checkmate teammates technically, but both you and adrian hate calling yourselves that) which means your working environment includes questionable disguises, worse plans, and at least one argument per week about whether naming operations is necessary (adrian says yes, you say the universe will punish hubris).
somehow, you work.
more than thatâsomehow, you work well.
âokay,â adrian says one night, crouched beside you on a rooftop, peering through binoculars that absolutely do not need binoculars attached to them, âso fun factâbald eagles actually steal food from other birds a lot. like, aggressively.â
you sigh, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. âthatâs not fun. thatâs just capitalism with feathers.â
he considers this. âwow. yeah. that tracks.â
below you, evergreen humsâtoo loud, too alive, too ready to go wrong. you scan the street for threats that may or may not exist, heart already braced for disaster.
adrian hums beside you.
you glance at him. âyouâre going to get us killed one day.â
he beams. âstatistically, probably! but not tonight. tonight i triple-checked the exits.â
you blink. âyou did?â
âyeah,â he says, proudly. âyou always do that, so i figured i should too.â
something in your chest tightens. you ignore it.
everyone else sees it before you do.
they see the way adrian always positions himself half a step closer to you in fights. the way you unconsciously track him even while insisting you donât trust anyone. the way your pessimism and his optimism donât clashâthey interlock.
you call him reckless. he calls you thorough. chris calls it âpainfully obvious.â
the bar is loud, sticky with old spills and newer laughter. the team is scattered across mismatched stools and booths, unwinding after a job that went mostly right (which, in your experience, is suspicious).
you nurse your beer like it might betray you while adrian is animatedly explaining something, hands moving wildly.
âitâs about birds,â emilia murmurs to chris.
he grunts. âof course it is.â
she smiles, nursing her own drink softly. âtheyâre quite the pair, arenât they?â she hums, watching you two.
chris leans in, as if proximity might help him understand her any better. âthose two? whatâs so great about them? i meanâadrian and i are a good pair. you and i are a good pair.â
emilia doesnât look away from you and adrian.
âhalf-doomed and semi-sweet,â she says.
chris frowns. âwhich oneâs which?â
she finally turns, lips quirking. âtake your guess.â
you look over at the two gossiping, eyebrow cocked as if suspicious. you were always suspicious of everything. all the time.
âhey!â adrian says, recapturing your attention. heâs far too cheerful for a man who was shot at an hour ago. âdo you think pigeons judge us?â
you stare at him. âi think pigeons would survive the apocalypse.â
he lights up. âright? thatâs what iâm saying!â
you take a long sip of beer.
you do not notice the way his smile softens when he looks at you.
the job that changes things donât look special at first. they never do.
itâs supposed to be simpleâintel retrieval, minimal resistance, in and out. you say this out loud, which immediately makes adrian nervous.
âyou shouldnât say that,â he says. âthatâs like saying âquiet nightâ in a hospital. âmacbethâ before opening night.â
âexactly,â you mutter. âweâre doomed.â
âyou always say that,â he says fondly.
âand iâm usually right.â
you split up inside the buildingâhim taking the stairs, you taking the hallways. standard. efficient. safe. until it isnât. when the gunfire starts, itâs too close. too sudden. your comm crackles, half-static.
âârian?â you snap. âadrian, respond.â nothing. your stomach drops like the floor vanished.
you move before you think, heart pounding, mind screaming this is it, this is where it all goes wrong. you find him pinned behind cover, bleeding but grinning when he sees you.
âhey!â he smiles. âgood timing.â
you nearly shake him. âyou didnât answer.â
âsorry,â he says sheepishly. âradio got shot. which is rude, by the way.â
your hands hover, unsure where to touch, how bad it is, how close you came toâ
âyou okay?â he asks, suddenly serious. âyou look⊠really freaked out.â
you swallow. âdonât scare me like that.â
he blinks.
âoh,â he says quietly. âokay. i wonât.â
the promise lands heavier than it should.
later, when the mission ends and the adrenaline fades, you sit on the curb outside the video store, staring at nothing.
adrian sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours. for someone who hates contact, he always does sit a centimeter too close.
âyou know,â he says gently, âthe world isnât always out to get us.â
you snort. âthatâs optimistic.â
he smiles. âthatâs me.â
you donât argue. and for the first time, you wonderâjust brieflyâif maybe the reason the world hasnât swallowed you whole yet is because someone keeps standing beside you, humming bird facts into the void.
after the mission, they put you and adrian on desk duty. which is, objectively, a crime.
âyouâre grounding us,â you tell emilia flatly as she hands you a tablet. âwe almost died. this is when we should be allowed to brood.â
emilia smiles the way someone does when they know something you donât. âyouâre on recovery rotation. two weeks.â
adrian perks up. âoh! does that mean snacks?â
âyes,â she says patiently. âit means snacks.â
he fist-pumps. you consider faking your own death.
desk duty means proximity. proximity means noticing things. noticing things is a gateway drug to feelings, which you have carefully avoided cultivating for most of your adult life.
adrian hums while typing. not quietly. not tunefully. just⊠earnestly.
âyouâre doing it again,â you mutter.
âhm?â he swivels his chair toward you. âoh! sorry. it helps me focus.â
âit helps me spiral,â you reply.
he grins. âteamwork.â
you glare. it doesnât work. it never works.
you learn, against your will, that adrian chase is deeply considerate.
he brings you coffee without asking how you take itâand somehow gets it right. he notices when you stop joking and starts talking more, gently, like heâs coaxing you back from somewhere dark. he always walks on the side of the street closer to traffic, even when thereâs no logical reason to.
you chalk it up to him being like that. chris does not.
âyou know he likes you, right?â he asks one night while youâre cleaning weapons.
you donât look up. âeveryone likes me.â
chris snorts. ânot like that.â
you pause. slowly. âlike what?â
âlikeââ he gestures helplessly. âlike a guy who memorized your coffee order but still doesnât know how to flirt.â
you scoff. âadrian memorizes everything.â
âthatâs worse,â chris argues.
you ignore him. you are very good at ignoring things that might hurt.
adrian, meanwhile, is having a crisis.
it manifests as him being even nicer. nicer than anyone thought he was possible being.
âhey,â he says one afternoon, poking his head into the doorway where youâre hunched over a map. âdo you wanna take a break? youâve been staring at that like it personally wronged you.â
âit has,â you say darkly. âthis alley has no cover.â
he steps closer, peering at the map. âoh! yeah, thatâs bad. but if you angle the entry pointââ
your shoulders brush. you freeze. he freezes too. for a heartbeat, neither of you move.
âoh,â he says softly. âsorry.â
âitâs fine,â you say too quickly.
he steps back. you immediately miss the warmth. neither of you mention it.
the next job goes worse.
not catastrophicallyâjust enough to rattle you. you get cornered. the exit you planned collapses. panic claws up your spine, loud and familiar.
this is it, you think distantly. this is where it goes wrong.
then adrian is there.
he doesnât joke. he doesnât chatter. he plants himself in front of you like an unmovable thing, eyes sharp, voice steady.
âhey,â he says. âiâve got you. breathe with me, okay?â
you do.
later, when itâs over, your hands shake. adrian notices. of course he does.
âyou did great,â he says.
you laugh, brittle. âi nearly lost it.â
âso?â he replies. âyou didnât. that counts.â
you stare at him. âyouâre really bad at being scary,â you tell him.
he brightens. âthank you!â
thatâs when it hits youânot fully, not consciously, but enough to ache. adrian chase believes in you. not in a vague, team-approved way. in a steady, unwavering way. like itâs obvious. like itâs fact. you donât know what to do with that.
the bar again. because of course.
you sit beside adrian this time. it happens naturally, like gravity.
heâs telling you about owls. something about neck rotation. you nod, pretending to listen.
âyou okay?â he asks suddenly.
you blink. âwhat?â
âyouâre quiet,â he says gently. âquiet-quiet. not grumpy-quiet.â
you huff a laugh. âi didnât realize there were categories.â
âthere are,â he says. âi have a spreadsheet.â
you snort despite yourself.
across the bar, emilia and chris watch you.
âthey still donât know,â chris mutters.
emilia smiles. âthey will.â
you lean into adrian without thinking. just a little. just enough.
he stiffensâthen relaxes, careful not to startle you.
âhey,â he says softly. âif the world is ending⊠weâll deal with it.â
you close your eyes.
âpromise?â
âpromise,â he says. like itâs easy. like itâs true.
and for the first time, you believe him.
the problem with believing the world is out to get you is that sometimes it proves you right.
the mission is supposed to be routineâintercept, extract, disengage. you say nothing this time, which feels like tempting fate in the opposite direction.
adrian jogs beside you, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
âokay,â he whispers into the comms, âso statistically speaking, this building has terrible ventilation, which means if anyone deployed gasââ
âadrian,â you murmur. âfocus.â
âi am focused,â he says earnestly. âthis is my focus.â
you shake your head, but thereâs affection in it now. that realization sneaks up on you like a trap you forgot to mark.
inside, everything goes sideways.
explosions. shouting. smoke choking the air. your plan fractures into instinct and reaction, and the exits you catalogued vanish one by one.
you lose sight of adrian. your chest constricts. you tell yourself not to panic. panic helps no one. panic gets people killed. but your hands are shaking as you clear rooms, voice tight in the comm.
âadrian,â you snap. ârespond.â
static.
no. not again.
you move faster, recklessness clawing past caution, fear sharpening into something feral. you find him in a stairwell, bloodied, helmet cracked, breathing hard.
âhey,â he says weakly, like this is normal. âyou should see the other guy.â
you donât laugh. you drop to your knees in front of him, hands hovering, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the sirens outside.
âyou scared me,â you say, voice breaking despite yourself.
his grin fades.
âoh,â he says softly. âi didnât mean to.â
âi know,â you snap. then, quieter: âi justâdonât do that.â
he watches you carefully. âdo what?â
âdisappear.â the word hangs between you, heavy and unmissable.
adrianâs expression shiftsânot panic, not fear. understanding. âoh,â he says again. different this time.
you pull your hands back like youâve touched something dangerous.
âwe should get you out of here,â you say. âbefore this place collapses.â
he nods, still watching you like youâre the one bleeding.
recovery is slow.
you sit beside his bed more than necessary. you tell yourself itâs professional. someone has to make sure he doesnât rip his stitches doing something stupid.
he chats anyway.
âyou know,â he says one afternoon, âthis reminds me of the time i broke my arm falling out of a tree.â
you deadpan. âwhy were you in a tree.â
âeagle reasons.â
âof course.â
he grins. then grows quiet.
âhey,â he says. âcan i ask you something kind of⊠important?â
your shoulders tense. âdefine important.â
âlike,â he says slowly, choosing his words with a care that knots your stomach, âdo you always expect people to leave?â
you swallow. âyes,â you say honestly.
he nods, like that confirms something. âokay.â
âthatâs it?â you ask, irritated despite yourself.
âyeah,â he says gently. âi just wanted to know.â
you look at him, heart racing. âwhy?â
he hesitates. âbecause i donât want to.â
the room goes very still. you laugh, sharp and disbelieving. âyou say that like itâs a choice.â
âit is,â he says. âfor me.â
you stare at him, mind scrambling for a way out of this conversation. âyouâre hurt,â you say finally. âyou should rest.â
he doesnât push. he never does. but you donât miss the way his eyes soften when you leave.
the team notices everything.
emilia brings you tea without asking. chris stops making jokes about it because itâs no longer funnyâitâs inevitable.
âtheyâre orbiting,â he mutters one night.
âlike doomed planets,â emilia replies fondly.
you break first.
it happens quietly. terrible. over something stupid.
adrian shows up late to a briefing, apologetic and flustered.
âsorry! i got distractedâdid you know octopuses have seven hearts?â
âyou canât keep doing this,â you snap.
the room goes silent.
adrian blinks. âdoing what?â
âacting like nothing matters,â you say, the words spilling before you can stop them. âlike youâre not risking everything every time you walk out the door.â
his smile falters. âi do know,â he says softly. âi just donât want to live like iâm already dead.â
you flinch. âthatâs not fair,â you whisper. âyou donât know what itâs like to loseââ
âi know what itâs like to choose joy anyway,â he says. not angry. just true.
you stare at him, chest tight, throat burning. âi canât lose you,â you say.
the words are out before you can stop them. the room is silent enough to hear your heartbeat.
adrianâs eyes widen. âoh,â he says, barely audible.
you close your eyes.Â
yet, world doesnât end.
you donât sleep after that.
not really.
you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound of your own voice saying âi canât lose youâ like itâs evidence in a trial you didnât know you were participating in. your brain does what it always doesâcatalogues worst-case scenarios, drafts eulogies for possibilities that havenât happened yet.
adrian doesnât avoid you.
which is, frankly, rude.
he shows up the next morning like usual, helmet under his arm, hoodie zipped wrong, holding two coffees.
âi wasnât sure which one you wanted,â he says. âso i got both.â
you sit up straighter. âthatâs inefficient.â
âyeah,â he agrees cheerfully. âbut comforting.â
you take the coffee. your fingers brush. he doesnât flinch. neither do you.
the silence stretchesânot awkward, just charged, like the air before a storm youâve been predicting your whole life.
âso,â he says eventually. âabout yesterday.â
there it is. you brace.
âi didnât mean to ambush you,â he continues. âor make you feel cornered. i justââ he scratches the back of his neck. âiâm not great at pretending things arenât happening.â
you laugh weakly. âiâm excellent at it.â
âi know,â he says gently. âthatâs kind of the problem.â
you stare at him. really stare. at the earnestness, the open concern, the complete absence of expectation in his posture.
âyou didnât freak out,â you say.
he blinks. âwhy would i?â
âmost people do,â you reply. âwhen they realize how much damage they could do just by existing near me.â
adrian frowns. actually frowns.
âthatâs notââ he stops, recalibrates. âokay, that is how you feel. but itâs not how i feel.â
you wait for the punchline. it doesnât come.
âyouâre not a curse,â he says instead. âyouâre just⊠cautious. and sad sometimes. and really smart. and you make sure no one gets blindsided.â he smiles, small and fond. âi like that about you.â
your chest aches. âi donât think liking me is safe,â you say quietly.
he nods. âyeah. i figured.â
you blink. âyou did?â
âmm-hmm,â he says. âbut i donât really make decisions based on safety.â
that tracks.
the confession doesnât happen all at once.
it unfolds in pieces.
in the way adrian always checks in before missions now, not out of procedure but care. in the way you stop pretending you donât wait for his footsteps in the hall. in the way the team starts leaving the room when conversations turn softer, heavier.
it finally happens late one night on the roof. economos is drinking with chrisâfrankly, itâs the only time chris is able to socialize without being overly cruel to the manâand emilia is off somewhere else with adebayo, gossiping about whatever it is they gossip about.
the city sprawls below you, loud and indifferent. you sit with your knees drawn up, beer in hand, staring at the glow.
âiâm bad at this,â you say suddenly.
adrian tilts his head. âat what?â
âletting people stay,â you say. âbelieving they wonât leave.â
he thinks about that for a long moment. âi donât know how to promise forever,â he says carefully. âmy mom sayâs iâm not good at lying. but hey, sheâs also a major bitch.â
you huff. âfigures.â
âbut,â he continues, âi can promise to choose you. repeatedly. even when itâs scary. especially then.â
you turn to look at him. he isnât smiling. he isnât joking. heâs steady.
âyou donât have to be less doomed,â he adds. âi can meet you where you are.â
your throat tightens.
âand i donât need you to be less⊠you,â you admit. âi justââ you exhale. âi donât want to imagine a future where youâre not in it. thatâs stupid to say, isnât it?â
adrianâs eyes soften. âoh,â he says quietly. âthatâs not stupid⊠i mean, thatâs like, the opposite of stupid. thatâs good. because i already did.â
you laugh, breathless. âthatâs terrifying.â
âyeah,â he agrees. âbut kind of nice.â
you lean into him first this time. he wraps an arm around you like itâs instinct. like it always was.
later, at the barâbecause once again, of courseâthe team watches you sit pressed together, your shoulder tucked under adrianâs chin like it belongs there.
emilia smiles into her drink.
âthey figured it out,â she murmurs.
chris squints. âfinally.â
âhalf-doomed,âÂ
âand semi-sweet,â he replies. âwhich oneâs which?â he asks, grinning.
she watches adrian pass you a napkin before you even realize you need it. watches you accept it without comment. âtake your guess.â
PLEASE WRITE MORE ABOUT ADRIAN.
let's just say i have something cooking up that will be posted over the weekend đ
christmas the whole year 'round
pairing: bruce wayne x readerâbatman x reader
summary: you love christmas because it feels like being chosenâand bruce wayne loves you enough to make sure it never ends.
word count: 3.8k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. i just HAD to include the robins because damian is actually my little boy and i love him so!! happy holidays to everyone :3
series masterlist â main masterlist
bruce wayne does not believe in miracles.
he believes in preparation, in contingency plans stacked like dominoes, in the kind of discipline that turns fear into something usable. he believes in gravity and consequence and the sharp mathematics of cause and effect.
and then there is you.Â
you believe in christmas. you believe in the way lights soften the edges of the world. you believe in the quiet magic of ritual, in warmth that has nothing to do with temperature, in the idea that joy is not naive just because it is chosen. you believe in mornings that feel like beginnings, no matter how many times the calendar insists otherwise.
bruce believes in you.
he doesnât say it like that, of course. bruce wayne does not articulate devotion so plainlyânot out loud. but he shows it in the way he watches you string lights along the bannister of wayne manor, fingers careful, expression intent, as though this is a mission that matters. he shows it in the way he adjusts the thermostat before you even comment on the chill, or how a mug of something warm appears at your elbow without you ever asking. he shows it in how, somehow, december never ends.
it starts in november, because you start humming before thanksgiving even passes. softly at first, unconsciouslyâtunes that carry bells in their bones, melodies that feel like snowfall. bruce notices immediately. he always does. he catalogues the shift the way he does everything else: the way your shoulders relax when the first wreaths go up in gotham, the way your eyes linger on storefront windows glowing gold against early night.
âyouâre early,â alfred says mildly one evening, when youâve already begun pulling boxes from the storage closet.
you grin, unapologetic. âchristmas waits for no one.â
bruce watches from the doorway, jacket still on, tie loosened. something in his chest tightensânot painfully, just enough to remind him that he is alive, that there are things in this world that do not require armor. he makes a mental note.
that night, while you sleep curled against his side, he is awake long enough to order new lights. warmer ones. softer. he has alfred move the schedule around so the tree arrives sooner. he reroutes a charity gala so it doesnât conflict with the night you like to bake cookies, because you mentionedâoffhand, weeks agoâthat last year you missed it. bruce wayne does not forget offhand comments.
by the time december actually arrives, wayne manor has transformed.
there are garlands draped along the railings, evergreen and silver and deep red. candles glow in every room (electric, flame-less, safe, because bruce worries even when he pretends he doesnât). the tree in the main hall reaches nearly to the second floor, branches heavy with ornaments collected over years you didnât even realize were becoming traditions.
some are oldâdickâs first clumsy ornament from when he was small enough to sit on bruceâs shoulders. jasonâs is darker, sharper, something handmade that still bears the faint scars of anger and survival. timâs are clever, mechanical little things that spin or click if you touch them just right. damianâs are⊠precise. meticulous. there is one shaped like a tiny sword, and bruce pretends not to notice the way it makes you smile.
you add your own touches everywhere. ribbon tied where it shouldnât be. a snow globe on the piano. a knitted throw tossed over the arm of bruceâs favorite chair.
bruce lets you rearrange everything.
this is not something anyone would expect of batman. but you are not anyone.
family starts arriving in pieces, like chapters returning to the same book.
dick comes first, sweeping in with cold air and laughter and a hug that lifts you briefly off your feet. âyou made it snow in here,â he says, eyes wide as he takes in the decorations. âbig manâs gone soft.â bruce doesnât argue.
jason shows up late one night, unannounced but expected. he lingers in the doorway, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes flicking over the lights, the tree, the quiet warmth of the manor.Â
youâre the one who steps forward first, handing him a mug without comment. âthought you might be cold,â you say.
he stares at you for a moment, then exhales. âyeah,â he mutters. âthanks.â
tim arrives with a duffel bag and a laptop and a look of fond disbelief. âyou know,â he says, glancing between you and bruce, âthis place used to feel like a museum in december.â
bruce lifts an eyebrow. âused to.â
damian is already home, of courseâhovering at bruceâs side like a shadow that has learned how to smile when you ruffle his hair. he pretends to scowl every time you insist on including him in cookie decorating, but he always chooses the most elaborate designs.
every night feels like something sacred.
there are dinners that stretch long past midnight. arguments and laughter and stories retold for the hundredth time. you sit at the table beside bruce, your knee brushing his, and every time you lean in to say something quietly to him, he listens like the world has narrowed to your voice alone.
later, when the manor grows quiet again, bruce finds you in the living room, curled on the couch beneath a blanket, tree lights reflected in your eyes.
âtoo much?â he asks quietly.
you look around. the warmth. the glow. the unmistakable feeling of being held by something larger than yourself. ânever,â
bruce nods, as though confirming a hypothesis.
from that moment on, he stops pretending this is temporary. if christmas makes you feel safeâif it makes you feel full, and loved, and aliveâthen bruce wayne will give it to you. every day. and if the world insists on moving forward, on hard edges and dark nights and battles that never quite end? bruce will make sure that when you come home, it is always december.
by january, gotham has moved on.
storefronts shed their lights. trees disappear from curbs. the city exhales, weary and gray, returning to itself like it always doesâsharp edges, colder nights, the unspoken understanding that hope is a seasonal luxury. wayne manor does not follow.
you notice it first in the mornings.
the kitchen still smells faintly of cinnamon when you come downstairs, even though alfred insists itâs just habit now. a small wreath remains on the pantry door. the lights on the bannister donât come downâthey simply dim, warmer, subtler, like a secret meant only for those who know to look.
bruce watches you notice. he watches the way your steps slow, the way your mouth curves into something softer than a smile. he files it away with the same precision he uses for patrol routes and emergency protocols.
if it makes you linger, it stays.
you find him one afternoon in the study, papers spread across the desk, cowl nowhere in sight. he looks⊠peaceful, for once. when you lean against the doorway, he glances up immediately.
âwhat?â he asks.
you gesture vaguely. âit still feels like christmas.â
he studies you for a long moment, unreadable. then: âis that a problem?â
you shake your head, laughter quiet. âno. itâs just⊠nice.â
thatâs all it takes.
bruce wayne does not do things halfway.
by february, itâs deliberate.
he schedules family dinners on sundays, regardless of how busy gotham gets. he makes sure dick is invited even when blĂŒdhaven needs him, that jason knows heâs welcome even if he never rsvpâs, that tim doesnât forget to sleep, that damian has something resembling a normal childhoodâeven if itâs wrapped in discipline and expectations.
you sit at the head of none of it and somehow at the center of all of it.
bruce notices how you thrive when the house is fullâhow you move easily between conversations, how you listen more than you speak, how you remember things about each of them that even bruce sometimes misses. you are the connective tissue, the quiet warmth holding sharp, complicated people together.
he doesnât say thank you. he shows it.
there are mornings when you wake to find the curtains already open just enough to let the light in the way you like it. there are evenings when the fireplace is lit before you even mention being cold. once, you come home late, exhausted, and find the living room transformedâcandles glowing, soft music playing, a mug waiting for you on the table.
âbruce,â you say, half-laughing, half-overwhelmed. âitâs march.â
he shrugs out of his jacket, gaze never leaving you. âdid you have a bad day?â you nod. âthen itâs december.â he says it like a fact.
songs start following you after thatânot audibly, not quite. more like a feeling. a rhythm beneath your days. the way joy becomes sustainable when itâs not rationed, when itâs allowed to exist on ordinary tuesdays and not just special occasions.
spring comes to gotham whether bruce wants it to or not. the snow melts. flowers bloom in the gardens outside the manor.
bruce keeps the lights.
he takes you out less in public now, not because he wants to hide you, but because heâs learned that you prefer the quiet. instead, he brings the world to you. private ice skating sessionsâsynthetic rink installed in one of the lower levels because you once admitted youâd never learned. movie nights with old black-and-white films dusted in fake snow. a record player he restores himself, just because you like the crackle.
âyou donât have to do all this,â you tell him one night, fingers laced with his as you sit by the fire.
bruce turns to you fully. his expression is bare in a way few ever seeâguard lowered, eyes soft, the man beneath the armor entirely present. âi want to,â he says. itâs not dramatic. itâs not loud. itâs everything.
the boys notice, of course.
dick teases him first. âso,â he says one evening, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, âare we just⊠living in a hallmark movie now?â
jason snorts. âdonât knock it. place hasnât felt this good in years.â
tim watches bruce watch you and smiles to himself.
damian, ever observant, says quietly, âfather is happier.â
bruce does not deny it.
because the truth isâthis isnât about christmas. it never was. itâs about you loving something without reservation, and bruce learningâslowly, carefullyâthat he is allowed to love you the same way. unconditionally. every day.
and as the months pass, and the calendar insists on moving forward, bruce wayne keeps proving one thing over and over again: if christmas is the season where you feel most yourselfâthen he will make sure you never have to leave it.
summer in gotham is unforgiving.
heat presses down like a second atmosphere. nights buzz with unrest, tempers short and shadows restless. batmanâs work never slowsâif anything, it sharpens, demanding more of bruce than it ever has.
and still, every morning, you wake to something gentle.
the curtains drawn just enough. cool air circulating before the heat can reach you. a glass of water on the nightstand, already chilled, because bruce knows you forget to hydrate when youâre distracted.
you donât ask how he manages it all. you just live in it.
by june, the family is scattered againâdick back in blĂŒdhaven, jason gone for stretches at a time, tim juggling school and responsibilities that would crush anyone else, damian attending summer training programs bruce pretends are normal.
you and bruce are alone in the manor more often now.
itâs quieter. intimate.
you catch him watching you when you think he isnâtâwhen youâre reading on the couch, when youâre barefoot in the kitchen, when you hum softly to yourself without realizing it. his gaze follows you with the same intensity he gives to the city from the batmobileâbut softened, reverent.
one afternoon, you find him in the batcave earlier than expected.
youâre used to the caveâits shadows, its hum, its weight. still, this is different.
there are lights strung along the edges of the platforms. subtle. warm. impossible. a small tree stands near the computer bankânot evergreen, but something metallic and modern, decorated with silver ornaments that reflect the caveâs glow like stars.
you stop short. âbruce.â
he steps closer, suddenly uncertain in a way that disarms you. âyou said once,â he begins, âthat summer makes things feel⊠temporary.â
you did. months ago. barely a thought, barely a confession.
âi donât want you to feel that way,â he says quietly.
your chest tightens. âyou put christmas in the batcave,â you say faintly.
âi put you in the batcave,â he corrects. you laugh, breathless and a little overwhelmed, and before you can say anything else, he reaches for your handâgrounding, steady, real. âyou make this place lighter,â he says. âyou make me lighter.â
bruce wayne does not speak lightly.
the next time the family is all together, itâs your fault.
or ratherâyour idea.
you mention, half-joking, that summer holidays should exist. that joy shouldnât be limited to one season. that maybe people would be kinder if they remembered what it felt like to be held by something warm and familiar.
bruce hears a plan.
in july, wayne manor hosts the most absurd event gotham has ever seen.
the grounds are transformed overnight. lights strung through trees. artificial snow drifting lazily from hidden machines. long tables set with comfort food and desserts and hot cocoaâeven in the heat. music floats through the air, gentle and nostalgic.
a banner hangs at the entrance: CHRISTMAS â NO DATE REQUIRED
dick laughs so hard he nearly falls over. âyou did this,â he accuses you, delighted.
jason shakes his head, grinning despite himself. âthis is unhinged.â
tim is already calculating the logistics. âthe energy output aloneââ
damian stands beside bruce, arms crossed, eyes bright. âit is⊠acceptable.â
bruce watches you the entire night.
he watches the way you move through the crowd, glowing, at ease. the way laughter comes easily to you here, the way you look like you belongâlike youâve always belonged.
at some point, you find bruce standing apart from the noise, watching. âyou okay?â you ask.
he nods. âi am.â he means it.
later, when the night winds down and the family drifts inside, bruce stays with you beneath the lights. Gotham hums in the distance. snow melts harmlessly into the grass.
âthank you,â you say softly.
âfor what?â
âfor loving me the way i love things.â
bruce turns to you then, fully. his voice is low, steady, certain. âyou taught me how.â
he kisses you beneath artificial snow in the middle of summer, and it feels like a promiseânot fleeting, not fragile.
permanent.
and when august arrives, and the world insists again on heat and noise and inevitability, bruce wayne remains unmoved.
because as long as you are beside himâit will always feel like christmas.
autumn arrives softly, the way it always doesâwithout asking permission.
the air sharpens. leaves turn and fall. gotham exhales heat and inhales something quieter, heavier. itâs your favorite kind of in-between, and still, something in you tightens. you donât say it out loud.
but bruce notices. he notices the way you linger by the windows longer. the way you grow thoughtful when the nights come earlier. the way your smile falters, just barely, when someone mentions how fast the year has gone.
bruce wayne does not miss what hurts.
one evening, youâre curled on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, the house dim and calm. a soft instrumental plays somewhere in the backgroundâsomething nostalgic, something that feels like memory without pain. bruce sits beside you, close but not pressing. he waits.
âwhat happens,â you ask quietly, eyes fixed on the fire, âwhen christmas comes again?â
he turns fully toward you. âwhat do you mean?â
you swallow. âwhat if⊠what if it stops feeling special? what if iâm just chasing a feeling that canât stay?â the words tremble, betraying more than you intend.
bruceâs chest tightensânot with fear, but with resolve. âyou think iâve been doing this because itâs seasonal,â he says gently.
you donât answer. you donât have to.Â
bruce reaches for your hands, thumbs brushing warmth into your skin. his voice lowers, steadies.
âyouâre not loving christmas,â he says. âyouâre loving constancy. safety. belonging.â
you look at him then, really look.
âand so am i,â he continues. âyou just learned how to name it sooner than i did.â
you blink, emotion rising fast and unguarded. âbruceâŠâ
âi donât replicate december because you like decorations,â he says. âi do it because when the world is gentle, you are gentle with yourself. and i want you to have that every day.â
you breathe out, shaky.
âyou are not a season,â he says firmly. âyou are my life.â
the words land with the weight of a vow.
that weekend, the family comes home again.
dick brings cider. jason brings pie he definitely did not bake himself. tim brings research he absolutely doesnât need to share but does anyway. damian brings you a scarf he pretends he didnât choose specifically because it reminded him of you.
you sit together in the living room, autumn light slanting gold through the windows, fire crackling low.
dick watches bruce watch you and finally says it. âyou know,â he says lightly, âthis isnât subtle anymore.â
bruce doesnât even pretend not to understand. âgood.â
jason smirks. âabout time.â
tim smiles, soft and knowing.
damian studies you for a moment, then speaks clearly: âyou are part of this family.â
your throat tightens.
bruce reaches for your handânot to steady you, but to share the moment. his thumb brushes your knuckles, grounding, certain.
later that night, when the manor is quiet again, bruce leads you outside.
the garden is transformedânot with lights this time, but with lanterns glowing softly among the trees. autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. the air smells like earth and warmth and something deeply familiar.
âyou once asked me,â bruce says, stopping beneath a tree heavy with amber leaves, âif i ever get tired of carrying the weight of things.â
you nod. you remember.
âi donât,â he says. ânot when itâs worth it.â he turns to face you fully, eyes dark and unwavering. âyou are worth every version of the future,â he says. âevery season. every day.â
he presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your skin.
âi will give you christmas,â he murmurs, âas long as you want it. but even when the lights go out, even when the year turns againââ his hand tightens gently around yours. âi will still be here.â
you lean into him, heart full and aching and safe all at once.
december comes back gently.
not with urgency, not with spectacleâjust a quiet inevitability, like something returning to where it belongs.
the first snow falls overnight, dusting gotham in white. you wake before bruce, padding barefoot to the window, breath fogging the glass as you watch the world soften. for a moment, youâre twelve years old again in your heartâhopeful, open, believing without shame.
behind you, the bed shifts.
bruce wraps himself around you without a word, chin resting against your shoulder, arms solid and warm and unmistakably real.
âitâs back,â you whisper.
he nods against you. âit never left.â
wayne manor blooms againâbut this time, it feels different. not bigger. not brighter. deeper.
the decorations return with familiarity instead of urgency. the tree goes up slowly, deliberately, each ornament placed with care. you catch bruce holding one in his hand longer than necessaryâa small, simple piece you bought together months ago, unremarkable except that it is yours.
he hangs it near the center.
the family comes home, as they always do.
dick arrives first, snow in his hair, joy in his grin. jason follows, quieter but present, staying longer than he ever plans to. tim settles in like he never left, half-work, half-home. damian is already there, proud and composed and unmistakably bruceâs sonâyour son, too, in all the ways that matter.
dinner is loud and warm and imperfect. thereâs laughter, and teasing, and arguments that end in smiles. you sit beside bruce at the table, his hand resting on your knee like itâs always been there, like it always will be.
at some point, dick raises a glass. âto⊠whatever this is,â he says, gesturing around. âto family. and to making it work.â
âto christmas,â jason adds, smirking.
tim smiles. âall year.â
damian lifts his glass last. âto home.â
bruce looks at you. his eyes say everything.
later, when the manor grows quiet and the world feels hushed beneath falling snow, bruce leads you back to the living room. the tree glows softly, lights reflected in the dark windows like constellations.
âyouâre thinking,â you hum.
he nods once. âi usually am.â
you turn to face him fully. âgood thoughts?â
âthe most important one iâve ever had.â he reaches into his pocketânot hurried, not dramatic. Just steady.
your breath catches anyway.
bruce kneelsânot because he feels he has to, but because he wants to meet you where you are. the ring is simple. elegant. timeless. something chosen with intention, not excess.
âyou once told me,â he says quietly, âthat christmas feels like a promise. rhat it reminds you the world can be kind if people decide to be.â
your vision blurs.
âi canât promise you a world without darkness,â he continues. âi canât promise you safety every second of every day.â he takes your hands, grounding, certain. âbut i can promise you this,â he says. âi will choose you. every morning. every night. in every season.â his voice softensânot weak, never weak, just honest. âi will give you warmth when the world is cold. light when itâs dark. and when christmas fades everywhere elseââ he squeezes your hands gently. âi will keep it alive with you.â he looks up at you, bruce wayne laid bare. âstay,â he says. âfor the whole year. for all of them.â
you laugh through tears, heart breaking open in the best way. âyes,â you breathe. âalways.â
he stands and pulls you into his arms, holding you like something precious, something permanent. outside, snow falls heavier, blanketing gotham in quiet.
bruce presses a kiss to your temple.
mistletoe appears laterâalfred swears it was always there.
the days that follow are full and slow and real. baking. decorating. quiet mornings and loud evenings. bruce beside you in every moment, never distant, never halfway gone.
on christmas morning, you wake to sunlight and laughter and the smell of coffee. bruce is already awake, watching you like this is the gift heâs been waiting for.
âwhat?â you ask softly.
he smilesâa rare, unguarded thing. âthis,â he says. âthis is what i was fighting for.â
and you realize something then, standing in the warmth of wayne Manor with snow at the windows and love in every corner:
christmas was never about the day. it was about being chosen.
about being held. about knowing that no matter how the year turns, no matter what darkness waits beyond the doorâyou will always come home to light.
and bruce wayne will always make sure it feels like christmas the whole year around.Â

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winter wonderland
pairing: tony stark x readerâironman x reader
summary: you come from a world without winter; tony stark comes from a world built to survive it. between falling snow and borrowed warmth, you learn that some seasons are worth risking your heart for.
word count: 3.7k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. happy holidays to everyone :3
series masterlist â main masterlist
you learn about winter the same way you learn about most earth thingsâby accident, mid-mission, with tony stark talking in your ear like itâs his personal podcast.
âokay, so,â he says, voice crackling through comms as snow whips sideways around the quinjet, âyouâre going to want to not do that.â
âdo what?â you ask, adjusting your grip as your boots skid uselessly across ice that refuses to behave like solid ground.
âthat thing where you trust the ground,â tony replies. âvery earth rookie mistake. donât worry, everyone does it the first time. except thor. he thinks this is charming.â
thor, somewhere behind you, laughs thunderously and says something about midgardian festivities. natasha mutters a curse under her breath. steve just looks⊠fond, like this is a postcard come to life.
you land badly, catching yourself on one knee. snowâactual frozen water crystals, still a marvel to youâflakes against your gloves. you stare down at it, briefly stunned.
âitâs⊠everywhere,â you marvel.
âthatâs kind of winterâs whole brand,â tony says. âoverachiever. seasonal commitment issues.â
you stand slowly, flexing your fingers. your homeworld has storms, sureâelectric skies, dust cyclones that scream like living thingsâbut never this. never silence that falls in white layers. never cold that settles.
never wonderland.
the mission is routine. hydra remnant. alpine hideout. very dramatic. you do your job the way you always do: fast, precise, a half-step ahead of everyone else. youâre at tonyâs side when the turrets light up. you shield him when the ceiling collapses. you donât even notice youâre doing it anymore.
the others do.
âyou know,â clint says later, as you regroup inside the ruined base, âif i didnât know better, iâd think you were starkâs personal guardian angel.â
you blink at him. âhe is⊠fragile.â
tony scoffs. âexcuse you. i am durable.â
natasha arches a brow. âyou materialized next to him three times.â
âhe was in danger three times.â
âand yet,â she says lightly, âyou werenât nearly as close to me.â
you open your mouth, then close it. the truth is simple and unspeakable: tony stark pulls you like gravity. not the crushing kind. the steady, inevitable kind. you orbit. you always have.
tony, for his part, pretends very hard not to notice.
peter parker, however, notices everything.
heâs the one who clocks how tonyâs helmet retracts a second too slowly when youâre nearby. how his voice softens in that infuriating, unconscious way when he says your name. how he finds excuses to stand closer to you in briefing rooms, like the floor might tilt if he doesnât anchor himself.
peter watches this like itâs a sitcom where the laugh track has been removed.
by the time december rolls around, the tower looks like itâs been swallowed by tinsel. stark industries goes all inâfloating lights, holographic snowflakes, a tree thatâs probably powered by an arc reactor. tony claims heâs âironically festive,â which is a lie.
youâre standing in front of a window, watching the city blur under snowfall, when peter sidles up next to you.
âso,â he says casually, way too casually. âyou ever been to a winter market?â
you tilt your head. âa⊠market?â
âyeah, likeâfood, lights, hot chocolate, people pretending itâs not freezing because vibes.â he grins. âvery earth.â
you consider this. âis it⊠dangerous?â
peter pauses. âemotionally?â
âyes.â
ââŠalso yes.â
you nod solemnly. âthen no.â
âcool, cool,â peter says. âhypothetically, though, if tony stark asked you to goââ
âhe would not,â you say immediately.
peter beams. âinteresting answer. not âi wouldnât go.â just âhe wouldnât ask.ââ
you frown. âwhy would he?â
peter shrugs, a terrible liar. âno reason. justâhe likes winter stuff. i mean, he pretends not to, but he does. and youâve never seen it. and heâs, like, i donât know⊠into you.â
âthat is inaccurate.â
peter makes a face. âwow. youâre wrong. in two galaxies.â
before you can respond, tony appears like heâs been summoned, coffee in hand, sweater criminally soft. he stops short when he sees you and peter together.
âam i interrupting a conspiracy?â tony asks.
âyes,â peter smiles. âbut in a good way.â
tony squints. âthatâs never been true.â
peter claps his hands. âanyway! mr. stark, you asked me to tell her about the thing.â
tony freezes. âi did?â he says carefully.
âyep,â peter says, nodding emphatically. âthe winter market thing. tonight. you said you needed someone toâuhâtranslate winter.â
tony stares at peter like heâs calculating murder probabilities.
you look between them. âyou are attending a market.â
tony exhales. âapparently i am.â
âwith me,â peter adds helpfully.
tonyâs gaze snaps to you. ânoâi meanâonly if you want to. this is notâkid, why are you smiling like that?â
peter backs away. âgotta go! homework. city in peril. you know.â he disappears before either of you can stop him.
silence stretches. outside, bells ring somewhere in the city. you watch snow drift past the glass, soft and endless.
âyou donât have to,â tony says finally, quieter now. âheâs⊠enthusiastic.â
you study tony starkâthe man in armor, the man without it, the man who looks at you like youâre something heâs afraid to touch. âi would like to see winter,â you decide.
tony smiles, slow and stunned, like heâs just been given something fragile and bright.
âokay,â he says. âthenâyeah. letâs do that.â
somewhere in the tower, a song starts to playâsomething about sleigh bells and wonderlands.
you donât know it yet. but youâre already inside it.
tony stark does not dress for winter like a man who respects it.
you realize this the moment you step out of the car and the cold hits you like a living thingâsharp, immediate, invasive. your breath fogs. the air bites. you straighten instinctively, senses flaring, ready for impact that never quite comes.
tony, beside you, shivers dramatically.
âthis is hostile,â he announces. âthis weather has personal issues with me.â
âyou were warned,â you say, pulling your coat tighter. the fabric is stark-tech, layered and adaptive, something he insisted on making himself. âyou chose aesthetics.â
tony looks down at his own outfitâlong coat, scarf that is absolutely for show, gloves he keeps forgetting to put on. âi look great,â he says. âif winter wanted me to survive, it shouldnât have made hypothermia so unfashionable.â
the market sprawls ahead of you, glowing. strings of lights loop from stall to stall like constellations dragged low to earth. wooden booths steam with food and sugar and spice. bells ring. somewhere, someone laughsâfull-bodied, careless.
snow crunches underfoot. you stop walking.
tony notices immediately. he always does. âhey,â he says, softer. âtoo much?â
you shake your head, slow. âno. i justââ you search for words that donât exist in your language. âit is⊠loud. but quietly.â
he smiles at that. âyeah. thatâs winter. sneaks up on you.â
people brush past, bundled together, hands tucked into sleeves or wrapped around cups that steam like little suns. you watch them the way you watch unfamiliar starsâcarefully, reverently.
tony stays close. not touching. just near enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, human and steady. âyou okay?â he asks again.
âyes,â you say. âi am⊠learning.â
you drift toward a stall glowing amber, something sweet and buttery in the air. you peer at the sign, letters curling in a language you still stumble over.
tony reads it instantly. âfresh pastries. deep-fried. absolutely illegal in several states.â
âwhat are they called?â
âdepends on the country. depends on how bad you want it to be for you.â he grins. âwant to try one?â
you hesitate. âis it customary?â
âitâs practically a treaty.â
you nod once. âthen yes.â
he orders without asking your preference, hands moving with practiced ease. when he passes you the pastry, itâs warm through the paper, almost hot.
you take a bite. your eyes widen. âoh,â you say, very quietly.
tony watches your face like itâs the whole point of the evening. âgood?â he asks.
âthis should not exist,â you say reverently. âon my planet, this would start a war.â
he laughsâfull, bright, unguardedâand the sound settles into you like another layer of warmth.
you wander deeper into the market. music drifts from somewhere unseen, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. a song keeps returning, looping through the air like a promise.
you pause again, watching a group of children packing snow together, stacking it into something vaguely human. they argue cheerfully, mittens flashing, noses red.
âwhat are they doing?â you ask.
tony follows your gaze. âthatâs a snowman. heâs⊠mostly decorative. symbolic.â
âsymbol of what?â
tony considers. âtogetherness. boredom. the human refusal to let weather win.â
you watch as a scarf is added, then a crooked smile. something tightens in your chest.
âthey create life,â you say slowly, âthat will melt.â
tonyâs expression shifts. âyeah,â he says. âthat partâs less cheerful.â
âbut they do it anyway.â
âhumans are big on temporary things,â tony says. âwe like knowing somethingâs fragile. makes it feel⊠earned.â
you look at him then. really look. the lines at the corners of his eyes. the way he keeps glancing around like heâs on watch, even now. the man who builds things to last because heâs terrified of how easily everything breaks.
âyou are like winter,â you say without thinking.
tony blinks. âiâwow. okay. i donât know if thatâs a compliment or a threat.â
âyou are harsh,â you continue, earnest. âbut you make people gather closer.â
something in his face stills. before he can respond, a voice cuts inâtoo loud, too cheerful.
âoh my god, mr. stark! This is such a good date spot!â
peter parker appears out of nowhere, wearing a beanie that does not fit him and holding two cups of something steaming.
tony groans. âyou have got to be kidding me.â
peter beams. âwhat? i was justâcoincidentallyâin the neighborhood. with hot chocolate. for both of you.â
you look at the cups. âis that⊠liquid?â
âyes,â peter says solemnly. âbut emotionally.â
tony pinches the bridge of his nose. âpeter⊠that doesnât even mean anything.â
peter hands you a cup before tony can stop him. âcareful, itâs hot. likeâreally hot. like feelings.â
you take a cautious sip. sweet. rich. comforting in a way you didnât know you were missing. âthis is good,â you say.
peter nods. âright? anyway, iâm gonnaâgo! not spy on you. definitely not report back to literally everyone.â he skitters away, already texting.
tony sighs. âiâm so sorry.â
âfor what?â you ask.
âfor him. for⊠this. for dragging you into earth nonsense.â
you cradle the cup in your hands, letting the warmth seep into your palms. snow settles into your hair. you donât brush it away.
âi chose to come,â you say. âwith you.â
tonyâs breath fogs. he looks at you like heâs trying to memorize this moment without daring to name it. âyeah,â he says softly. âyou did.â
the song swells again around you, bells and voices and promises made in cold air.
you donât know how this ends. but for now, the blue of lonely winter feels very far away.
the first thing you learn about earth: winter at night? it changes its mind.
the air grows sharper as the market thins, stalls closing one by one, lights dimming into softer halos. snow falls slower now, heavier, as if itâs thinking about where it wants to land. the song still drifts through the speakers, looping endlesslyâwinter wonderland, cheerful and unafraid of repetition.
you walk beside tony, cups empty, fingers numb in a way that is almost pleasant. he offers you his gloves without a word. you take them. they are warm in the way that suggests heâs been clenching his hands too long.
âyour circulation is bad,â you say, observational.
âmy circulation is stressed,â tony replies. âitâs been through a lot.â you almost smile.
the crowd thins enough that you can walk without brushing strangers. snow crunches. somewhere nearby, laughter echoes, then fades. the city feels hushed, like itâs holding its breath.
âyou okay?â tony asks again. itâs his favorite question. he asks it like a habit, like a shield.
âyes,â you smile. âare you?â
he hesitates. âiâ yeah. i mean, yes. iâm⊠good.â the lie is small. it still lands between you.
you stop beneath a string of lights draped between two bare trees. the bulbs glow gold against the dark, reflecting in tonyâs eyes. you turn to face him fully, snow gathering at your shoulders.
âyou are not,â you say gently.
tony exhales, long and slow. âyouâre really bad at letting me get away with stuff.â
âi am very good at noticing patterns,â you say. âyou avoid them. you deflect. you joke.â
âhey,â he says lightly. âjoking is a coping mechanism.â
âso is silence,â you say. âyou use both.â
he laughs once, soft and rueful. âwow. you sound like my therapist. except⊠nicer.â
the song swells again, louder now, the lyrics drifting clearly through the cold air.
you glance back toward where the children were earlier. the snowman is gone nowâcollapsed, half-melted, already forgotten.
âtony,â you say. his name still feels strange in your mouth, too intimate for public air. âpeter told us a lie.â
tony stiffens. âhe did, didnât he.â
âhe said you wished to attend this market. with me.â
tonyâs gaze drops to the snow between your feet. âyeah.â
âdid you?â
heâs quiet long enough that you think he might not answer. then: âyes. i did.â
your chest tightens.
âbut,â he continues quickly, ânot like that. i meanâyes, like that, but alsoâpeter exaggerated. i didnâtâthis wasnât a setup. i mean, it was, but not mine. i didnât want toââ
you reach out before you realize youâre doing it, fingers brushing his sleeve. he stills instantly, like the world has narrowed to the space between you. âi am not angry,â you say.
tony looks up. âyouâre not?â
âno,â you say. âconfused. curious.â
he swallows. snow dusts his lashes. âokay,â he says. âthen⊠ask.â
âwhy do you look at me as if you are waiting for something to end?â
the question lands heavy and precise. tonyâs mouth opens, closes. he laughs weakly. âyou donât miss much, do you?â
âi miss many things,â you say. âi have never seen winter before today.â
he nods slowly. âright. of course.â another pause. longer. the song shifts to its bridge, hopeful and dangerous. tony huffs a humorless breath. âi donâtâdo relationships very well.â
âi am aware,â you say.
âthatâs notâi mean.â he rubs a hand over his face. âi ruin things. i overthink, i under-commit, i build armor instead of⊠actually saying what i feel.â
you tilt your head. âwhat do you feel?â
tony looks at you thenâreally looksâand the air between you feels thinner. âi feel,â he says carefully, âlike winter showed up just to prove a point.â you wait. âi feel like you walked into my life and suddenly everything i built to keep the cold out doesnât work anymore.â your breath fogs between you. âand,â he adds, quieter, âi feel like if i touch thisâwhatever this isâitâs going to melt. or break. or hurt you.â
you consider this. the snow. the market. the temporary things humans build because they want to feel something before itâs gone.
on your world, nothing ends like this. nothing fades so gently.
you step closer.
âon my planet,â you say, âwe do not have winter. we do not have seasons that kill the land and bring it back again. we do not practice loss.â
tonyâs voice is barely a whisper. âand here?â
âhere,â you say, âyou make something knowing it will not last. and you love it anyway.â you reach up, brushing snow from his collar, slow and deliberate. âthis is not weakness,â you say. âit is bravery.â tonyâs breath stutters. âyou donât have to promise me forever,â you continue. âi would settle for now.â
for a moment, he looks like he might break.
then his hand comes upâhesitant, reverentâand cups your cheek. his glove is warm. his touch is careful, like heâs afraid of doing harm just by being real.
ânow,â he says softly. âi can do now.â
the song swells around you, bells bright and fearless.
somewhere in the distance, peter parker is absolutely losing his mind.
the snow thickens without warning, flakes falling faster, heavier, until the market lights blur into halos and the city sounds fade beneath the hush. wind slips through streets like a living thing, curling around corners, tugging at scarves and coats.
tony notices before you do.
âokay,â he says, shifting closer, instinctive. âthis just went from hallmark to survival.â
you lift your face to the sky, letting snow land on your lashes. it melts instantly against your skin.
âit is beautiful,â you laugh.
âit is aggressive,â tony counters. âthereâs a difference.â
he guides youâhand light at your backâtoward the edge of the market, where a narrow side street opens into quieter dark. the lights are fewer here, but still strung overhead, a path of gold through white.
you shiver. tony feels it immediately.
âhey,â he murmurs, shrugging out of his coat. ânope. donât argue.â
you start to protest, but the coat is already settling around your shoulders, heavy with his warmth. it smells faintly like metal and ozone and something softer you canât name.
âyou will be cold,â you say.
tony smiles, teeth chattering just slightly. âiâm always cold.â
you pull the coat tighter, thenâwithout quite meaning toâstep closer. the snow hushes the world around you. it feels like the universe has politely turned away.
âyou said,â you begin, âthat winter proves a point.â
tony nods. âyeah.â
âwhat is the point?â
âthat you canât stop everything,â he says. âthat sometimes the only way through is⊠together.â
you absorb this. on your planet, togetherness is survival. here, it seems to be choice.Â
âand now,â he adds suddenly, âiâm standing in a snowstorm i didnât plan for, freezing, wearing bad shoes, yet iâve never felt more⊠here.â
your hand finds his, bare fingers brushing glove-less skin. He inhales sharply but doesnât pull away.
âyou are afraid,â you say absentmindedly.
âconstantly,â tony admits. âitâs kind of my thing.â
you lace your fingers with his, grounding. âso am i.â
that surprises him. âyou are?â
âyes,â you say. âi am afraid this is temporary. that i will return to the stars and winter will remain here without me. that thisââ you gesture between you, small and infinite ââwill become a story you tell. like rhodes at the parties.â
tony squeezes your hand. âhey.â
you look at him.
âi donât want you to be a story,â he says. âi want you to be⊠ongoing.â
the honesty in his voice is the bravest thing youâve ever seen.
the wind howls. snow piles against your boots. somewhere, a bell ringsâsharp and clear. you laugh suddenly, surprised by the sound of it.
tony blinks. âwhat?â
âthis planet is absurd,â you hum. âit freezes itself and calls it magic.â
he laughs with you, relief and wonder tangled together. âwelcome to earth.â
the cold finally overwhelms youânot painful, just too much, pressing in on all sides. tony notices the moment your steps falter.
âokay,â he says decisively. âthatâs it. weâre calling it. youâve conquered winter. no need to die for the aesthetic.â
he guides you toward a small café tucked between buildings, windows glowing warm and amber. inside, heat rushes over you like an embrace.
you stand just inside the door, snow melting off coats and hair, the storm muffled to a whisper behind glass.
tony turns to you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
âso,â he says, suddenly nervous again. âthis partâs usually whereââ
you rise onto your toes and kiss him. itâs soft. careful. a question more than a statement.
tony answers immediately, hand coming up to your waist like itâs always known where it belongs. the world outside continues to fall apart in white silence. when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
âwell,â he murmurs. âthatâs⊠new.â
you smile. âon my planet, this is called beginning.â
outside, the storm keeps falling. inside, you are warm.
the next morning, the tower smells like coffee and victory.
you learn this quickly: the avengers are incapable of subtlety.
steve notices first. he always does.
youâre standing at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a mug tony made for youâcustom, temperature-regulated, impossible to spillâwhen steve pauses mid-sip.
âyouâre wearing tonyâs sweater,â he says. his voice isnât accusatory, just pointing out a fact.
you glance down. oversized. comfortable. familiar already. âyes.â tony nearly chokes. âit was cold,â you add, helpfully.
natasha doesnât even look up from her tablet. âyou kissed.â
tony stares at her. âhow do youââ
âyour heartbeat spiked,â she says. âyouâre glowing through your shirt. also, youâre terrible at acting normal.â
clint grins from where heâs perched on a stool. âcalled it.â
bruce smiles, gentle and knowing. âiâm happy for you.â
tony opens his mouth, then closes it. âthis is harassment.â
peter appears like a summoned spirit, sliding into the room with a grin so wide itâs practically illegal. âso,â he says. âhow was the winter market date?â
tony glares. âyou lied to us.â
peter nods. âcorrect.â
âyou manipulated the situation.â
âalso correct.â
âyou couldâve just⊠asked.â
peter tilts his head. âwould you have gone?â
tony hesitates.
ââŠno.â
peter beams. âyouâre welcome.â
you watch them with quiet amusement, something warm blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with climate or atmosphere. thisâthis mess of people and noise and affectionâis a kind of wonderland too.
later, when the tower settles into its usual hum, tony finds you by the window again. snow still drifts over the city, lighter now, almost thoughtful.
âyou okay?â he asks, softer than ever.
âyes,â is all you say at first, pausing before opening your mouth again. âi was thinking.â
âuh-oh.â
you smile. âon my planet, we measure time by stars. long arcs. predictable returns.â
âand here?â tony asks.
âhere,â you say, âyou mark time by moments. songs. weather.â
he steps closer, slipping an arm around you like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âis that⊠bad?â
âno,â you say. âit is terrifying. and beautiful.â
outside, someone has built another snowman. it leans a little, already imperfect.
tony presses a kiss to your temple. âyou know winter ends, right?â
âyes,â you say. âthat is what makes it matter.â
he exhales, resting his forehead against yours. âthen⊠stay for it. for as long as you want.â
you look at himâgenius, hero, man who learned to love temporary thingsâand nod.
âi will.â
let it snow!
pairing: adrian chase x readerâvigilante x reader
summary: snow traps you in a quiet building with the one person whoâs always gotten under your skinâadrian chaseâand somehow, into your arms. Between apologies, warmth, and a storm that refuses to pass, irritation softens into something you donât want to let go of.
word count: 4.2k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. happy holidays to everyone :3
series masterlist â main masterlist
you are not supposed to be here this late.
thatâs the first thing you think as the video store doors close behind you with a soft, final ding, sealing you into the concrete-and-fluorescent upper level of the building. the second thing you think is that this is, technically, his fault.
again.
the bullpen is quieter than usualâno field chatter crackling through comms, no clatter of boots or weapons being checked. Just the hum of computers, the occasional click of keys, and the faint whir of the ancient heater that never quite manages to do its job. outside, the windows are already fogging over, the city lights blurred and swallowed by thickening white.
snow. of course.
you shrug out of your coat, still stiff where it rubs against the half-healed bruise on your ribs. the medic said you were lucky. you donât feel lucky. you feel sore, tired, and deeply, profoundly annoyed.
âhey! you made it.â
his voice cuts through your thoughts like a thrown knifeâtoo loud, too cheerful for the hour. you donât have to turn around to know itâs him. adrian chase, vigilante, menace to teamwork everywhere.
you drop your bag onto the desk harder than necessary. âi was already here when emilia texted,â you say flatly. âsome of us actually show up on time.â
âyeah, but you couldâve left,â adrian says, spinning lazily in his chair to face you. heâs already ditched half his gear, helmet tucked under the desk, boots kicked off like this is his living room. thereâs a bandage peeking out from under his sleeve, and you hate that your eyes go straight to it. âi mean, desk duty is technically optional if you pretend your phone died.â
âitâs not optional,â you say. âshe literally locked our access badges to the building.â
âoh.â he blinks. then grins. âclassic emilia.â
you glare at him. he doesnât noticeâor he does and doesnât care. thatâs the thing about adrian. heâs either oblivious or immune to irritation. possibly both.
desk duty. you still canât believe it.
one screwed-up missionâhis screwed-up missionâand suddenly youâre both benched, bruised, and sentenced to paperwork purgatory while emilia harcourt makes a point about consequences. youâd almost respect it if it didnât mean spending another night trapped in a room with him.
he clears his throat. âhey, uh, for the recordâagainâiâm really sorry about earlier.â
you donât look at him. you log into your computer, fingers moving out of muscle memory. âyouâve said that.â
âi know. i just want to make sure you know i mean it.â
âyou also said that.â
âi justââ he stops, scratching the back of his neck. the chair squeaks as he leans forward. âi really didnât mean for you to get hurt. i thought i had the angle right.â
âyou never have the angle right,â you mutter.
âouch.â
you glance over despite yourself. heâs smiling, but thereâs something tentative about it, like heâs bracing for a hit you never quite deliver. he always looks like that after missions go badâlike a dog expecting to be kicked and not understanding why it hasnât happened yet.
itâs infuriating.
you sigh, rubbing your temples. âadrian. iâm not mad that you messed up. iâm mad that you never think before you act.â
âthatâs not true,â he says quickly. âi think all the time.â
you raise an eyebrow.
âokay,â he amends, âi think after i act. but sometimes thatâs better, right? like jazz.â
âthis is not jazz,â you say. âthis is getting stabbed because you charged in without backup.â
âi said i was sorry,â he repeats, softer now.
the room falls into an uneasy quiet. outside, the snow thickens, flakes swirling sideways past the glass. the weather app on your phone buzzes, ignored in your pocket.
you shake your head and turn back to the screen. âjust⊠drop it. weâre alive. emilia didnât kill us. letâs get through the night.â
he perks up at that. âso weâre cool?â
you hesitate. then: âweâre⊠fine.â
his grin returns, full force this time. âawesome! best friends survive another mission.â
you snort despite yourself. âwe are not best friends.â
he looks genuinely surprised. âreally? huh. i mean, we hang out all the time. we fight crime together. we almost died together. thatâs like⊠best-friend stuff.â
âthatâs coworker stuff.â
âagree to disagree,â he says cheerfully, spinning back toward his computer. âanyway, snowstorm, huh? very hallmark.â
you glance at the windows again. the storm is picking up fast, the city disappearing under layers of white. thereâs something oddly peaceful about it, the way the world seems to slow when the snow gets heavy enough.
your phone buzzes again. this time you check it.
SEVERE WEATHER ALERT: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS. TRAVEL IS NOT ADVISED.
you swallow. âlooks like weâre stuck.â
adrian swivels back around. âwhat?â
âblizzard warning,â you say. âroads are closing. public transitâs already shut down.â
he blinks. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. âyouâre saying weâre snowed in.â
âiâm saying weâre trapped in a crappy, old building with bad heating and worse company.â
âwow,â he says, hand to his chest. âand here i was thinking this could be fun.â
you roll your eyes. âyou would.â
he shrugs. âhey, if the fireâs warmââ
âthere is no fire.â
ââlet it snow,â he finishes anyway, completely unfazed.
you freeze. â...did you just quote âlet it snowâ?â
he grins, delighted. âyeah! you know that song? âthe weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightfulâ? classic!â
âyou are unbelievable.â
âiâm festive,â he corrects. âthereâs a difference.â
you turn back to your screen, trying very hard to ignore the way the snow makes the lights softer, the building quieter. trying not to think about the fact that thereâs nowhere else to go tonight.
behind you, adrian hums under his breath, off-key but enthusiastic.
âlet it snow, let it snow, let it snowâŠâ
you grit your teeth. this is going to be a very long night.
the first thing that goes is the heat.
you donât notice it right awayâjust a creeping chill that settles into the room like an unwanted guest. the vents cough once, twice, and then fall silent. the hum youâd grown used to disappears, leaving the bullpen eerily quiet.
you pause mid-typing. âdid you hear that?â
adrian looks up from his screen. âhear what?â
âthat,â you say, just as the lights flicker.
once. twice. then they stabilize.
adrianâs grin is instant. âooooh. spooky.â
you glare. âdonât say that.â
âwhat? i love spooky. spooky is fun.â
âthis is not fun. this is the buildingâs ancient infrastructure finally giving up.â
right on cue, your computer freezes. the cursor stops blinking. you tap a key. nothing. âno,â you mutter. âno, no, noââ
the lights flicker again, longer this time, and thenâ
darkness.
the emergency lights kick in a second later, bathing the room in a dull red glow. somewhere deeper in the building, an alarm chirps halfheartedly and then dies.
adrian lets out a low whistle. âokay. that one might be on me.â
you pinch the bridge of your nose. âhow could this possibly be on you?â
âi donât know,â he says. âbad luck aura? narrative tension?â
âyouâre not funny.â
he squints at you. âyouâre shivering.â
âi am not.â
âyou are,â he insists, already standing. âhere. sit.â
âi donât needââ
he drags one of the spare chairs closer to the emergency heater unit near the wall. itâs barely functioning, but itâs something. you open your mouth to argue and then close it again when a wave of cold seeps through your jacket and into your bones.
fine.
you sit.
adrian crouches in front of the heater, smacking it lightly with his palm. âcome on, buddy. work with me.â the heater rattles, then emits a weak puff of warm air. âyes!â he pumps a fist. âsee? teamwork.â
âcongratulations,â you deadpan. âyouâve successfully bullied an appliance.â
he beams like youâve paid him the highest compliment.
you shrug your coat tighter around yourself. the storm outside is relentless now, snow plastered against the windows so thick you can barely see the city beyond. it feels like being underwaterâcut off, suspended.
your phone buzzes again. no service.
adrian checks his own and groans. âdang it. emiliaâs gonna be pissed if we freeze to death.â
âsheâd be pissed if you survived,â you say. âthis would just complicate the paperwork.â
he laughs, then winces, hand drifting to his side. the movement is subtle, but you catch it.
âyou okay?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
he freezes, then nods quickly. âyeah. totally. just⊠sore.â
âyouâre bleeding,â you say flatly.
âwhat? no, iââ he looks down and swears. a dark stain is spreading through the edge of his bandage. âoh⊠huh. guess i reopened it.â
you stand with a sigh. âsit down.â
âiâm already sitting.â
âadrian.â
he knows that tone. he always does. with exaggerated slowness, he perches on the edge of the desk chair. you grab the first aid kit from the wall, kneeling in front of him.
âthis is your fault,â you mutter as you peel back the bandage.
âwhich part?â he asks. âthe getting stabbed or the making-you-play-medic part?â
âall of it.â
âworth it,â he says automatically, then stops. ââi mean. not worth you getting hurt. that part sucked.â
your hands still. you glance up at him. heâs not smiling now. his eyes are earnest, almost too open, like he doesnât know how to hide what heâs thinking even if he wanted to.
âi really am sorry,â he says quietly. âi keep replaying it. if iâd waited two secondsââ
âyou didnât,â you say. âand weâre alive. let it go.â
he exhales, shoulders slumping. âyouâre really bad at holding grudges.â
âiâm great at holding grudges,â you correct. âi just donât want to babysit your guilt tonight.â
He huffs a weak laugh. âbest friend privileges.â
you press gauze to his wound harder than necessary. he yelps.
âwe are not best friends.â
âokay! okay,â he says, biting back a grin. âfrenemies. with medical benefits.â
you finish rewrapping the bandage and sit back on your heels. for a moment, neither of you moves. the emergency lights cast strange shadows across his face, softening the sharp lines youâre used to seeing in the field.
outside, the wind howls.
adrian breaks the silence. âyou ever notice how quiet snowstorms are?â
âyou mean how loud they are?â you ask.
âno,â he says. âlike, everything else shuts up. itâs just the storm and whateverâs stuck inside it.â
you consider that. âi guess.â
he hums again, softer this time. âwhen we finally kiss goodnightâŠâ
you groan. âplease, stop.â
âwhat? itâs thematic!â
âitâs annoying.â
âyou love it.â
âi do not.â
he leans back, eyes flicking toward the windows. âyou know, the songâs about being stuck somewhere you canât leave. and instead of freaking out, theyâre likeâeh. guess weâll make the best of it.â
âthat is not what itâs about.â
âit totally is,â he insists. âsnowstorm trapping people together. romance. hot cocoa. probably a couch.â
you snort. âweâre in an old video store with no power and an idiot.â
âhey,â he says mildly. âi prefer âcharming wildcard.ââ
you roll your eyes, but your annoyance feels⊠thinner now. blunted by exhaustion, by the quiet, by the way the storm presses in from all sides.
your phone buzzes againâone bar of service flickers to life just long enough for a text to come through. itâs emilia. âroads are shut down. you two are stuck there until morning. donât break anythingâ.
you show adrian the message.
he grins. âsleepover!â
âthis is not a sleepover.â
âit is absolutely a sleepover.â
you glance around the empty bullpen, at the chairs and desks and one sad heater struggling against the cold. âweâre not sharing a bed.â
he pauses. ââŠthereâs a bed?â
âno.â
âoh.â he brightens anyway. âcuddle for warmth, then.â
âadrian.â
âiâm kidding!â he raises his hands. âmostly.â
you shake your head, fighting a reluctant smile.Â
outside, the snow shows no signs of stopping.and inside, with nowhere else to go, the space between you feels smaller than it ever has.
the power doesnât come back.
an hour passes. maybe two. time stretches and blurs in the way it only does when thereâs nothing to mark itâno clocks, no screens, no outside world to measure against. the emergency lights eventually dim to nothing, surrendering the room to shadows and the thin, silvery glow of snowlight filtering through the windows.
itâs colder now. the heater gives up with a sad, rattling cough.
âwell,â adrian says into the dark. âthatâs ominous.â
you pull your coat tighter around yourself. âyou say that like youâre enjoying it.â
âiâm coping,â he replies. âthereâs a difference.â
you can hear him shifting, fabric rustling as he shrugs out of something. a moment later, he clears his throat. âhey. youâre still shivering.â
âiâm fine.â
âyouâre literally lying,â he says, and then something warm settles over your shoulders.
you stiffen. âwhat are you doing?â
âjacket,â he says simply. âi run hot. occupational hazard.â
you glance down. itâs hisâheavy, worn, still faintly smelling like gun oil and winter air. and him. you hate that you recognize that part.
âi donât needââ
âyou do,â he interrupts, gentler than usual. âand if you argue, i will start singing again.â
you close your mouth. ââŠthank you,â you mutter after a beat.
he brightens instantly, like youâve flipped a switch. âyouâre welcome.â
you sit in silence for a while, the storm outside relentless, snow tapping against the glass like fingertips. without the usual noise, the building feels too big, too emptyâlike youâre the only two people left in the world.
adrian breaks the quiet again, voice lower. âyou scared me, earlier on the mission.â
you glance at him. âi was the one bleeding.â
âi know,â he says. âthatâs notâ i mean, yeah, that too. but when you went down⊠i didnât like it.â
the admission hangs between you, fragile.
âyouâre not supposed to like it,â you say carefully.
âstill,â he shrugs. âdidnât stop my brain from doing that thing where it shows you every possible terrible outcome.â
you study him in the half-light. this version of adrianâquiet, stripped of bravadoâis rarer than he thinks. âyouâre not responsible for everything,â you say. âeven if you really want to be.â
he laughs softly. âyou say that like itâs a flaw.â
âit is when it gets you stabbed.â
âfair.â
another pause. the cold creeps back in, seeping through layers.
without looking at you, adrian asks, âcan i sit closer? strictly for survival reasons.â
you hesitate. then nod.
he moves carefully, settling beside you on the floor, backs against the desk. his shoulder brushes yours, tentative at first, then steady. heat radiates from him, undeniable.
you tell yourself itâs practical. necessary.
still, youâre painfully aware of every point of contact.
outside, the storm howls louder, wind rattling the windows. adrian hums again, quieter now, almost absentminded.
âwhen we finally kiss goodnightâŠâ
you donât tell him to stop this time. âwhy that song?â you ask instead.
he shrugs. âmy mom used to play it when it snowed. said if you canât go anywhere, you might as well be warm and not miserable.â
you huff softly. âyouâre still miserable. and you hate your mom.â
âyeah,â he agrees. âbut less miserable i guess.â
your arm brushes his. he doesnât pull away.
the silence stretches, comfortable in a way that makes you uneasy. youâve always known how to push him awayâsarcasm, sharp edges, irritation. you donât know what to do when he meets you without flinching.
âyou know,â you say slowly, âyou drive me insane.â
âi know.â
âyou donât listen. you act before you think. you treat life like itâs a game you can reload.â
âi know,â he repeats, softer.
âand yet,â you continue, âyou keep showing up. you take the hits. you apologize when you mess up.â
he glances at you, eyes searching. âis this where you tell me you secretly like me?â
âthis is where i tell you not to interrupt.â
âsorry,â he whispers, biting back a grin.
you exhale. âi donât know what to do with you.â
he leans his head back against the desk. âyou donât have to do anything. iâm pretty low maintenance. just⊠donât make me go away.â
there it is. the thing he never asks for outright.
you swallow. the storm outside feels endless, the world narrowed to this moment, this warmth, this too-honest quiet.
âi wasnât going to,â you say.
he smilesânot wide, not joking. just real. his shoulder presses a little closer to yours.
the song drifts back into his voice, barely audible now. and for the first time all night, you donât feel like fighting it.
at some point, the storm changes pitch.
you donât notice it right awayânot consciously. but the wind outside shifts from a sharp, biting howl to something lower, heavier, like the world is exhaling all at once. snow keeps falling, thick and steady, but the violence of it softens. the storm settles in, unhurried, unbothered by the fact that youâre still stuck in its middle.
youâre still sitting on the floor. still pressed shoulder to shoulder. still wrapped in adrianâs jacket, warmth pooling where your sides touch.
you should move. you donât.
your muscles ache from the mission, from the tension of holding yourself apart from him for so long. the cold makes everything sharperâevery sensation, every breath. adrian shifts slightly beside you, adjusting to the floor, and his knee bumps yours.
âsorry,â he murmurs.
âitâs fine,â you say, automatically.
he still pulls back a fraction, like heâs afraid of crossing a line that only exists in his head. you feel it immediatelyâthe loss of heat, the space where heâd been. without thinking, you reach out and grab his sleeve.
he freezes. you freeze. the silence stretches, taut as a wire.
ââŠyou donât have to,â he says carefully.
âi know,â you reply. your voice is steadier than you feel. âi justâ itâs cold.â
âoh,â he says. a beat. âyeah. totally. survival.â
âexactly.â
he shifts closer again, slower this time, giving you every chance to change your mind. you donât. his arm comes around you, hesitant at first, then firmer when you donât pull away.
you tell yourself itâs practical. you tell yourself a lot of things.
his body is warm in a way that seeps into you gradually, undoing the tight knot in your chest. you lean into him, just slightly, your head tipping toward his shoulder. he sucks in a breath, sharp and quiet, like he hadnât expected that much.
âyou okay?â you ask.
âyeah,â he says. âyeah. i justâ didnât think youâd⊠you know.â
âneither did i,â you admit.
that earns you a soft laugh. his chin dips, resting lightly against the top of your head, and youâre acutely aware of how careful heâs being. like if he holds you too tightly, youâll vanish.
the storm keeps falling.
minutes pass. maybe longer.
âyou know,â he says eventually, âyou donât actually hate me.â
you huff. âbold claim.â
âyouâre annoyed with me,â he continues. âall the time. but if you hated me, youâd be gone.â
you close your eyes. âyou donât make it easy.â
âi know,â he says again. âbut you never snap. you never tell me to get lost. you just⊠sigh really loud and keep me around.â
âiâm tired,â you mutter.
âthat too.â
he shifts, adjusting the jacket around your shoulders so it covers more of you. the motion is gentle, instinctive. domestic, in a way that makes your chest ache.
âwhy do you keep acting like weâre best friends?â you ask quietly.
hr doesnât answer right away. when he does, his voice is softer than the storm. âbecause itâs easier than admitting what i want to be.â
you go still.
the words arenât dramatic. he doesnât dress them up, doesnât make a joke out of them. he just says them, plain and honest, like heâs been holding them in his mouth for too long.
you tilt your head back just enough to look at him. his eyes meet yours immediately, open and unguarded, like heâs braced for impact.
âiâm not good at⊠whatever this is,â you say.
âi know,â he says. ânormally, youâd have yelled by now.â
âi get angry,â you continue, âbecause itâs easier than being⊠scared.â
âof me?â he asks.
âno,â you say. âof caring.â
his grip tightensânot possessive, just reassuring. âi donât need you to be fearless,â he says. âi just need you not to disappear.â
you swallow.
outside, the snow keeps falling. inside, the world feels impossibly small, reduced to shared warmth and quiet truths.
adrianâs voice drops, almost shy. âcan i do something really stupid?â
you snort softly. âthatâs a terrible question.â
âcan i?â he presses.
you hesitate. then nod. âokay.â
he leans in slowly, giving you timeâtoo much timeâto pull away. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, steady.
âthis okay?â he asks.
âyes,â you whisper.
his nose brushes yours, tentative, almost reverent. when his lips finally meet yours, itâs softâbarely there. like heâs afraid of startling you.
the kiss is brief. careful.
but it rewrites something fundamental inside you.
when he pulls back, he searches your face, ready to retreat at the first sign of regret. you donât give him one. instead, you lean in again, closing the distance yourself.
this kiss is warmer. surer.
outside, the weather is still frightful. inside, you donât mind the storm at all.
you wake up slowly.
not the sharp, panicked kind of waking youâre used toâthe kind that comes with alarms and adrenaline and the memory of gunfireâbut gently, like the world is easing you back into it. thereâs warmth first. then weight. then the quiet realization that you are not alone.
you open your eyes.
morning light spills through the windows in pale sheets, the storm having softened everything into white and silver. snow blankets the city below, thick and untouched, like the night erased all its sharp edges. the building is still quiet, still cut offâbut it no longer feels empty.
adrian is asleep beside you.
really asleep. mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheeks, glasses slightly askew, one arm draped around your waist like itâs always belonged there. youâre tucked into his jacket and his arms, your head resting against his chest. his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.
you donât move.
you catalog the moment instead, the way you do in the field: details first, emotions later. the rise and fall of his breathing. the faint ache in your ribs. the warmth pooled between you that has nothing to do with survival anymore.
you kissed him last night. more than once.
you remember it all nowâthe way his hands shook when he finally let himself touch you like he wanted to, the way your irritation melted into something softer, something terrifying. the way the storm outside howled while the world inside narrowed to this.
adrian stirs, brow furrowing slightly, like heâs chasing a dream. his grip tightens just a little.
you let him.
âmorning,â he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
âyouâre awake,â you say quietly.
he blinks, then looks down at you. thereâs a brief flash of panicâlike heâs afraid this will vanish if he acknowledges itâfollowed by cautious hope.
âhey,â he says. âyouâre still here.â
âso are you.â
he smiles, small and unguarded. âgood.â
for a moment, neither of you speaks. the silence isnât awkward. itâs fragile, like something newly formed that might shatter if you breathe too hard.
finally, he clears his throat. âso. about last night.â you tense instinctively. he notices immediately. of course he does. âno,â he says quickly. ânot like that. i justâ i want to know if that was⊠real. or if it was just the snowstorm and hypothermia and my devastating charm.â
you huff despite yourself. âyouâre not that charming.â
âwow,â he says. âheartless.â
you shift slightly, enough to look at him properly. âit was real,â you admit. âbut i donât suddenly know how to do this.â
relief floods his face, so open it almost hurts to look at. âthatâs okay,â he says. âiâm bad at it too. we can be bad together.â
âyou already are,â you mutter.
he grins. âsee? teamwork.â
outside, the snow has slowed to a gentle drift. the storm has spent itself, leaving the world quiet and bright. somewhere in the building, power hums back to lifeâthe lights flicker on, tentative but steady.
adrian groans. âdang it. reality.â
your phone buzzes almost immediately. emilia again. âroads are clearing. donât make me regret leaving you unsupervised.â
you show him the message.
he sighs dramatically. âsheâs gonna know.â
âshe always knows.â
he shifts, but doesnât let go of you. âso⊠when we go back to normal. what does that look like?â
you consider the question. normal used to mean irritation and distance and pretending you didnât care more than you wanted to admit. you donât want that anymore.
âit looks like you still annoy me,â you say slowly. âyou still rush in. i still yell at you.â
âperfect,â he says.
âbut,â you continue, âyou listen more. and i donât push you away when you apologize.â
he smile softens. âi can do that.â
âand,â you add, âwe stop pretending this is just⊠whatever.â
he nods, serious now. âdeal.â he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your foreheadânothing flashy, nothing rushed. just warm and sure.
as you gather your things, adrian hums again under his breath, the same song from the night before.
you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. âdonât get used to this,â you warn.
he slings an arm around your shoulders anyway, familiar and careful all at once. âtoo late.â
and for once, as you step back into the world together, you donât mind letting it snow at all.