Tags/Warnings: MDNI, smut, begging, obsessive behavior, rough sex, overstimulation, size kink, possessiveness, messy/awkward intimacy, bed-shaking, a little whiny Adrian
a/n: hey guys, sorry i fell off of the face of the earth for like two weeks things have been crazy lately, like i met and hung out with Hugh Jackman type crazy (I still can't believe it) and he's the kindest person ever and he's chronically online
ADRIAN ADORES YOUâmaybe a little too much. The kind of adoration that felt overwhelming, smothering in its intensity. Like a puppy with its favorite toyâchewed up, slobbered on, but held tight like theyâd never let it go. Right now, with your glassy eyes staring up at him all wide and hazy, your lips glossy and parted in a pout, he looked completely gone.
âAdrian,â you gasped, trying to wriggle back, but his grip on your ankles only tightened, holding you in place. âItâs too muchââ
âJust a little more, please,â he begged, voice high, desperate, rutting into you with reckless thrusts that bordered on frantic. He was trying, trying to hold himself back, but restraint was never something Adrian was good at.
âI know, I know, Iâm sorry,â he panted, kissing you clumsily, teeth knocking against yours. âJustâgodâjust a little more, yeah?â
Every time your body clenched around him he lost another piece of control, the pressure breaking him down. His hands dug into your thighs, holding you so tightly it almost hurt, his thrusts growing deeper, rougher, knocking soft little cries from your throat.
âOne more round,â he whispered against your skin, begging like he couldnât help himself. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling you like he was addicted. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding on, but he couldnât stopâwouldnât stop. You were a drug, the only thing that made the noise in his head quiet.
When Adrian slipped, he begged. Whined against your mouth, against your throat, promising heâd stop but never meaning it, rutting into you like he needed to disappear inside you.
âCanât hold it back anymore,â he groaned, pressing you down beneath him, his chest heaving against yours. His teeth grazed your ear, your nails dragging down his back as he whimpered, âPlease, justâdonât make me stop.â
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Summary: After one too many, ahem, âincidents,â the Justice Gang slaps Clark Kent with a temporary sex ban. He promises to behaveâuntil one look and a little teasing from you has him breaking every rule he promised to keep.
Warnings/Tags: SMUT, Semi-Public Sex, Mentions of Bodily Fluids, Marking (hickeys, bite marks), Mild Power Play, Discussions of âSex Bansâ in a Professional Setting
A/n: *not proof-read* i had to rewrite this like 5 times, i accidentally deleted it then my computer died, then i restarted and the cycle continued
Youâre not supposed to be doing this.
Not after the last time.
Not after Hawkgirl walked in on Clark with his head buried between your thighs in the Fortress med bayâand let out the kind of blood-curdling scream that probably still echoes across the Arctic.
Yea, It was not your proudest moment.
One second, you were arching off the diagnostic table, breath catching as Clark murmured something filthier than sin against your skin, hair tousled between your legs like he lived thereâ
And the next: a busted comm link hit the floor, and a very traumatized Hawkgirl stood frozen in the doorway. Wings half-unfurled. Eyes wide with horror.
She didnât speak for eight whole seconds.
You and Clark just⊠froze.
He looked up slowly, like a deer in headlights.You grabbed for the nearest med blanket, which did absolutely nothing to preserve your dignityâor the sanctity of the Fortress.
Hawkgirl blinked. Then blinked again. Thenâ
âOH FORÂ FUCKâS SAKEââ
And spun around so fast her mace got stuck in the doorframe.
It only went downhill from there.
An hour later, you and Clark were summoned to what can only be described as the Justice Leagueâs most awkward virtual meeting in recorded history.
Video on.
Full attendance.
Moment ruined.
Clark sat next to you, arms crossed like he was bracing for a military tribunal. You tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Hawkgirl looked like sheâd gazed into the abyss.
Green Lantern looked like he wanted to laugh, cry, and pass out all at once.
And Mr. Terrificâtactical genius, team lead, and current moral authorityâstood in front of the screen with his hands clasped behind his back like this was a high-stakes Pentagon debriefing.
âI want to be extremely clear,â he began, voice sharp enough to cut metal. âWhat happened today was a gross violation of mission protocol.â
You sank lower in your chair. Clark shifted beside you, jaw tight.
âThe med bay,â Mr. Terrific continued, âis a sterile facility. It is not, under any circumstance, to be used as a sex dungeon, a romantic hideaway, orâgod help usâa personal love grotto. Superman.â
Clark winced. âYes, sir.â
âAnd you,â he added, pinning you with the full force of disciplinary disappointment. âWe installed a biometric lock to keep unauthorized personnel out of restricted zones.â
âI⊠I didnât know Clarkâs tongue qualified as biometric,â you muttered.
Green Lantern choked on his own spit.
Clark turned bright red.
Mr. Terrificâs glare was legendary. âThis isnât funny.â
âNo, sir,â Clark agreed quickly. âWeâre very sorry.â
âWe are,â you echoed, trying not to laugh. âDeeply sorry.â
âYouâre both senior-level operatives,â Mr. Terrific said, beginning to pace like a principal prepping detention. âYouâre supposed to set an example. Notâdear godâget caught in the Fortress with your pants down and your boyfriendâs cape on the floor.â
You blinked. âWait. You seen what happened?â
âOh, everyone saw,â Green Lantern muttered. âYou tripped the internal security feed.â
You considered launching yourself into the sun.
Hawkgirl was pinching the bridge of her nose like she could physically erase the memory. âWhat I saw is not something you come back from.â
âEnough,â Mr. Terrific said, raising a hand. âWeâve reviewed the footage, the timestamps, the audio logsâand, of course, the distress scream that activated every emergency comm on site.â
âSo,â Mr. Terrific continued, âin the interest of preserving morale, medical hygiene, and my remaining sanity, Iâm instituting a temporary restriction.â
Then came the sentence. The curse. The collective punishment.
âTemporary. Sex. Ban.â
Silence.
Clarkâs mouth fell open. âIâm sorryâdid you sayâ?â
âYou heard me.â
You turned to Clark, slowly. âHe canât actually do that, right?â
âHeâs the team lead,â Clark whispered, sounding absolutely broken. âI think⊠he technically can.â
Green Lantern raised a hand. âUh, sorryâjust for clarity, are we talking a full ban? Like, no kissing? No second base? Can we define terms?â
Mr. Terrific turned on him with the force of a thousand suns. âYou want me to draft a formal clause list outlining what Superman canât do to his girlfriend?â
âI mean, someone should,â Lantern muttered. âTheyâre a high-libido couple.â
You briefly considered using Clark as a human shield.
Clark looked like he wanted to die.
âDuration?â he asked, voice cracking.
âUntil you both prove you can prioritize the mission,â Mr. Terrific said. âYouâll be monitored for absences. Iâll be reviewing comm logs. Patrol logs. Sensor pings.â
You groaned. âSo weâre grounded.â
âYouâre benched from boning,â Hawkgirl clarified dryly.
Mr. Terrific cleared his throat. âMeeting adjourned.â
The screen blinked dark.
And that was the day the Justice Gang imposed the worldâs most infuriating, sexually repressive ceasefireâ
and started the longest, most torturous dry spell of your entire life. well, technically three days.
Three days.
Thatâs how long Clark lasts.
Three whole days of being good.
Of polite forehead kisses and aching distance. Of pulling his hand away like youâre made of kryptonite every time it drifts too low. Of muttering things like âWe canât,â and âMr. Terrific saidââ with that strained, boy scout grimace like heâs afraid heâs being watched from orbit.
He tries.
He really, really tries.
He throws himself into patrol like heâs punishing himself, keeps his comm logs squeaky clean, even schedules âsupervised sparringâ with Green Lanternâwho sees right through him and says nothing, mercifully.
But you?
Youâre not helping.
Youâre walking around in those soft shorts he likes. Wearing his old Metropolis U sweatshirt and nothing else. Curling up next to him on the couch like you donât know exactly what youâre doing when your bare thigh brushes against his. Pressing slow, sleepy kisses just beneath his jaw when you're ânot even trying anything.â
You bat your eye say you respect the ban.
But youâre lying. And Clark is cracking.
Which is how you end up here.
Pressed flat against the kitchen counter, fingers tangled in his hair, while he grips the edge like itâs the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees.
His voice is low and wrecked. âWe shouldnâtâthis is aâthis is against orders, baby, I canâtââ
You hum, all sweet and innocent, even as your hand slips beneath the waistband of his suit pants. âThen stop me.â
He doesnât.
He canât.
His breath catches hard against your throat as your fingers wrap around himâalready hard, already leaking, already completely undone, and you havenât even gotten the damn suit off yet.
âYouâre evil,â he groans, resting his forehead against your shoulder like itâs the only way to keep from breaking in half. âIâm trying to be goodââ
âYou are good,â you coo, dragging your hand slow along his length. âThink Mr. Terrific would give you a gold star?â
Clark swearsâa low, desperate sound, almost reverent.
And thatâs it. Thatâs the last thread of his self-control snapping.
He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, stumbling backward in a haze of need. Your mouths crash together halfway to the bedroom, his kiss open-mouthed and wild, breath catching like itâs been years, not days, since he last tasted you.
His knees buckle when he hits the bed, and you push him down without mercy, straddling his hips with one smooth motion. He sucks in a sharp gasp as your weight settles over him, hands flying to your waist like a man gripping a lifeline.
You lean in, lips brushing his as your fingers find the edge of his suit.
The zipper hisses down slowly.
âI missed you,â he breathes, voice hoarse, dragging his mouth down your chest, chasing the rhythm of your heartbeat like it's his gravity. âI tried to be goodâI swear, but those picturesââ
You laugh, breathless. âClark⊠those were just selfies.â
âYou were in my sweatshirt,â he growls, like you committed a war crime.
âThatâs not against the rules.â
âIt is,â he snaps, kissing deeper, moving lower, âwhen youâre not wearing anything else.â
Now...
Clark Kent knew he was strongâthe strongest. Faster than light, invulnerable to bullets, capable of hearing a whisper from the other side of the planet. He could carry the weight of the world on his back and still ask if you were okay. Could stop time with his bare hands if he really tried.
And yetâ
The moment you shove him back into the sheets, suit half off, chest heaving, flushed and trembling like a man starved?
Clark Kent knows heâs fucked.
âY-youâre not playing fair,â he tries, voice breaking as you drag your slick heat along the thick length of his cock. You havenât even taken him in yetâjust teasing him, grinding slow and deliberate, letting him feel every pulse of you.
âYou deserve it,â you whisper, watching the way he shudders beneath you.
Maybe he does.
Maybe the ban was there for a reason. Maybe dragging Superman to bed in nothing but his hoodie and a wicked little grin was not on the Leagueâs approved interaction list. But the way he shakes? The way his hips twitch every time you rock forward?
Heâs a man in freefall.
His breath stutters. âYou know I could beg, right?â he murmurs, voice gone dangerously low. âYou think I wonât get on my knees for you?â
You lean forward to press a kiss to the curve of his jaw, feel it flex under your mouth.
âI know you will.â
And thenâfinallyâyou sink down onto him.
Clarkâs entire body locks.
The breath leaves him in one long, broken moan. His hands fly to your hips like he needs to anchor himself, like heâs hanging off the edge of the stratosphere and youâre the only thing keeping him grounded.
âJesusââ he chokes out, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. âYouâbaby, you canât justâGodââ
You take him inch by inch, slow and deliberate, letting your walls flutter around every thick stretch of him. Heâs already shaking under you. Eyes glazed. Lips parted. Helpless.
âClark,â you murmur, voice as sweet as honey, âwhat happened to being good?â
He looks up at you through heavy lashesâcheeks flushed, sweat curling at his hairline, voice ragged beyond repair.
âThat was before you got on top of me like that,â he groans. âNow Iâm justâIâm done for, sweetheart.â
His knuckles go white in the sheets.
Heâs tremblingâactually tremblingâlike a live wire, every nerve in his body tuned to you. Overwhelmed by the heat of your body, the way you roll your hips down and lock him in like you were made to ruin him.
You move slow. Purposefully slow. Dragging yourself up until just the tip catches, then sinking down again until heâs buried to the hilt and gasping like itâs killing him.
âYouâre so deep,â you whisper into his ear, syrupy and cruel, âLook how good you fill me up, baby.â
He groansâbreaksâat the sound, his cock throbbing inside you.
âYouâre Superman,â you purr, twirling a damp strand of his hair around your finger before letting it spring free. Your nails rake lightly through his curls, slow and teasing. âYouâll live.â
But Clark is barely holding on.
He looks wrecked beneath youâhis chest flushed, lips swollen, brows furrowed in desperation. His hands clutch at your thighs, guiding you down harder, deeper, until your legs burn and youâre both panting into each otherâs mouths.
The only sounds in the room are the slow, obscene slap of skin, the soft creak of the mattress, and the desperate little moans Clark canât stop from slipping outâlike youâre dragging the air from his lungs with every grind of your hips.
You lean in, teeth grazing his neck before sucking a deep, dark mark below his jawâone that definitely wonât fade by morning. He shudders.
âThought you were gonna behave,â you murmur, dragging your mouth along his neck.
âYeah?â His voice is sandpaper and honey. âThen you probably shouldnâtâveâfuckâridden me like this, baby.â
You grin against his skin.
And you donât stopâslowly, grinding circles that make his thighs twitch under yours. That make him arch and whine,breath hitching every time your hips slam back down and the stretch makes your eyes roll. Itâs filthy. Itâs heaven. Itâsâ
beep. beep. beep.
The sharp alert cuts through the haze.
The "Justice Gang" comm unit pings from the nightstandâblinking red. Urgent. Active threat level.
Clark freezes.
Just for a second.
Then he thrusts up into you, arms wrapping tight around your waistâlike if he holds you close enough, this moment won't end.
You clutch at him, stunned. âClarkââ
âJust a sec,â he pants, rolling his hips again, pulling you closer. âJust⊠a little longerââ
âYou have to answer that,â you gasp, trying to sound firm, but it comes out ruinedâhigh and trembling as he rolls his hips, slow and devastating. âYou said if it was seriousââ
He groans, tortured, and finallyâpulls back just enough to reach blindly toward the nightstand, his other arm braced beside your head. He doesnât stop moving. Just stretches outâflushed and glowing, breath shakyâand fumbles for the blinking comm unit with trembling fingers, his hips still rolling slow and deep like he canât stand the thought of pulling out.
Thereâs a hiss of static. Then:
âSuperman here,â he breathes, voice rough and just a little cracked, like itâs been dragged across gravel. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are red. Thereâs a blooming mark on his neck in the exact shape of your mouth.
âIâll be there in five.â
And then he looks back at you, still buried deep inside, still trembling with restraint, and smirksâsmirks.
âYou better finish what you started,â he murmurs, voice low âBecause the second I get backâŠâ
His hips roll up again.
ââŠthereâs no ban anymore.â
Meanwhile, at Watchtower Command.
When Superman arrives, itâs a problem.
Because heâs not exactly subtle.
His suit is onâbarely. The collar of his undersuit is stretched askew, the zip only half-done up. His capeâs twisted over one shoulder. His curls are still damp with sweat and your fingers, pressed flat to his forehead like he raked both hands through them hard before takeoff. And on the left side of his neckâ
A dark, unmistakable mark.
Right where your mouth had been.
The kicker?
He smells like you.
The second he enters the room, heads turn. Conversation dies. Everyone looks at him.
And then immediately looks away.
Green Lantern raises a brow but says nothing â until he spots the bitemark on Clarkâs throat.
ââŠWas the threat level internal?â
Superman doesnât answer.
He just straightens his shoulders like a man walking to his own trial and silently hands over the datapad he retrieved from orbit, lips pressed in a flat line. His ears are red. His knuckles are still trembling.
From behind the console, Hawkgirl makes a noise like sheâs begging God to strike her down. âOh come onââ
Mr. Terrificâs head turns slowly.
His eyes scan Clark. The disheveled suit. The blooming hickeys. The faint tremor in his left hand. His faintly-glossed lips.
ââŠYouâre late.â
Clark nods once. âTraffic.â
âYou flew here,â Hawkgirl deadpans, crossing her arms.
Clark clears his throat. âWeâre notâuhâdiscussing that.â
Mr. Terrific glances toward the holographic map theyâd been reviewing and pinches the bridge of his nose like heâs physically in pain. âWe said temporary ban.â
âWe agreed it was necessary,â Hawkgirl adds. âNecessary, Clark. For mission focus. For discipline. Forââ She gestures vaguely at his entire very un-mission-ready state. ââthis exact reason.â
Clark tries to look apologetic. He really does.
But thereâs something smug twitching at the corners of his mouth. That little boyish, aw-shucks grin that slips out when he knows heâs been caught but isnât all that sorry.
âIâm still functional,â he offers, way too earnestly.
Guy lets out a low whistle and mutters, âBarely.â
âLook, I got here, didnât I?â Clark says, running a hand through his hair againâand only making it worse. âI didnât skip the mission. I just⊠had to finish something.â
Thereâs a pause.
Then: âI swear to Rao,â Mr. Terrific mutters, turning away.
âOh, you had to finish something?â Hawkgirl repeats, eyebrows climbing. âOr she did?â
Clark doesnât answer. Just kind of⊠smiles into his shoulder and scratches at the back of his neck.
Guy leans in. âOkay, serious question,â he says, nodding toward Clarkâs throat. âDid she brand you? Like, should we call Batman? Thatâs got Batman-level trauma written all over itââ
âI donât need Bruceâs opinion on this,â Clark mumbles.
âOh, Iâm calling him,â Guy says gleefully.
âPlease donât.â
Too late. Hawkgirlâs already pulling up a comm link. âBatman? You might want to see this.â
Clark sighs and looks up at the ceiling like heâs praying for strength.
From across the room, a monitor blinks to life.
Bruceâs voice comes through, flat and judgmental. âWhat did he do this time?â
synopsis: After helping you ease into working out, Dunk offers some hands-on motivation
Pairing: Duncan "Dunk" Shuttlecock x Reader (Date Everything)
Content. MDNI: GN! Reader, personal trainer!Dunk, praise kink, size kink, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, athletic dom energy, sweat, choking (light), spit, dumbification , muscle worship (from both sides), improper use of yoga positions
âTh-this is where youâre weak, right?â
Dunkâs voice cracksâdeep and guttural, like heâs just fumbled the ball and liked it.
You donât answer. Canât. Not when heâs got you pressed chest-down on your yoga mat, sweat-slick and trembling, your legs splayed as wide as theyâll go under the strong, caging weight of his body. Heâs got one bulky arm laced around your midsection, the heel of a calloused palm pinning your wrist above your head, and the other handâ
Fuck, that hand is dragging your hips back like heâs trying to line you up for a perfect field goal.
The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, flushed hot and slick from everything he's already done to youâstretching, teasing, edging with his stupid mouth full of praise and filth.
âRight here,â he pants, his cleats digging into the floor as he jerks forward and shoves the thick, veiny length of himself into you in one slow, spine-bending thrust.
âOh fuckâmmghhh!â Your mouth falls open, drool stringing from your lips into the mat below. âD-Dunkâright there!â
âRight there, huh?â he grunts, voice all hoarse and starved and dripping heat. He braces one elbowâelbow skate grinding against the matâand slams into the same spot again. âThis your weak spot? Right where you get all soft and squishy fâme?â
You choke out a whimper, body locking up, toes curling in your socks.
And Dunk groans like a man in his prime scoring the winning goal in triple overtime. âShit, yeah. Youâre clutch, baby. Makinâ me feel like a fuckinâ champion.â
Heâs not subtle. He never is. Every thrust is a penalty-worthy foul, full-body and brutalâhis padded hips hammering into your ass with a wet, smack! of skin on skin, the seams of his football-textured pants brushing your thighs raw.
And you love it. Youâre taking him like a champ, brain turning to static, vision sparking with every drag of his cock along your g-spot.
âSo good,â he growls, low and rough in your ear. âSo tight. Taking me like this? You were made for meâswear to God. Can feel you tryinâ to pull me back in every time I leave. Mmmphâdonât worry, I ainât going anywhere.â
His fingers twist in your shirt collarâyanking you halfway up, arching your spine so he can get even deeper, stretch you out more, ruin you. His mouth is right at your ear now, warm breath ragged as he growls out praises like a dirty coach from hell.
âYouâre doing so fuckinâ good. I mean, look at you. Youâreâshitâyouâre beautiful like this. Sloppy, sweatinâ, fuckinâ perfect.â
The sound you make is more animal than human, all heat and overwhelmed bliss.
âS-slow down,â you whine, even though your hips are moving to meet him. âItâs tooâtoo muchââ
âOh no, no no.â Dunk chuckles, deep and mean and amused. âWe donât quit halfway through a workout, sweetheart.â
Then he slams into you again. Hard. Vicious. Filthy.
You nearly scream, forehead digging into the mat, tears dripping freely now.
He leans down, mouth pressing at the back of your neck, lips brushing the sweat there. âOne more set, baby. Just one more. And then Iâll let you cool down on my chest. Promise.â
And when you finally comeâcrying out like you just crossed the finish line of a marathon, your whole body twitching under himâhe follows with a growl that sounds more like a war cry than a moan, spilling deep inside you and holding you there, locked to his body like a medal he refuses to take off.
Afterward, youâre a pile of boneless mush sprawled across his sweaty chest, legs still twitching. He strokes your back with gentle fingers, breath slowing.
âThat,â he whispers, brushing his stubbled jaw against your temple, âwas the best cardio Iâve had in years.â
Summary: When your friend unexpectedly drops off a baby for the night, you and your five hanger boyfriendsâThe Hank(s)âare thrown into a whirlwind of diapers, pacifiers, and existential panic.Â
A/N: sorry its been take me so long to write, my computer is literally on its last legs and I can't afford to get a new one :(
(its a 8 year old Mac book and i swear i can hear it cough after every update đ)
You donât ask questions when your friend drops a baby off at your door.
You try, of course. You get out âWait, whyââ before she slaps a diaper bag into your arms, kisses your cheek, and says something like âItâs just overnight, youâre the only one I trust, Iâll explain everything later, BYE.â
And then sheâs gone.
And youâre left holding a real, human baby. And also surrounded by five animate "hangers" in jumpsuits who have very strong and very different feelings about this.
You make a list. You donât know what babies eat (mashed peas? socks?), but you know what you have:
Five hanger boyfriends
A half-eaten sleeve of saltines
Eight Red Bowls
And now, apparently, a baby.
Operation: Donât Let the Baby Die begins.
Hour 1: Hank 2 is already spiraling. Heâs checking the babyâs pulse every six minutes. âWhat if we drop it? What if it senses our fear? What if Red Bowl finds out and tries to sponsor it?!â
Hour 2:Â Hank 1 builds a diaper-changing station out of your bookshelf. It is both sturdy and somehow... emotionally grounding. âBabies need confidence. Eye contact. Structure. And a little jazz.â
Hour 3:Â Hank 3 plays peekaboo. But it turns into an impromptu stand-up set. âYou ever notice how pacifiers are just, like, emotional corks? Amirite?â
The baby stares. Then drools. Hank 3 swoons.
Hour 4:Â Hank 4 is writing a detailed list of potential baby names (even though you told him it already has one). âWhat about Clasp? Or Hookifer. No? Too thematic?â
Hour 5:Â Hank 5 and the baby are both asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets on the living room floor, baby toys scattered like confetti around them. You gently drape a blanket over them and whisper, âThis is my life now.â
You didnât expect this. You didnât expect to be jobless, babysitting someone elseâs infant at 3 a.m., surrounded by five sentient hangers in jumpsuits who somehow care more about your well-being than most people ever have.
But when the baby starts to cry at 3 a.m.âa loud, wailing, existential sound that cuts into your sleep like a Red Bowl promo jingleâthey all show up.
Hank 2 with a warm bottle.
Hank 1 with calming noise (a Spotify playlist labeled âJazz for Infants and Sad Adultsâ).
Hank 3 with interpretive dance.
Hank 4 with one (1) stolen baby sock he insists is sentimental.
Hank 5 with a lullaby that is definitely just the Red Bowl theme song hummed gently.
And you.
Tired. Overwhelmed. Absolutely not ready to be responsible for anyone, let alone six people (five of whom used to live in your closet as inanimate hangersâuntil the glasses happened)
But you hold that baby. And the Hanks hold you. Figuratively. And then, literally.
And in that tangled pile of limbs, soft snoring, and the faint scent of baby powder and Red Bowl plastic, you realize: this is your family.
In the morning, when your friend returns and gasps, âWait, why are there five hot men in jumpsuits in your living room?ââ
You just shrug.
âLong story,â you say. âBut weâre good with babies.â
Summary : After the Butterfly Project ends and the team goes their separate ways, Adrian Chase decides to pick up a new âhobby.â Unfortunately for you, that hobby is obsessing over owls â and heâs wrong about almost every single fact.
Warnings/Tags: Himbos, Fluff, Post-Canon Events ( after Project Butterfly), Incorrect animal facts, Establish Relationship, GN Reader (gender neutral), Black Market "owl eggs" (???), Spoilers for Season 2
A/N: I literally ran to write this after watching Season 2, like omg James gunn is an absolute genius, ( He makes going to film school worth it)
You should have known something was wrong the moment Adrian Chase bought a neon-blue notebook and scrawled TOP SECRET OWL DATA across the front in red Sharpie. It wasnât the strangest thing heâd done â this was the same man who once threatened a dishwasher because it âlooked suspiciousâ â but the intensity with which he slammed the notebook down on your coffee table made you wary.
âProject Butterfly may be over,â he said, sprawled on your couch with his Vigilante mask still on, curls poking out at odd angles, âbut that doesnât mean the world is safe. We canât just⊠pretend everythingâs fine now.â
You frowned. The Butterflies were hard to forget. Tiny, insect-like aliens that burrowed into peopleâs skulls, hijacking their bodies from the inside out, all while smiling and talking like nothing had changed. Their goal had been terrifying and noble all at once: to take over influential humans and steer the planet away from self-destruction, hoping to prevent Earth from collapsing the way their own world had.
And yet, once Adebayo went public, exposing the entire operation to the world, everything seemed to unravel. The team splintered. Jobs were lost. Economos was shuffled off into another corner of Amanda Wallerâs empire, Adebayo burned the bridge with her mother on live television, Harcourt was left wounded and adrift. Everyone scattered in different directions, untethered and aimless. Everyone except Adrian.
Adrian had been there through it all â the betrayals, the firefights, the endless paranoia of wondering who was real and who wasnât. So maybe it wasnât so surprising that his mind had latched onto something new.
âOwls,â he declared, pointing a gloved finger at you as if unveiling a great truth. âTheyâre basically the Butterflies of birds.â
You just stared at him. ââŠOwls?â
âYes, Babe. Think about it. Creepy big eyes, turn their heads all the way around, they only come out at night. Totally hiding something.â
And that was how your life descended into owl hell.
He started with the âfacts.â Sitting at your kitchen counter, halfway through an entire family-sized bag of chips, he announced, âDid you know owls donât have bones? Thatâs how they twist their heads like that. Theyâre basically bird-shaped slinkies.â
You groaned. âAdrian, they do have bones. Thatâs how⊠skeletons work.â
âNuh uhâ he tilted his phone toward you. The search bar read:Â do owls have bones reddit.
By the end of the week, he was knocking on your door at midnight with a duct-taped shoebox in hand. You didnât even bother to hide your groan â because when Adrian had a plan, you knew nothing ever went right.
He grinned at you through the doorway, holding the box aloft like some sacred relic. âOwl eggs,â he whispered proudly, eyes practically glowing behind his mask. âIâm gonna hatch them. Then Iâll have an army. Safer than humans.â
You stared at him, then at the box. ââŠWhere exactly did you get owl eggs, Adrian?â
âThe black market,â he said instantly, like it was the most normal answer in the world. âGuy in a parking lot sold âem to me. Said they were rare and totally legit. Cost me three thousand dollars.â
Your jaw dropped. âThreeâthree thousand?!â
âYeah,â he said, beaming, clearly pleased with his own resourcefulness. âPretty good deal, right? I talked him down from five.â
Panic shot through you as you ripped the duct tape off and opened the box, already dreading what horrors youâd find inside. What you did find made you blink. Hard.
ââŠThese are hard-boiled chicken eggs. From the grocery store.â
Adrian peered inside like maybe youâd missed something. âThey might just be⊠sleeping really hard?â
You pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead, torn between wanting to laugh, cry, or strangle him on the spot. âAdrian, please tell me you didnât really just blow three thousand dollars on someoneâs lunch.â
He tilted his head, thoughtful. âTechnically, I think it was more like brunch.â
At dinner, you tried to set boundaries. âNo owl talk at the table,â you told him firmly, stabbing your pasta with unnecessary force.
He nodded, dead serious. âGot it. Totally respectful.â
Ten minutes later: âSo, owls invented Wi-Fi.â
You nearly dropped your fork. âExcuse me?â
âNo, it makes sense!â he said, leaning in, his curls bouncing as he gestured with his fork. âThe Butterflies took over people by crawling into their brains. Owls hoot at each other across long distances â which is basically encrypted communication. The government stole it. Itâs how the internet started.â
You covered your face with both hands. âI cannot believe Iâm dating a man who thinks owls invented Wi-Fi.â
âHave you ever seen an owl use dial-up?â he shot back triumphantly.
The following Saturday, he dragged you into the woods for âfield research.â You stood shivering, holding a flashlight while Adrian crouched in a bush with binoculars turned completely upside down. He was silent for twenty minutes, then whispered, âDid you know owls hunt using telekinesis?â
You nearly fell over. âThatâs notââ
âThink about it! Have you ever seen an owl just⊠walk up and grab something? No. They just stare until it dies.â He lowered the binoculars dramatically. âTelekinesis. Case closed.â
You laughed so hard you had to sit down, clutching your stomach. Adrian stared at you, confused but delighted, like heâd just solved climate change.
Later that night, back on the couch, he finally pulled his mask off, curls damp with sweat from his âmission.â For the first time all week, he was quiet. You nudged him gently. âYou know all your facts are wrong, right?â
âYeah,â he admitted softly, eyes flicking to yours. âBut itâs fun watching you argue with me about them. AndâŠâ He trailed off, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. âItâs easier to think about owls being evil than⊠Butterflies being real. You know?â
The words hit heavier than you expected. For all his nonsense, it was the closest heâd come to admitting how much the whole thing had shaken him. You reached out and squeezed his hand.
He brightened a little at that, tilting toward you with a mischievous grin. âWanna hear one more?â
You sighed, smiling despite yourself. âGo ahead. Blow my mind.â
âOwls mate for life.â He leaned closer, voice low, conspiratorial. âJust like us.â
You blinked. ââŠAdrian.â
âWhat?â His grin only widened, smug and hopeful all at once. âThatâs a real fact this time.â
You werenât entirely sure it was. But the way he was looking at you â earnest, ridiculous, soft in the corners of his eyes â you decided not to argue.
âFine,â you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. âOne real fact.â
He beamed, leaning back like heâd just been proven right about everything. âTold you. Iâm basically an owl expert.â
And when his fingers curled gently around yours, you didnât correct him. Not about the owls. Not about anything.
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Summary:Adrian doesn't know what to do with himself. You've been gone on a mission for three days, and he's starting to realize just how much he misses you. It's going to be a long few days until you're expected back.
Tags: SMUT (18+), porn with plot, Adrian lying about cleaning, this sat in my drafts for over a year and its past time to post
Youâd only been gone for three days.
Three. Days.
And Adrian Chase swore it was slowly killing him.
The apartment felt too quiet without you. He could still hear your voice echoing in his head, teasing him about his off-key singing in the shower, your laugh bouncing off the kitchen tiles when he burned yet another grilled cheese. Now? Nothing. Just the buzz of the fridge and the hum of the ceiling fan overhead.
At first, Adrian tried to distract himself like a normal, functional adult. He polished his knives. Alphabetized the spice rack. Watched Die Hard four times in a row. But the silence only pressed heavier against him. Heâd glance at the couch and see the dent where you usually curled up. Your jacket was still slung over the back of the chair. Your shampoo still lingered in the bathroom.
Everywhere he lookedâthere you were. And nowhere you actually were.
The ache of it settled deep in his chest, restless and buzzing. His leg bounced constantly. His thoughts looped like a scratched record. Youâre gone. Youâre gone. Youâre not here.
By the third night, he was unraveling.
He sprawled out on the bed, your pillow clutched to his chest like a lifeline. It still smelled like youâwarm, soft, everything that made him feel safe. But the more he pressed his face into it, the worse it got, the hollowness in his chest yawning wider.
He tossed and turned, sheets tangling around his legs. His brain wouldnât stop. What if something went wrong on the mission? What if you got hurt? What if you didnât come back?
And then, the darker thought slipped inâwhat if you didnât miss him the way he missed you?
That one hit like a knife twist. He couldnât breathe around it. Couldnât stay still. His body vibrated with jittery need, with the desperate urge to feel something other than the gnawing hole youâd left behind.
So he gave in.
He yanked open the dresser and grabbed one of your shirts, worn soft from being washed a hundred times, and climbed back into bed with it. The second he pressed it to his face, inhaling deep, he groaned, his cock twitching against the fabric of his sweats. It wasnât enough. Nothing was enough, but he couldnât stop.
âFuck, babe,â he whined, already tugging his sweats down, wrapping his fist around himself. His strokes were rough, messy, too fast, like he was chasing something just out of reach. âWhyâd you have to leave me here all alone? Itâsâitâs, like, super bad for my mental health, you know that, right?â
He moaned into your shirt, imagining the weight of your body over his, the way you straddled him, kissed him until his brain went white-hot and useless. His hips bucked into his hand, precum slicking his fist as he rutted desperately against the phantom of you.
âYou donât even know what you do to me,â Adrian babbled, his voice cracking. âGod, Iâd do anythingâanythingâif you were here right now. Just one round. One little roundâfuck, I need youââ
His eyes rolled back, the heat building fast, dizzying. He pressed the shirt harder to his face, groaning your name, his whole body trembling with need.
And then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Adrian startled so hard he almost fell off the bed. He scrambled, hand still slick on his cock, fumbling with the screen until he finally hit accept, breathless.
âH-Hey,â he stammered, voice too high. âWhatâs up?â
On the other end, your voice was warm, calm, real. âJust finished up. Mission ended early.â
Adrian froze, every muscle locking.
âUhâw-what? Early? Like⊠how early?â
âEarly early.â You laughed softly, the sound making his chest ache in the best and worst way. âYea, Iâll be home in an hour. maybe we could watch that new show you were talking about.â your voice started to trail off
His hand slipped off his cock like it had betrayed him. He slapped the shirt down, face blazing. âOh, uh, cool, yeah! Awesome. Great news. Thatâs⊠so great. I should, um, probably clean up a little then.â
Silence. Then a suspicious hum. âClean up?â
âYep!â He squeaked. âDishes. Laundry. Definitely not jerking off thinking about you right now. Ha ha. Thatâd be insane.â
You sighed, fond and exasperated all at once. âAdrianâŠâ
âDonât worry, babe,â he muttered, half-dying inside. âIâll be⊠presentable by the time you get here. Mostly.â
Another soft laugh from you, this one warmer, almost wicked. âYou know I can hear how out of breath you are, right?â
Adrian dropped his head back against the couch with a defeated whine, cheeks flaming hotter. âI hate you.â
âLiar,â you said gently. âSee you soon, love. Try not to finish without me.â
He hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing, body still humming with unmet need.
One hour.
He had sixty minutes to pull himself together⊠or decide whether he even wanted to.
Summary: The Hanks want a beach day. You want to survive it. Thereâs sunscreen, a sandcastle war, and one heartfelt group moment just before sunset. Mostly, thereâs love.
a/n: something quick and simple for today, also I feel that im kind of legally required to write at least one fanfic before bed. also suggest more characters I should write for. (surprisingly I have one for Doug in my drafts)
It starts like most of your adventures doâwith one of the Hanks bursting into the room wearing something absolutely uncalled for.
âTA-DA!â Hank 3 announces, twirling in a banana-print swim trunks, matching shades, and a sunhat that says "LIFE'S A BEACH."
You blink. âWhy.â
âBecause,â he says, beaming, âweâre going to the beach.â
Youâre not sure how the Hanks managed to schedule, plan, and pack for a beach trip without telling youâbut when you stumble into the living room, there are already seven Red Bowls full of snacks, three umbrellas, two inflatable flamingos, and one extremely detailed binder labeled âSun Safety & Group Sand Strategy â Hank 2 Edition.â
âDid you guys⊠borrow my car?â
âWe upgraded it with a speaker system,â Hank 1 says, sliding on driving gloves like this is Fast & Furious: Hanger Drift. âDonât ask how.â
The second your feet hit the sand, things immediately unravel.
Hank 5 tries to befriend a seagull.
Hank 4 gets in a passive-aggressive towel turf war with a six-year-old.
Hank 2 sets up a shade tent that somehow collapses into a modern art installation.
Hank 3 challenges you to a âsunscreen fightâ and ends up smearing SPF 50 on your nose like a very flirty lifeguard.
Hank 1 disappears with a boogie board and a thousand-yard stare.
And yet⊠youâre laughing through it.
-----------------------------
You team up with Hank 2 and 5 to build a sandcastle âso emotionally stable it should be in therapy.â
Hank 1, 3, and 4 immediately declare war on it.
Thereâs yelling. Thereâs betrayal. Thereâs a dramatic âstorm surgeâ via cooler water.
You and Hank 5 pretend to mourn your castle like fallen royalty.
It ends with everyone soaked and sandy and holding hands in a peace circle while Hank 2 gives a speech about erosion.
âNothing lasts,â he says, dramatic as ever. âBut this moment? This weird, beautiful, sunscreen-slick moment? Itâs ours.â
As the sky melts into orange and gold, the chaos simmers down. You all sit on towels, wrapped in oversized hoodies and still picking sand out of your shoes.
Hank 3 lays his head in your lap. Hank 2 rests against your side. Hank 4 is drawing a tiny heart in the sand with his finger. Hank 5 is feeding bits of sandwich to a hermit crab. Hank 1 just watches the horizon like heâs memorizing it.
âIâm glad we did this,â you say, voice soft from sun and joy.
âMy boyfriend wants to show you his writing, and you better say itâs good,â you said firmly, glaring at the camera like you were about to throw hands with someone in the comments section. Behind you, a sheepish Clark laughed under his breath, adjusting his glasses as you stepped aside to make room.
âGo, babe,â you prompted, waving him forward like this was serious business.
âUhâhi,â Clark said, voice soft and a little nervous, holding up a worn leather notebook and a printed manuscript. âSo, um⊠I write, outside of work. Not just articles, butâshort stories. Some fiction. Mostly small-town stuff. People. Ordinary lives. I guess I like exploring the quiet things that matter.â
From behind him, you were mouthing be nice or get blocked with vaguely violent hand gestures.
Clark flipped the notebook open and scratched the back of his neck. âThis oneâs about a kid growing up on a farm during the Dust Bowl. Itâs not flashyâthereâs no twist ending or anything. Just⊠this kid learning how to be kind when everything around him feels unfair. Itâs kind of personal.â
Your face softened instantly, your mock threat melting into a look of pure pride.
âAnd this one,â he continued, holding up the printed pages, âis a story I wrote last year. Itâs about a journalist who accidentally stumbles into a town where no one lies. They physically canât. So everything he hears is honestâeven the hard stuff. Heâs forced to rethink the way he sees the world, and himself. I donât know. Itâs weird, but I liked writing it.â
You practically exploded behind him, mouthing Heâs brilliant while pointing both thumbs at your chest like this is mine.
âThat was amazing,â you said, walking over to kiss his cheek. âYouâre, like, the most talented man alive. No big deal.â
Clark chuckled shyly. âOh, uhâalso, I run a little writing group at the community center. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 6PM. We just bring pages, read each otherâs stuff, give feedback. Sometimes thereâs snacks.â
You stepped back into frame, beaming. âAnd new members are very welcome,â you said sweetly, before narrowing your eyes at the camera. âSo weâll see you there. Right?â