dolly ⋆｡˚

⋆˚࿔ introducing… @doll2sick ♱ warning!adult content

── ✦ dolly . twenty-one. they/she. autistic. vigilante love bot. taboo interests. film major. lover of music. yappersville fr. requests encouraged!!

newest work : adrian chase x reader

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୨୧ pairings: adrian chase x reader ୨୧ summary: the 11th street kids find out that adrian has been hiding a secret wrapped in pink and glitter ୨୧ tags: regular peacemaker violence, mentions of blood, reader stitches chris up ୨୧ requests open! check out my navigation for request guidelines and masterlist.⠀ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

the 11th street kids were having a… hard day, to put it lightly. the kind of day that had peacemaker questioning if he should just try accounting.

it was supposed to be easy. just a quiet little storage unit stakeout. a suspected butterfly base. in and out, no blood, no bruises, maybe even time for taco bell after.

adrian had a bad feeling about this mission from the start— from the moment they arrived, the place felt wrong. too quiet. too easy. like the building itself was whispering, come on in, you dumbasses.

and the moment they did?

all hell broke loose.

gunfire from every direction. smoke grenades. yelling. the kind of chaos that looked like it came straight out of a movie that adrian would force chris to watch while excitedly explaining what they “did wrong tactically.”

by some miracle, they escaped with no major injuries. minor ones? sure. bruises, cuts, and a few singed eyebrows. but they were alive. barely.

by the time they stumbled out, coughing and bruised, adrenaline still burning in their veins, they were lucky no one was dead. leota was shaking, hands pressed to her ears. “we got set up, we got set up,” she kept repeating, voice high. murn barked from the passenger seat, “focus, adebayo! economos, drive— get us out of here!”

economos gunned it, white-knuckled on the wheel. “where? we got, like, fifty butterflies after us— where the hell do you want me to go?” the van jolted over a curb. someone hissed in pain— chris maybe, holding his arm.

adrian leaned forward between the seats, still trying to catch his breath. “i—uh—” he swallowed hard, tasting copper. “i know a place.”

the van went silent. everyone turned to look at him like he’d just offered them a one-way trip to clown town. “it’s safe, okay?” he insisted, tugging off his mask. his mouth tasted like pennies and bad decisions. “just trust me.”

he almost didn’t want to say it. that place— his place— was off-limits. his one slice of normal life. a sanctuary untouched by gunfire or chaos. but tonight, he didn’t have a choice.

twenty minutes later, they were parked in front of a small, nondescript apartment complex at the edge of town. it wasn’t the kind of place you’d associate with a man who wore a full-body suit and stabbed people for justice. it was plain, beige, with a flickering streetlamp and the hum of crickets in the air.

“this is it,” adrian muttered. he sounded… nervous. actually nervous. this was the same man who killed people for doing graffiti, and he was trembling in his boots.

they followed him up the short walkway, the night filled with the sound of distant crickets and collective skepticism. a welcome mat by the door cheerfully declared “home sweet home”— complete with little cat paw prints.

adrian fidgets with his keys for a moment before turning to the team. “okay— can we all just— just be cool? like—“ he begins, eyes pleading and wide. 

chris huffs out a mix of a scoff and a laugh— brows furrowed. “what, you got a secret drug lab in there? meth, maybe? please say meth.”he asks, eyes flickering from the mat to adrian, who’s face is now red with nervousness. 

adrian shakes his head vigorously, eyes wide. “what? no! no meth! why would i— why would i do meth?”

“what are you hiding?” leota asks, a brow raised as she peered suspiciously at the window. 

before adrian can respond, murn sighs. “just go in.” he grunts. 

“right, right, right! um— right, okay, it’s fine— yeah.” he stammers, fumbling with his keys a few times before he finally unlocks the door. 

the apartment is dimly lit when they walk in, revealing a cozy scene, so unlike how the team looked at this moment. 

it was cozy— too cozy for adrian’s violent personality. soft lighting, tidy furniture, framed photos of adrian smiling— a real smile— with some mysterious woman beside him. “you… live here?” economos asks, eying the area suspiciously. “looks like it’s straight out of a pinterest board…” he murmurs.

before adrian could answer, a fluffy black cat strutted out and pawed at adrian’s leg. “luna— luna, no—“ adrian says, already exasperated. “it’s not food time.” he says, earning a disgruntled meow from luna. 

then— a voice from the kitchen. “baby? you’re home early—“ your sentence dies on your tongue when you step out of the kitchen— clad in a well loved sweater and sweatpants, looking like a poster child for domestication. 

your gaze swept over the bizarre tableau of chaos in your living room. adrian stood there, looking almost sheepish, his helmet cradled under one arm, his characteristic confidence noticeably faltering as he faced you.

the room fell into a charged silence, a thick blanket of disbelief settling over everyone present, punctuated only by the soft purring of luna, now weaving around your ankles.

“oh…” you murmured in a tiny, bewildered voice, blinking once, twice, as reality began to set in. “you brought… friends?”

an uncomfortable silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating. adrian stood frozen, covered in blood and looking as if he had just wrestled with a dumpster fire, uncertainty flickering across his features under your wide, surprised gaze.

“hey, baby,” he stammered, attempting a casual tone, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “so, uh… this isn’t… as bad as it looks?”

you let out an exasperated sigh, it was a sigh that sounded like adrian spilled something on the carpet— not whatever this chaotic mess was. “you could’ve texted me,” you replied softly, a hint of a pout forming as you brushed past him, your expression a cocktail of disappointment and concern. “i would’ve lit a candle or something.”

from a corner, chris whispered incredulously, “she’s seriously not freaking out?”

adrian shrugged helplessly, his wide eyes reflecting panic and disbelief. “told you it was safe.”

moments later, you reappeared from the adjacent room, brandishing a first-aid kit plastered with playful heart stickers and a pastel floral towel draped over your arm like an apron. luna pranced in your wake, her tail flicking playfully.

chris lifted a shaky hand. “uh… stab wound. left shoulder. you even know what you’re doing, barbie?” his voice barely louder than a whisper, the fear evident in his eyes.

you laughed softly — a chiming sound that seemed entirely out of place in the chaotic scene. “mhm! adrian gets stabby sometimes, so i’ve learned,” you explained with a matter-of-factness that caught everyone off guard, leaving them momentarily speechless.

adrian beamed, pride evident in his voice, even amidst the turmoil. “she’s really good at it! lets me play my switch while she sews me up.”

chris blinked, incredulity washing over his features. “you—what? you play video games while she’s—”

you deftly disinfect his wound with a gentle touch, as if performing a delicate art. “it keeps him calm,” you stated simply, your tone unwavering and confident. “stress slows healing. plus, he looks cute when he’s focused.”

leota raised an eyebrow, a blend of disbelief and amusement tightening her features as she glanced at adrian. “you… do know he’s a vigilante, right?”

you nod like its nothing and glanced at adrian with a tired smile. “mhm! i just don’t really like to hear about the violence— its a sort of blissful ignorance thing. that's why i was so surprised to see you guys here.”

adrian’s face flushed scarlet as he scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, his voice a quiet mumble. “yeah, i, uh… kinda didn’t have time to warn you.”

you smiled sweetly— that warm, disarming little smile that could melt even murn’s permanent scowl. “that’s okay,” you said softly, setting the first-aid kit on the coffee table and crouching beside chris again. “i just wish you’d told me we were having company before i put on my ‘i’m not leaving the couch tonight’ outfit.”

chris opened his mouth, probably to make some snarky comment, but froze when you dabbed gently at his wound again. your touch was feather-light, your brows furrowed in concentration. “you’re doing so good, sweetie,” you praised kindly— and the big, gruff mercenary just blinked at you, speechless, as though no one had ever called him that before. hell, the stitches didn’t even hurt, he was used to it, but it felt nice all the same.

leota had to turn away to hide her laugh.

“do you guys want tea?” you piped up suddenly, looking around at them all with wide, bright eyes. “i have chamomile and lavender— that one’s adrian’s favorite. it helps with his little nighttime jitters.”

“little—” adrian started defensively, then stopped when you glanced at him. “...yeah, okay. lavender’s nice.”

economos stared at him. “you drink lavender tea?”

adrian crossed his arms, muttering, “it’s relaxing, dude.”

you giggled — that soft, airy sound again, the kind that filled the space like sunlight. “he even puts honey in it,” you added helpfully, completely oblivious to the way everyone was staring at you both like they’d just stepped into a parallel universe.

chris snorted despite himself. “she’s like a disney princess, dude.”

you blinked at him, confused but smiling anyway. “oh— thank you! that’s so sweet.”

when you disappeared into the kitchen again, the group collectively exhaled— like they’d been holding their breath since you first appeared. the clinking of mugs and the soft hum of your little tune drifted out from behind the counter.

“isn’t she the best?” adrian suddenly asked proudly, grinning despite the dried blood on his face. 

“she’s—” leota began, shaking her head. “i don’t even know what she is. like, sunshine in human form.”

before anyone could argue, you returned, balancing a tray with mismatched mugs — all pastel colors and cute designs. one had a cartoon cat with a speech bubble saying ‘hang in there!’ you set it down carefully, then handed one to each of them with the gentlest little smile.

“there,” you said, voice lilting and cheerful. “everyone gets something warm. and please, no bleeding on the rug. it’s new.”

the team, bruised and battered, exchanged glances over their steaming mugs. the absurdity of the moment hung heavy — five hardened operatives, huddled in a soft-lit apartment that smelled faintly of sugar cookies and lavender, while a sweet girl in a fluffy sweater fussed over them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you perched beside adrian, tucking your legs under yourself and leaning into his side with a content sigh. “you guys can stay here as long as you need.” you murmured, looking at the others with innocent sincerity. adrian looked down at you — at your soft smile, your sleepy eyes, your total lack of fear — and then it clicked for the other, why this worked. because with you, he didn’t feel like a walking weapon. he felt… home.

chris took a sip of his tea, grimaced, then muttered under his breath, “...okay, that’s actually kinda good.”

you beamed. “see? told you it helps.”

and in that tiny apartment filled with cat hair and the smell of lavender, the 11th street kids — bruised, exhausted, and slightly traumatized — sat drinking tea under fairy lights, wondering how in the world someone like you ended up with someone like adrian chase.

୨୧ pairings — clark kent x reader ୨୧ content — unprotected piv, soft dom!clark, manhandling, petnames (bunny, sunbeam, baby) ୨୧ wc — 3106 requests open! check out my navigation for request guidelines and masterlist.⠀ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

clark kneels in front of you on the edge of the bed—one shoe already cradled in his hands, the other still dangling playfully from your socked foot as he shoots you a look that’s equal parts fond and teasing. “alright, hold still, sunbeam,” he murmurs, voice warm with amusement as he tugs gently at your stubborn shoe. 

his hands are impossibly careful when they slide off your socks next—his thumbs brushing over the arches of your feet like some unspoken promise: you’re safe here. and maybe it should feel silly—this nightly ritual where superman himself takes more care undressing his girlfriend for bed than most people do handling ancient artifacts—but clark? he treasures it. the way you sigh when cool air hits bare toes; how you instinctively wiggle them against his palm like a sleepy protest. the whole world could be burning outside this bedroom door and he’d still take his time folding each discarded sock into neat little squares beside the nightstand.  

“there we go,” he murmurs finally after stealing one last squeeze of your ankle before reaching for the pajama set waiting on the dresser (the soft purple one with clouds printed all over because of course he remembers which is tonight’s favorite). his fingers hesitate just once over fabric—“arms up,”—before guiding sleeves onto you with a reverence usually reserved for sacred things.  

and then comes his favorite part: buttoning up every tiny pearl clasp down the front while pretending not to notice how drowsy-lidded and pliant barnaby’s nearness has made you… or how often his own knuckles keep brushing cotton-covered ribs by ‘accident’.  

(somewhere between smoothing out wrinkled collar tags and rolling pant-leg cuffs twice so they don't drag underfoot? that's when clark leans forward—lips pressing firm but fleeting against sleep-warm forehead before whispering:)  

"now was that so hard?" 

clark glances up from the intricate arrangement of buttons, a sly smirk dancing across his lips as he catches your gaze. it’s that particular smirk, the one that plays coyly at the right corner of his mouth, suggesting he’s fully aware of the effect you have on him. there's a teasing glint in his eyes, as if he relishes the fact that you can’t seem to take your eyes off him.

(and honestly, he can’t quite deny the thrill coursing through him—there’s something electrifying about your gaze, a magnetic pull that makes his heart beat a little faster, a little louder.)

"you could at least pretend not to stare," he remarks, his voice laced with playful mock exasperation, while he throws you a teasingly half-hearted glare. with a casual flick of his wrist, he pulls the shirt from his shoulders, the fabric sliding down to reveal his toned physique, further drawing your attention.

you feel a warmth spread across your cheeks, your gaze quickly darting away from his sun-kissed skin. “m’not,” you murmur, attempting to feign innocence, though your voice trembles with a hint of mischief.

"uh-huh," he replies, a playful skepticism lacing his tone as he reaches for the well-worn henley draped over the dresser. with a sidelong glance, he catches your eye, a small, knowing smile dancing at the corners of his lips, as if conceding to your charm. “you're about as subtle as krypto trying to steal bacon off my plate.” the warmth of the moment lingers between you, a quiet surrender wrapped in unspoken connection.

"...keep looking at me like that, and i might never get dressed again, sunbeam." his voice is low, rough around the edges, yet warm and wanting.

you smile wider. “i wouldn’t mind,” you murmur, pulling your knees to your chest to continue watching him.

god. the way you smile—the way you sound—hits clark like a punch to the ribs. he almost forgets that he's supposed to be playing aloof and crosses the space back to the bed in three slow steps.

"you're a menace. has anyone ever told you that?" he says, crawling onto the mattress with a graceful confidence, like he's prowling—his knees on either side of your legs. his shirt is now open; that broad chest is just inches from your face.

your breath hitches, and you bite down on your bottom lip, laying back for him as if it were second nature. his eyes darken at the hitch in your breathing—the tiny tug of your lip between your teeth sends a bolt of heat through his chest with just one glance. then his weight settles over you—one broad hand braced beside your head while the other drags across your hip, as if he needs to memorize every inch.

"pretty little thing," he rasps, leaning down so his next words brush against your ear. "driving me absolutely crazy..."

you let out a soft gasp, your eyes fluttering closed. “please—“ you whine softly.

the sight of your pout—the way your cheeks flush just enough to make his mouth go dry—has clark exhaling a laugh that’s half-stifled against your neck.

“aw, no, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement as he nips lightly at the curve of your jaw just to feel you squirm. “you don’t get to whine like that and then act all offended when i tease.”

his hand slides up from your hip, fingers threading through yours to pin it gently above your head (not that you could budge him if you tried). his other hand tilts your chin up so there’s no escaping his smirk—so close now that his breath ghosts over your still-pouting lips.

"gonna have to do better than a little huff if you want me to behave." (liar.) the way your heart races under his palm betrays you, even as you huff another pout. he knows how much you like this—how your body responds to the rough edge in his voice when he has you pinned. he can almost feel your pulse stutter as he lets his gaze linger on your kiss-swollen lips for too long, forgetting he's supposed to be teasing.

"can barely hold on a minute, and you already want something more," he murmurs, fingers stroking down the side of your neck with slow reverence. "is my baby girl greedy?"

he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as he takes his time easing the fabric over your head—like he’s revealing something sacred, not just a bit of nightwear.

every brush of skin and every inch he reveals steals more air from his lungs. when his eyes fix on you, laid out beneath him in just your panties, clark's throat actually aches with how much he wants you.

"my god, honey bunny," he murmurs. he sounds wrecked already before he even touches you again. he can’t stop his hands from drifting—from smoothing over your hip bones and the dip between your ribs. his touch leaves you flushed and shuddering beneath him, but he barely pauses before his mouth follows instead.

he starts at your collarbone like a man possessed—bruising the soft skin with his teeth and tongue just to feel you shiver. he works his way higher, up the column of your throat until he can suck at the spot just below your ear, nipping lightly at your lobe when he gets there.

you whine and —fuck—clark feels it reverberate down his spine like an electric current. his grip tightens just slightly, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your waist where they’re splayed possessively.  

he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze—his pupils blown black with want as he leans in again, breath hot against your lips before murmuring:  

"tell me what you need, baby girl."

your back arches slightly, nipples pebbled against the cool apartment air. “you— wan’you.” you whine and it has clark groaning like he’s the one being undone. his hands slide from your waist to grip your hips, anchoring you against him as he grinds down once—hard enough to steal a gasp from both of you.  

“i gotcha,” he rasps, fingers kneading into soft flesh as his lips find yours in a searing kiss—all teeth and tongue and need. “gonna take such good care of my sweet girl.”

he can feel your legs widening further, hips tilting up to meet his as his tongue slips into your mouth. there's an edge to it; a desperate hunger in his touch that only seems to get more intense with every ragged breath. he swallows your little moans like man drowning but still somehow can't get enough.  

his hands are everywhere all at once: smoothing across the underside of your breast, threading through your hair, trailing up your thighs. and through it all— never once do his lips leave yours. like if he stops kissing you he'd just die.

you  pant and whine, hips bucking against his. you finally hear the soft clink of his belt being undone— and you look down to watch. clark’s hands tremble just slightly— just enough to betray him—as he pops the button of his jeans, shoving them down with a rough urgency that makes your breath hitch.  

the sharp clink of his belt being undone seems louder than it should in the quiet room, like it's punctuating every ragged exhale you both make. and when you look down— his cock springing free from confinement, thick and flushed and leaking already for you— clark lets out a strangled sound somewhere between amusement and despair at the way your eyes go impossibly wider.  

"christ, baby girl," he grits out, smirking even as sweat beads at his temple when you reach. "like what you see?"

you nod quickly. “always surprises me—“ you start as you wrap your nimble fingers around him. “how big y’are.” you mumble, the statement alone has him laughing breathlessly, head ducking as his lips find your shoulder in a half-chided kiss.  

"'s funny," he pants, his hips twitching into your grasp on instinct. "was thinking how small you look beneath me." he swallows. "like i could just... break you if i'm not careful." his hand covers yours as if to prove just how easy it would be to hold you down. "but you like that, don't you?" he murmurs. 

"god, i love that," he murmurs when you shudder, his tone suddenly serious and rough around the edges. "how you look when i hold you like that... gosh." his hands tighten on your hips just to feel you shiver again. "makes me lose my mind, sweetheart."  

his lips move down again, tongue leaving a wet trail down your throat. his hips roll back—just like an invitation. "you want me, sweet girl?"

and then your begging — your whining in response has clark's restraint snapping like a frayed thread. he grips your thighs, spreading them just enough to settle between them with a groan that shakes his entire chest.  

"good girl," he rasps, leaning down to capture your lips again in a kiss so filthy it makes you squirm—before pulling back at the last second to smirk down at you as if he didn't know exactly what he was doing. "i got you."  

and then—with one slow, torturous push—he fills you completely.

you gasp out— body squirming as it adjusts to him. clark kent was nothing if not big. no matter how much you two were intimate— it always took a second to adjust to him. 

he has to stop for a moment—to close his eyes and just let his forehead rest against your shoulder—because gosh, nothing has ever felt as good as you do right now. he breathes it in—that feeling of being so completely connected with you—like he can't seem to get enough even now.  

his hands move up your body again, palms smoothing over every inch of skin he can reach like he's committing you to memory. "that feel good?" he murmurs, voice breathless as he presses a gentle kiss to your neck. "you okay, bunny?"

when you nod, breathless and already going dumb on his cock already, clark smiles. “mm— s’full…” you murmur, slightly slurring, drunk on pleasure. clark lets out a slow, shuddering exhale—his grip tightening just slightly on your hip as he watches you come undone already, before he's even moved.  

"gosh," he groans, leaning down to kiss the slack line of your parted lips as his thumb rubs soothing circles against your skin. "knew you'd look pretty like this— all stuffed and happy for me."  

and then— with agonizing slowness—he pulls almost all the way out before sliding back in with one deep, unrelenting thrust that punches another whimper from your chest. "but i think you can take more, don'tcha?"

you let out a choked out moan when he thrusts. “oh—“ you squeak, hands grasping his shoulders and clark grunts at the sound—at the way your nails dig crescent moons into his skin when he bottoms out inside you again.  

"there she is," he pants, hips rolling against yours in a slow grind that makes your back arch off the mattress. "that's my good girl. taking me so well."  

his fingers thread through yours, pinning them above your head as his mouth latches onto your throat—sucking dark bruises into already flushed skin between each filthy roll of his hips like he's determined to mark every inch of you as his. 

"gonna ruin you," he rasps against your pulse point, voice raw with need. "mine."

clark's hands tremble as he grips your hips, pulling you impossibly closer with each deep thrust. your gasps and whimpers blend with the slick sounds of skin against skin—each one driving him closer to the edge.  

"christ, baby," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours as his rhythm falters—just for a second—before picking back up again in a desperate attempt to make you unravel first. "gonna make me lose it if you keep squeezing me like that."  

his thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight little strokes just because he loves the way your whole body tenses up when he does. "that's it—come on, sweetheart," he rasps between kisses pressed messily along your jawline. "wanna feel you."

you whimper and cry out, eyes rolled back as i hiccup from being so drunk on pleasure. “c— clark!” you whine. “so— so close—“ you gasp, nails dragging down his back.

he shudders at the feel of you clinging so desperately. "i know you are," he whispers huskily, voice rough with barely restrained arousal. "can tell jus' by the way you feel—all tight and desperate and perfect for me. you're so close, baby. just need a bit more to send you over?" he lifts your chin up, meeting your gaze head-on. "want me to make you come?"

you nod quickly. “y—yes— yes please!” you beg, cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded

"atta girl, baby." he praises you softly, leaning down to kiss your flushed cheek. "you're being so good, telling me what you need, letting me make you feel so good. just lie there and take it, honey bunny. i'll take care of you..."  

and then, just like magic, he's changing positions—sliding out from between your spread legs, shifting back, and flipping you over in one smooth move.  

"think i wanna try something different."

you let out a devastated whine when he pulls out—  gasping when he flips you onto my stomach. “wha—“ you protest in dazed confusion that clark can't help but smirk at, even as he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades to soothe you.  

"you'll like it, bunny," he promises, voice low and thick with arousal as his hands settle on your hips—kneading the soft skin there before lifting them just slightly. "just trust me?"  

and then—without another second of hesitation—he's sliding back into you from behind in one smooth motion that has stars bursting behind your eyes instantly. his groan is deep and guttural at the feeling of you clenching around him already, barely able to handle how good it is. you gasp out loudly— back arching, hips pushing back into him. “oh— oh, clark! g—gosh— s’much—” you ramble, cheeks smushed into the mattress— hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. 

"gosh," he hisses out through gritted teeth when his hips meet yours again, hands gripping tighter now for balance before pulling back only to thrust back in immediately— harder this time because jesus christ, this angle makes everything so much more intense for both of you. "there we go... knew you'd love this."

the sight of you beneath him— back arched, body trembling, hands clawing at the sheets while desperate little sounds spill from your lips— has him losing what little composure he had left.  

"look at you," he rasps, voice wrecked as one hand snakes around to press against your lower stomach where every deep thrust visibly shifts the skin. "golly, baby girl— i can feel myself right here." his fingers dig in just slightly when a particularly rough snap of his hips makes your entire body jolt forward on the mattress with a whimper. "you take me so fucking good." 

and then suddenly his forehead is dropping between your shoulder blades; breath ragged against sweat-slick skin as his rhythm starts to stutter too because there’s no way either of you lasts much longer now. not when every drag inside has both seeing stars behind their eyelids already from sheer pleasure alone…

clark groans— deep and guttural— when he feels you clench around him, your body trembling wildly beneath his as you unravel completely. he fights to keep his own release at bay just to savor the way you fall apart for him—your gasps, your whimpers, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets like they’re all that’s keeping you grounded.  

"that's it," he rasps against the back of your neck between sharp exhales, hips stuttering as he chases his own high now. "such a good girl for me… taking it so well."  

and then— with one last brutal thrust that has stars bursting behind both of your eyelids— he spills into you with a shuddering groan so rough it sounds almost pained. his forehead drops to rest between your shoulder blades as aftershocks wrack through him; hands tightening momentarily on your hips before finally relaxing again when both of you come down from the high together in exhausted silence (save for heavy breathing).  

after what feels like an eternity (but is probably only seconds), clark presses a lazy kiss to each knob of spine along their path upward until lips eventually find yours again in slow motion–swollen from earlier bites but still impossibly soft under lingering touches anyway despite everything else being anything but. 

and when tired limbs are tucked safely beneath covers moments later? clark cleans you up without a second thought, kissing your forehead and tucking you into bed. 

୨୧ pairings: adrian chase x reader ୨୧ tags: mentions of alcohol, tooth rotting fluff, swearing ୨୧ requests open! check out my navigation for request guidelines and masterlist.⠀ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

tbh idek if i like this but im obsessed w/ adrian chase rn so...

a few weeks after project butterfly, harcourt—against every bit of her better judgment—decides to host a rooftop get-together. it’s not exactly festive; more like an experiment in tolerating each other outside of missions. the city sprawls below in a sea of lights, the air buzzing faintly with late-summer heat and the hum of traffic. strings of dim bulbs hang overhead, uneven and flickering like they’ve survived too many nights of this team’s brand of chaos. the smell of grilled meat mingles with cheap beer and exhaust fumes.

the rooftop buzzes with easy chaos. chris’s bragging about his “confirmed kill count of 204— unless you count kills by association, which makes it 400.” adebayo’s trying (and failing) to keep him from starting another “america speech.” harcourt rolls her eyes so hard you can almost hear it. but through it all, adrian’s arm remains draped around you—anchoring himself there like he’s afraid the universe might try to pull you away if he lets go.

it’s normal for him—his touchy, magnetic kind of closeness. his arm snug around your waist, fingers idly tracing circles on your back, knee pressed lightly against yours whenever you sit beside him. he laughs at chris’s jokes, argues with economos about who the superior spiderman actor is (“it’s tobey maguire, you monster!”), and teases harcourt about her “beer that tastes like depression.” but no matter what’s happening, some part of him is always connected to you—like he needs that tether to function properly.

as the night drifts on, the group grows louder, drunker, and more ridiculous.  chris’s now claiming he could “definitely seduce wonder woman if he wanted to,” economos is pretending not to listen, and harcourt is trying not to throw her empty bottle at him. you and adrian sit pressed together on the ledge, overlooking the city. the laughter fades into background noise, just a steady hum under your own quiet little bubble.

adrian’s a little tipsy, maybe more than a little. his words slur just slightly as he leans in close, his breath warm against your cheek. he’s ranting—something about grilled cheese philosophy—and it’s absurdly endearing. his fingers draw lazy shapes against your thigh, completely unaware of the way your breath catches.

“what kind of cheese?” you ask suddenly, watching him from the corner of your eye, a teasing glint in your smile.

adrian pauses mid-sentence, blinking like you’ve just asked the meaning of life. “what kind of—oh, oh, okay.” his voice drops, deadly serious. “sharp cheddar. only sharp cheddar. none of that processed american bullshit  chris eats. that’s not food, that’s plastic wrapped in lies.” he wrinkles his nose in genuine disgust.

you bite your lip to keep from laughing, but his outrage only grows. “and you have to butter the outside of the bread, or you’re basically committing a culinary war crime—”

“hmm,” you hum, feigning thoughtfulness. “what if i like swiss?”

adrian gasps like you’ve just confessed to a felony. his hand flies to his chest in mock betrayal. “swiss?! what the fuck—are you trying to ruin my night? swiss is for people who hate flavor and love disappointment! it’s the participation trophy of cheeses!” he gestures wildly, nearly sloshing his beer. “it’s smug! it’s got holes! it’s literally unfinished cheese!”

you’re shaking with laughter, and it takes him a second to realize you’re teasing. his expression flickers—then he squints at you suspiciously. “…ohhhh, you’re messing with me.”

you grin, unrepentant.

he narrows his eyes but can’t hide his smile. “that’s cold. cold. like swiss cheese straight from the fridge—which is where it belongs.” he pokes your side, pretending to glare.

you laugh, leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder as the city lights blur beyond the railing. the rooftop noise fades for a moment—the laughter, the chatter,  chris trying to start an arm-wrestling match with a chair. all that’s left is the hum of the city and the quiet warmth between you.

“i missed you,” you murmur, so softly it almost gets lost in the noise.

adrian stills. for a heartbeat, he doesn’t breathe. his fingers tighten on your hoodie, knuckles white against the fabric. when he finally exhales, it comes out shaky and too fast, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

“fuck,” he says, voice cracking into a half-laugh, half-confession. “obviously i missed you more. like… to a concerning degree. chris told me to ‘get a hobby.’ i said, ‘you’re my hobby,’ and then he told me to leave the room.”

you snort, hiding your smile against his shoulder.

adrian laughs too, but it falters—something softer bleeding through the edges. his hand twitches like he wants to touch your face, then retreats halfway, settling on tugging at his hoodie strings instead. the wind shifts; the city hums beneath the roof;  chris whoops triumphantly from somewhere behind you.

adrian swallows hard and murmurs, barely audible over the noise:

“…glad you’re here.”

it’s quiet. real. the kind of thing that doesn’t need a joke to soften it. his words hang in the air like the faint glow of the city—awkward, messy, and entirely sincere.

you tilt your head, smiling softly. “me too,” you whisper, and for a moment, everything else fades—leaving just you, him, and the flicker of rooftop lights that could almost pass for stars.

after a pause, you turn to him, your voice teasing but soft. “so… does this mean i get the #1 best friend spot now? because chris has been hogging it for way too long,” you hum, bumping his shoulder lightly.

adrian’s usual grin flickers. his face twists like he just bit into something too honest. he takes a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “no—no, you’re… you have a different spot on my… my list.” his voice falters halfway through, like even saying list might explode in his face.

your brows furrow, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “different spot?” you echo.

his throat bobs hard. you can see the panic crawl up his neck. his hands twitch like they want to reach out—then bail at the last second, retreating to clutch the hem of his hoodie instead. the silence stretches, filled only by the hum of traffic below and peacemaker’s obnoxious laughter from across the rooftop.

“yeah. different,” he says finally, words spilling out too fast, too unfiltered. he flaps a hand between you two like that explains it. “not best friend. not even close.” his tone softens, voice cracking somewhere between sincerity and chaos.

“you’re the fucking highlight reel, okay?” he blurts, every word landing heavy and unguarded. “you’re— you’re the thing i think about when everything goes to shit. the person who… makes it not suck so much.” his gaze drops to his sneakers; his glasses slide halfway down his nose as he chews his lip raw. “and if you tell chris i said that, i will push him off this roof myself—”

his laugh stumbles out—sharp, self-deprecating, like it’s the only thing holding him together. the confession sits between you like a live wire: hot, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

adrian’s leg bounces out of control, fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on his knee. he opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “fuck,” he mutters, voice strangled by nerves. “should’ve, i dunno, prepared for this? made a speech? or, like, flash cards?” he gestures helplessly. “but nah, my dumbass just—”

your fingers brush his wrist—barely a touch, maybe accidental, maybe not. the effect is instant. he freezes like he’s been tasered, eyes darting to yours, blue and glassy under the rooftop lights. there’s that look—raw, terrified, hopeful—like a man caught halfway between jumping and being caught.

then, in a rush that sounds like his heart’s breaking open, he says it:

“i wanna be your favorite.” the words hit the air hard. he swallows, fumbling for more. “not friend-favorite. not, like, ‘hey-we-shared-a-sandwich-once’ favorite. i mean stupid-in-love favorite.” his breath catches. “that kind of different spot.”

you blink. once. twice. the world tilts a little, peacemaker’s laugh fading into static behind you. “oh,” you whisper, voice barely there.

adrian goes still as stone, every muscle bracing for impact—like he’s waiting for a punch, a laugh, anything. but the arm he’d slung around your shoulders earlier stays put. he won’t pull away. not this time.

then, slowly, a smile spreads across your face—bright, disbelieving, unstoppable. “for the record,” you murmur, leaning closer, “you’re my favorite too. in the best friend way and… well, you know.”

it’s enough to break him. his entire system crashes—his expression freezes mid-processing, and you can practically hear the dial-up noise as his brain fails to reboot. his mouth opens, closes, opens again.

then: “fuck!” he bursts out, clutching at his hair like it’s betrayed him. “that’s what i should’ve said! ‘y’know’ is way smoother than whatever emotional diarrhea just fell out of my mouth. best friend and y’know-tier? that’s— that’s, like, platinum status—”

the rest of his rambling gets cut off when you shut him up properly.

and if adrian chase melts into the kiss like a man finally finding air after years underwater—well. that’s between you, him, and the city lights that saw it all.

part 2 of Clark x virgin reader, some fluffy aftercare where she's sore and he takes care of her

🙏🙏🙏🙏

part two of this but can be read as a standalone ୨୧ pairings — clark kent x reader ୨୧ content — mentions of sex, inexperienced!reader, soft!clark, aftercare, tooth-rotting fluff ୨୧ wc — 1293 ୨୧ a/n — sorry 4 taking so long on this request! work has been taking me out!!!! hope u enjoy <3requests open! check out my navigation for request guidelines and masterlist.⠀ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

there is only silence at first. a fragile kind — the kind that settles when words would only cheapen the weight of what just passed between you. the air feels different now, heavy with warmth and the faint hum of something irreversible. you’re both still, caught between disbelief and wonder, your breaths overlapping in a rhythm that feels new — unfamiliar, but safe.

clark doesn’t move right away. his hand rests at the curve of your waist, thumb tracing a barely-there line against your skin, a wordless reassurance. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your palm — steady, grounding — a quiet counterpoint to the flutter of your own.

when he finally exhales, it’s a sound more like a sigh than a word. he dips his head, pressing his lips to your temple in a gesture so gentle it feels like an apology and a promise all at once. “you okay?” he whispers, the words hushed, almost reverent.

his voice is low and hoarse, still heavy with the lingering pleasure of your entwined bodies. his fingers trace nonsensical patterns along your skin, as if he's attempting to memorize every curve and contour of you all over again. when you don’t answer right away, too blissed-out and boneless to form words, clark huffs a quiet laugh and presses another kiss—this time to the delicate shell of your ear.

“you did so well, sweetheart.” his thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your cheek, lingering just long enough that your eyes meet — and in that moment, you see it all. the protectiveness. the awe. the tenderness he’s trying not to let spill over completely.

he doesn’t look away for a long time. then, quietly, he shifts, reaching for the blanket that’s fallen askew. he pulls it over you both, wrapping you up as if to shield you from the world beyond this moment. his hand finds yours under the fabric, fingers intertwining instinctively.

for a while, neither of you speaks. you just breathe together. the slow, uneven rhythm evens out until it feels like one heartbeat shared between two bodies. you can feel the faint tremor in his hand — not from exhaustion, but from the quiet enormity of it all.

when clark finally moves again, it’s with careful, deliberate gentleness. he brushes another kiss to your forehead before whispering, “alright... let's get you cleaned up. don’t go anywhere, okay?” as if you could even move with how sore you were. 

with the effortless efficiency that seems so innate to him, he slips out of bed, padding softly into the bathroom. you hear the sound of running water, the quiet clink of porcelain as he adjusts the temperature — testing it, waiting, testing again. he doesn’t rush. of course, he doesn’t. clark never does when it comes to you.

when he returns, the warm glow from the bathroom spills across the room, catching the dampness in his hair, the softness in his eyes. there’s a towel slung loosely around his hips, but his focus is entirely on you. “c’mere,” he says quietly, voice gentle enough to make your chest ache.

you don’t even think before reaching for him. he gathers you up effortlessly, his arms secure and steady, and the way he holds you — like you’re something precious and fragile — makes your heart squeeze. the world feels distant again, muted. he carries you toward the steam-filled bathroom, where the air is thick and fragrant with warmth. he doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail lazily over the fresh scratch marks along his back; he simply presses a kiss to your forehead, for what else is there to do but worship this moment of shared intimacy?

the bathroom is hazy with warmth and steam. he helps you into the tub, the water perfectly tempered, fragrant with faint traces of something floral. when you sink into it, the heat envelops you, easing away the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding.

clark kneels beside the tub for a moment, just watching you with that same unreadable tenderness. then, as if unable to help himself, he reaches out and brushes his fingers along your jaw. “still doing okay?” he asks softly.

you nod, eyes fluttering shut at the sound of his voice. “mhm.”

he hums — a quiet, content sound — before climbing in behind you, careful not to splash. his arms slip around your waist from behind, the motion instinctive, familiar, but also new in a way that makes your breath catch. his chin rests lightly on your shoulder, and his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “didn’t want to rush it,” he says. “wanted you to feel safe. wanted it to matter.”

“it did,” you whisper back. “it does.”

you can feel the smile that curves against your skin — soft, disbelieving. he exhales against the side of your neck, and his hold around you tightens just slightly, as if anchoring himself to the reality that you’re here, that this happened.

time stretches, then folds in on itself. the world outside the steamy walls ceases to exist. all that remains is warmth — water, skin, heartbeats — and the quiet hum of belonging.

when you tilt your head back against his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of his reflection in the fogged mirror across from you. he looks completely undone, not in the way of exhaustion, but of quiet reverence. like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to hold something so rare, so tender.

he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder this time, nuzzling close enough that his lips brush against the damp skin at the base of your neck. 

“think you ruined me just as much, bunny," he whispers as your head drops back against his chest, your eyes fluttering shut in blissful exhaustion that tightens his lungs. 

one hand glides down your ribcage with feather-light precision, teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh—just enough to see your eyelids flutter in surprise when he does. "...how are you feeling?" he finally asks softly, his mouth brushing against the delicate shell of your ear as he speaks. despite the teasing smirk that you could probably hear in his tone, there's an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice. the way he's holding you feels almost possessive, a protective embrace that recognizes your shared vulnerability after such an intense night. 

"was i... too rough?" he murmurs, his fingers still tracing gentle circles at your hip. "did i hurt you or anything?"

when you shake your head and curl further into him, he mumbles in agreement, lips trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your exposed neck—as if he’s still checking to be sure before he can fully relax behind you. "good," he rasps, the word muffled against your skin as he nuzzles into the tender dip beneath your ear. "my sweet girl. my good, good girl."

when his grip tightens slightly around your waist—not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you of his presence- he murmurs: "all mine."

it’s almost impossible to reconcile— that the same man who can stop bullets midair and hold up collapsing buildings can also touch you like this, as if you’re the most delicate thing in his universe. clark kent, superman, the symbol of unbreakable strength, becomes something entirely human in moments like these. his power, vast and boundless, melts away into gentleness when it comes to you.

maybe that’s what makes him who he is— not just the strength to lift the world, but the restraint to cradle it. with you, clark doesn’t need to be the hero, or the legend whispered about in awe. he just becomes a man— warm, careful, achingly tender. the contrast isn’t a contradiction at all, but a revelation: that even the strongest man alive can find his truest power in softness.

waitttt okay anon u r onto something … mayhaps will be doing this :3