#dc taglist

Your joints hurt like hell, but you manage to get yourself on your feet and moving in the direction of your front door. It definitely takes longer than it would normally; you’ve only made it to your bedroom doorway when you hear a bafflingly loud crash from down the hall, your head splitting with the sudden jarring noise of it.

Instinctively, you push the heels of your hands into your eyes, then drag them up until you can grip onto your hair, for a moment, head throbbing.

“Where are you?” you hear a voice down the hall, and you’re simultaneously relieved and incredibly confused that it’s Adrian. “What the fuck— What the fuck—”

“What?” you ask, your voice still cracking, leaning in your bedroom doorway.

Adrian whirls at the sound you make— barely a word, really, but loud enough to be heard this time, at least— and you’re not prepared for how upset he looks. The expression on his face is inexplicably devastated, agonized with the sort of emotion you don’t really expect to see outside of the direst of scenarios. Even, really— Even then, Adrian’s got a smile on his face, most of the time.

Not now, though. Now, he’s half-dressed in his Vigilante gear, and panicked, and running down the hallway towards you before you can even try to process that he’s here, let alone what the hell is happening right now.

Without hesitating, he wraps you right up in his arms, burying his face in your throat. His hold is tight, and your muscles all ache, but it almost feels good, in a pressure sort of way. The way it settles something inside your chest, too, isn’t something to be ignored; you feel a little bit better just for not being alone, just for having him here. You’re not— Your relationship isn’t serious serious, but you—

He still means a lot to you, more than you think anybody else in your life means to you, at this point. He’s still a source of comfort to you; he still makes you feel better. You hope your relationship will become more serious— maybe even serious serious— but it’s not there yet. But—

Still, here’s Adrian, gripping you so tightly it feels like your ribs move. You hug him back, even though you’re a little confused.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him. Your congestion and scratching throat make you slightly incoherent, but he still seems to understand what you’re saying.

“What’s wrong?” Adrian asks. “What’s wr— I thought you were dead.”

“Why the f—” you start, but then start coughing, your voice too abruptly sharp and rough for your throat, right now. Adrian backs up a little bit, panicked, when you bring your arm up, covering your face as you cough and struggle to breath, for a moment. You nearly end up gagging, at the end, but there’s really nothing in your stomach, so you manage to straighten out again after a moment, dizzy and frowning.

“What’s wrong with you?” Adrian asks, quickly. “Something’s wrong. What happened? Did you get poisoned, is that what this is? Poison? Did someone hurt you? Did—”

“Adrian,” you cut him off, head throbbing. You immediately feel a surge of over-emotional guilt for interrupting him, your illness-addled brain bringing up too much unnecessary feeling in response. Almost tearfully, and embarrassed because of it, you say, “I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Adrian says. “I’m sorry, I should be— I should be quieter, sorry. What can I do? What’s wrong, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you tell him. At his incredulous expression, you tell him, “I’m just sick. It’ll pass.” You hesitate, thinking you’re going to sneeze, but it doesn’t happen, which is kind of worse. Frowning, now, you say, “I just feel like shit.”

Adrian pauses, looking like he wants to push back into you at the same time that he’s not sure he’s allowed to. After a beat, he asks, “Why didn’t you— I tried calling? You didn’t answer.”

You glance backwards into your room, at the bag that you’d dropped on the floor the second you got home. Your phone hadn’t ended up anywhere near its charger, nor your hand; you’d completely forgotten about it, honestly. It’s probably been dead for over a day by now.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, feeling genuinely apologetic, new guilt coursing through you. Your voice almost breaks when you say, “I didn’t mean to, I was just sleeping,” and you flash with an embarrassed heat because of it, forcing you to flush hotter than your fever’s already brought you.

“Oh, hey, it’s okay,” Adrian says. His face is crumpling, tone softening; you feel bad for being the reason it’s there, even if you’re not entirely sure why it’s here at all. “Don’t be upset, I’m not mad, I’m— I was just worried about you, and, like, you didn’t call or message or even, like, view my messages, and I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong but if I had I wanted to give you your space, but then nobody else heard from you and you haven’t posted anything and I was starting to panic a little bit that something happened, or someone took you, or they hurt you because of me, or that maybe you would—”

He cuts himself off, this time, chest heaving. He’s visibly agitated, practically vibrating in front of you, when he lifts his eyes to meet yours. You’re surprised to see the fear in them, and the hurt, because everything— everything is fine. It’s going to be alright; things like this happen. Really, it’s no big deal. People get sick. It’ll be fine.

Adrian, though—

Adrian didn’t know that.

Your chest clenches, your heart doing a strange sort of squeeze at the idea of not hearing from Adrian at all for two days, at the concept of him just dropping off the grid and not responding for no apparent reason. You’d—

In his line of work— or, his preferred line of work— you probably would have assumed the same thing. It hurts something in you, that his fear for you made him this terrified, that your absence rattled him this badly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, mistaking your silence. “I didn’t mean to talk so much again, you probably have a headache, and I’m—” He huffs a laugh that doesn’t sound all that amused, says, “I’m not making it any better, probably. Fuck, I’m sorry. Is there— Can I get you anything? Or I can just go— Actually, yeah, I should probably just g—”

“No,” you insist immediately. You reach out to grab onto him again, tilting right into him. Maybe your relationship isn’t serious serious, but it’s serious enough to be intimate; he wraps his arms around you in return without hesitating, kissing the side of your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he replies. “You’re sick, I shouldn’t— I was being clingy, I didn’t want—”

“No, you’re not,” you tell him. You don’t mean to interrupt again, but you can’t let him think this was anything but what it actually is. “It’s not clingy to want to hear from me. I’d be scared if I didn’t hear from you, either.” You bury yourself in his chest, taking comfort from him. You’re starting to get more exhausted, the longer you stand upright, your joints and spine and muscles and— everything aching; you trust him to hold you upright, though. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I just kind of— fell asleep. And I haven’t been awake that much. I’m— That was stupid. I should’ve thought—”

“Hey, no, come on, don’t do that,” Adrian says. “Sorry, I just— It’s not your fault. You just— You’re sick, you’re allowed to be sick. It’s shitty. I’m not— I don’t— I shouldn’t assume, just because I’m not here doesn’t mean—”

He stops again; you can feel the tension in his body, muscles tight. His armor’s hanging off him in pieces; the rest of it, you assume, is in his car. You wonder what his intentions were if he hadn’t found you here— if he’d thought you were missing and went out searching for you as Vigilante. You’ll have to ask him about those plans, another day; you’re a little intrigued by the instinctive protective streak in him.

For now, though, you’re trying to figure out the tension in what he isn’t saying, not what he isn’t doing. You think over his words for only a second before you get it, all of it clicking into place, a puzzle that fits until it’s a picture you can understand.

“Maybe now’s not the best time,” you say, half-incoherent through your throat and sinuses and emotion and everything else, “but maybe we could think about living closer. Like— together.” His arms automatically tighten around you, his face coming down to bury in his hair. “If you wanted. When I’m feeling better.”

“I’ll move in right now if you want,” Adrian answers immediately. “I’ll— Are you sure? You sure you’re not, like, fucked up on cold medicine? Do you know what you’re saying? What year is—”

“Adrian,” you laugh, even though it makes your chest tight. You can’t help it; it just happens, even through your sickness. “Yeah, I’m sure.” You push your face closer into his shoulder. “It’ll make it easier next time one of us’s sick.”

“So much easier,” Adrian insists. Without missing a beat, he ducks down to scoop you up. It’s so effortless for him, it’s as though you weigh nothing at all; you’re standing, and then you’re airborne, swept up in his arms. “Plus, then we can, like, hang out. We can hang out all the time. And we can— We can watch TV together! And movies! And we can make dinner together, and learn to, like— I don’t know, we can have— hobbies, and go places on the weekend, and decorate together, and I can—” He sets you down in bed again, his monologue broken for a moment when he presses a kiss to your overheated forehead. “—Yikes, you’re hot— and we can get a dog, maybe, or something like a— I don’t know, something cool, like a— house horse or something— And I can see you all the time and I’ll wake up every morning and you’ll be here with me.”

Adrian collapses down in bed beside you, at the end of it all, and you automatically turn towards him, seeking his comfort. You feel cold, even though you know you’re warm; his skin is so nice against yours, and you push for more of it, shoving pieces of his uniform out of the side to get at more of his flesh, desperate for the comfort of him, to feel better.

“As long as you’re sure,” Adrian adds, at the end of it all.

“I’m sure,” you tell him, already halfway back to sleeping.

“Oh, man, I should probably, like— do something,” Adrian says. Before you can ask what he actually means by that, he says, “Do you want soup, or something? I can make chicken, or—”

“Stop,” you tell him, your weak stomach turning at the thought of eating something right now.

He sees the color drain from your face and pulls you back in to rest against him, your head on his chest, ear over his heart.

“Maybe later,” he allows. “I’ll get you some water, though, maybe? Or I can help you change your clothes, or get you comfy. Want me to plug in your phone? Or bring you to the living room, and then you can watch the TV in there if you wanted, or if you wanted to take a shower, maybe, or a bath—” He stops himself, then. After a beat where he seems to think so loudly you can hear the gears turning in his head, he asks, “What do you want, though?”

You’re already most of the way back into what you want, right now. Half-asleep, you tell him, “I just wanna rest a little while,” muffled by his chest. You yawn, jaw cracking, the soft material of his undershirt shifting beneath your face as you do. “I want you.” Tightening your fingers around him, you ask, “Would you—”

“Yes, yeah, obviously,” Adrian answers, before your question is even finished. “I’ll be right here. Whole time, not going anywhere.” He kisses the top of your head. “You get some sleep. Your body needs it, you rest. I’ll keep an eye out for you. On you. Keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, exhausted. You can feel some stirring sort of excitement in the back of your chest, something that’ll probably come into full bloom once you’re healthy and coherent and awake enough to process that the two of you are going to be moving in together. “Can I have a hug?”

Adrian huffs an amused little laugh that sounds so impossibly fond that you want to melt inside of it. You can’t help loving him, hearing the love in his voice.

“Of course you can,” he says. He tugs you in tighter, arms wrapping closer around you, holding you near to his chest. “How’s that? That better?”

It’s so nice. It’s so nice, and so comforting, and you feel so much better— in your heart, and mind, and soul, if not in your body— and you can’t help the next words falling out of your mouth. It feels like he loves you, and you know that you love him, so you murmur, “Lots better. Thanks. Love you.”

Beneath your ear, Adrian’s heart starts speeding up impossibly quickly, faster and faster, thudding harder and harder. You’re already falling back asleep; you’re not coherent enough to realize what’s happening, or even what you’ve said to him.

“What?” he asks, but you’re completely unconscious again. Your head on his chest, eyes closed, breath evening out though it rasps through your tight chest and throat.

Belatedly, he realizes you’ve fallen asleep. He doesn’t know if you know what you’ve said, or if you mean it, but— it feels like you do. It does. And he realizes, then, the words that match the feelings he’s been feeling this entire time: he loves you, too.

You’re fast asleep, and you don’t hear him, but he says, voice half-hushed, grinning, “I love you, too,” and tightens his grip on you, kissing the top of your head again, keeping you held close.

-

adrian chase taglist, pt. 1

With each maybe-day you spend confined in your cell, you grow more certain that Bruce isn’t going to come. You don’t know why, and you try to let go of reasons. It’s more important that you embrace the inevitable, find peace within yourself.

You only wish you’d confessed to Bruce.

Or— maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe confessing your feelings to him, and having him reciprocate them, would only be hurting him now. You think you could have really had something, though. You think Bruce might have embraced you, and enjoyed his time with you, and seen you as a boon to him rather than a horror waiting to happen. It’s one of the only thoughts that gives you pleasure, and it’s double-edged with pain, laced through with poison. It hurts to think about what could have been when you’re growing increasingly certain you’ll never get it.

At least he’ll have Selina. It must be her that he keeps going to see, she must be the reason he’s not spending as much time with you, and he knows, he must know, but— You never had a chance to just— be honest. You could have ended it, or figured it out. You could have asked where he went all those nights he wasn’t with you in Gotham. You could have told Bruce you wanted him, that you were right there, that he didn’t have to be with someone else, that he could have you.

You want to live. You want to live. If for no other reason than— than positive reinforcement, you have to stay alive. You need to show Bruce that reaching out to others, that making a connection, that feeling love for another person, will not always be met with hurt. You need to show him your love for him is more than he ever knew about. You have to be honest, because you didn’t realize how strongly you’d regret not having been, in your last moments.

You have to live. For yourself, for him, for— for— anything that matters, you don’t care, you just have to live. With each day that you become more certain that Bruce isn’t coming, you become similarly determined to get out of this alive. It’s a sick back-and-forth, when you know you really can’t have one without the other. All the same, you’re dead set on getting out of here alive.

It really can’t be that long since you were initially captured. Not too much time could have passed between then and now, you’re sure of it. Maybe— a little over a week, or close to two? Not more than that.

That doesn’t mean, however, that nothing has happened to you. There has been plenty of time since the moment you were captured after leaving work in downtown Gotham to hurt you in a creative variety of ways. Because you’d been knocked unconscious to transport you, you don’t know where you are, or even how long you traveled for.

All you know is you felt a searing pain while you were walking down the sidewalk, and then you woke up in a dark cell, on a tile floor, against rough, scraping stone walls. A few times a day, someone comes in and—

—does—

—anything they can to try and get you to give up information about Batman, but—

—you won’t—

—They know, though.

They know you know him. They know you’re close to him, that’s why they targeted you in the first place. You’re not even entirely certain who they are, exactly— not positive which of the several Gotham gangs or maniacs that you and Bruce have managed to piss off has you captive now— but it ultimately doesn’t matter. You won’t tell them anything. You work with Batman; you’re in love with Bruce. You’re not sacrificing either of them.

The amount of time between each visit from your torturers is uneven, always changing. They don’t give you much to go by, but— you’re thinking, even now, that it’s been a while since the last time they came to check on you.

When the thought occurs to you, you lift your head. It’s the first spark of feeling you’ve felt in a little while, though you’d hesitate before calling it hope. All this is is a sign of something different happening, but that is, at least, an opportunity; maybe you can use this time wisely, to search for some weakness in your cell, some flaw in the room you can exploit. They haven’t given you any furniture except your bed and toilet, but— maybe you can yank the toilet out, find a pipe—

There’s a shattering bang in the distance, the sound of— maybe glass falling apart. It sounds like it’s blowing apart, maybe, an explosive sort of noise. You back yourself against the wall beside your bed automatically, shoulders hunching. The idea of them using glass on you again is overwhelming, in the moment. You’re never given enough time to heal from your last session before they hurt you again; you don’t know how much more of this you can take.

For a while, you think it’s silent. Listening harder, though, you slowly realize there are sounds, they’re just far away. Though your heart is pounding, you force yourself to uncurl, pushing to your feet, climbing out of your stiff bed.

Your knees buckle, for a moment, but you get your legs under you so you can venture closer to the heavy door of your cell. There’s only a small slit you can see through. You’ve been punished for trying to look through it before, but— really, what’s the worse they can do, at this point? You’ll either die here or you won’t.

You push up onto the balls of your feet so you can peer through that tiny slit. You adjust to the light in the hallway, squinting until you can see properly, looking for something, but— You don’t see anything.

After a beat, you realize that’s strange. There should be guards here. Even if they moved away for a moment, it should only be seconds before one of them comes back and notices you here and comes to punish you for this, but nobody ever comes. You wait, listening to the faraway sounds of what might be— fighting? maybe? you can’t quite tell— and still, you never see anybody.

That dawning hope starts to return again, though you’re still afraid to feel it. You don’t want to start preparing to leave just to be hurt worse than before, but then you realize— maybe, either way, this way, you’ll be done here. You’ll get out one way or another. You can do this.

You can hear the sounds of the fight growing closer. Maybe somebody’s stormed this place, you think, or they’re looking for a prisoner of their own. The cries you’re hearing sound agonized, but none of them are familiar.

Desperate, you start preparing yourself for a fight. You’re not sure how long you’ll last, but you’re willing to try and fight, anyway. It’s better than staying here and being tortured for information you’re never going to give up for another day. There’s no point to this, and you won’t waste what’s left of your short life here.

You reach behind the toilet tank, grabbing the small knife— if you can even call it that— that you’ve cared yourself out of a rock you wiggled loose from the wall. Brandishing that, you wait by the door for movement, sound, anything at all.

You can hear the fighting drawing closer, and closer, and you grip your makeshift stone knife in your hand, waiting. Your heart is racing; you feel almost dizzy, your head rushing, but you keep yourself upright.

When you hear pounding boots in the corridor outside, you whisper hastily through the door, “Please, if you— If you’re not one of them, please, help me, I don’t—”

The person says your name. You’re bewildered, and even more confused by the agony in their tone, the pain laced through your name as it leaves their mouth. It takes a beat for you to recognize that familiar voice as Bruce’s, but then you’re relaxing, so suddenly and so viciously that you actually laugh out loud, a breathless huff.

“Oh, my God,” you breathe. You can feel yourself getting dizzier as the adrenaline starts to leave you, your body and mind instinctively realizing you’re safe as soon as you heard Bruce speak. “You came. You found me.”

There’s a beat before Bruce says, “Of course I did,” barely loud enough for you to hear. You sob, tearlessly dehydrated, clutching your knife to your chest. “Stand back.”

You hastily do as he says, forcing your numb legs to move until you’re on the bed again. There’s a small, rapid series of ticktickticktickticks, and then the door’s exploding inward. You shout wordlessly, covering your face with your arms against the heat and the shards.

In less than a heartbeat, Bruce is in the room, rushing to you. You see him in a sweep of shadows in the darkness, a blur as he comes to your side, finding your face with his gloved hands.

“You’re alive,” he says. Though he’s got the cowl on and everything, he doesn’t sound like Batman. He barely even sounds like Bruce; he sounds broken, shattered. There’s blood coming from his nose, splattered down across the bat on his chest; his eyes are red-rimmed and wet, the black smudged around them smeared with tears and sweat and blood.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” you rush to assure him. You need him to know that, at least; you never gave him up, never told them anything. “I swear, B— I swear, I didn’t—”

“I know,” Bruce says, and reaches up, cradling your face between his hands, grip tight. “Hey. I know.”

He stares down at you for a moment, the hardest he’s ever looked at you. It’s as though he’s trying to consume you with his eyes, like he doesn’t truly believe you’re here, like he can’t actually look away from you. You wonder if maybe you’re asleep, or maybe if you already did die, but— you’re in too much pain for this to not be real.

You remember how strong your regret had been. It’s maybe the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but you think, if you don’t do this now, you never will.

“I love you,” you tell Bruce.

His lips part, just slightly. His eyes meet yours, perfectly focused for a moment before they drop to your mouth, and then lift again. He starts to respond, but you cut him off.

“I’m in love with you,” you tell him, just to be sure, absolutely certain, that he understands what you mean. “And it’s okay if you don’t want me. I just had to tell you. It made me…” Your vision’s starting to get fuzzy again, your mind spacing out a bit. It takes concentration to remember what you were saying, your brow furrowing as you stare up at Bruce’s face behind his cowl, at the bright, confused, agonized look in his eyes. “I felt so sad thinking you wouldn’t know that if I died. So. Now you know. Even if you don’t love me, too.”

“(Y/N),” Bruce says, choked. He reaches for you, and you think you reach back, but your limbs feel sluggish. The rush of your body struggling to keep itself conscious when you’re still in so much pain, and still untreated, is becoming overwhelming after the terrified burst of adrenaline you just experienced.

You try to grab onto him, but you can’t get your fingers to work. You can’t even get yourself to speak. You would be more afraid, if you could get yourself to feel anything, but you’re slowly fading, growing exhausted.

Bruce reaches down and sweeps you up into his arms. Your face presses into the hard planes of his chest plate; you can feel the edge of the bat near the corner of your mouth. Your eyes drift shut as he carries you.

Above you, Bruce says, “Wake up,” and your eyes slide open again. It’s nearly impossible, but you make yourself do it, fighting through the overwhelming exhaustion, the haze in your brain, the tingling in your limbs. “Stay awake. Look at me.”

You do as he says, dragging your eyes up to look at his face. From your angle, you see the underside of his chin in the cowl, the curve of his mouth, the ears above the darkness, the glide of his cape behind him as he runs. You’re not sure he’s ever run so fast. If you’d been out on a normal night together and he ran like this, you probably would’ve complimented him on it.

Now, you only feel distantly grateful that Bruce is trying to save you when you’re incapable of saving yourself.

It occurs to you belatedly that Bruce never responding, really, to your confession. With a frown, you tell him, feeling distantly upset, “I… B… ‘M’sorry.”

“No, don’t,” Bruce replies. He shakes his head, glances down at you briefly before he looks back up, focused on running. You can’t even tell where you are, everything a smear in your vision except for him. “Don’t be sorry. You’ll be alright.”

You try to tell him you’re sorry for what you said, but you used up the last of your vocal energy, it seems. You can’t get the words to come, try as you might.

You’re also falling back towards sleep. Above you, Bruce is speaking again, but your hearing is getting worse. You try to listen, but you can barely hear him.

You reach up for his face. You’re not even entirely sure if your arms are moving, but you do try. You tell him, “I really did love you,” or you hope you do, anyway, and you let yourself fall asleep.

It’s a heavy sleep. It’s an absolute sleep. When you start to come out of it, you don’t know if you dreamt, but you know you weren’t aware. You don’t know how long you’ve slept, but you know you’ve slept, and for a moment you don’t remember leaving that place, and you’re sure you’ve woken up there—

There’s a rapid beeping near you, and your eyes fly open. A hand touches your cheek, and you jerk back away from it, terrified.

“Oh, no, darling,” a voice says. You frown, twisting to look back and up, and you find Alfred at your bedside. His hand is halfway between you both, fingers just barely outstretched, no longer touching you. He looks horribly apologetic when he tells you, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you alright?”

You nod automatically. “Sorry,” you tell him, voice rasping.

“No, no,” Alfred says. He moves to your bedside, retrieving a small white teacup he has there. He brings it to your lips, tells you, “Drink. It’s only warm water.”

You part your lips, letting him give you the water. He told the truth, it is warm, and it feels like it thaws you a little from the inside out. You hadn’t even realized you were cold.

You want to drink more, but Alfred takes the cup from you, doesn’t let you chug it like you want to. “You’ll make yourself sick,” he tells you, but you don’t really care. It’s a good thing I have Alfred here, then.

That makes you realize, though, that you’re not entirely certain where here is.

“Where am I?” you ask. Your voice is a little more solid, now, more steady. “What happened?”

Alfred sighs. It’s a soft noise, pained. You regret asking, even though you need to know.

He takes a seat at the edge of your bed. You realize, then, you’re in a dimly-lit room, the lights low likely out of deference to you as you slept, and it’s with a rush you realize you’re in one of the several medical rooms Bruce keeps outfitted in Wayne Manor. After Alfred had gotten hurt, he had made certain there were proper facilities at home if any of you were ever hurt again.

Bruce hated having his loved ones far away, and even moreso when they were hurt. It drove him absolutely insane when Alfred was taken to a hospital and nobody would let him bring him home, at first.

You don’t know why Bruce would want you here, though.

“Bruce will have to do some explaining of his own,” Alfred warns you. “But I can tell you what I know.”

You nod, shifting to get comfortable again in bed. After the time you spent on that horrible bed in the cell you’d been kept in, this feels like the most comfortable place in the world, the pillow under your head the softest thing you’ve ever touched. They must have given you painkillers, because you don’t feel even a little bit of pain, right now, just hazy and present and alive.

Alfred takes your hand in his and tells you, “You’ve been gone for sixteen days. We were lucky Bruce saw you get captured. If he didn’t know who took you, we may never have found you—”

“He saw me?” you accidentally cut him off to ask, incredulous. “H— What? How? Why?”

Alfred hesitates, for a beat. Then, he says, “You will have to ask him. He was watching you when you left work, and saw you get captured. He also fought to retrieve you, and was— rendered— He was knocked out,” Alfred tells you. “In the fight. He activated his distress signal and I found him, half-dead, in an alley.”

Your heart is racing, and Alfred must see it in your face, because he squeezes your hand before kissing the back of it.

“He’s alright,” Alfred assures you. You’re grateful, now, that you and Alfred have always gotten along so well, always had such a pleasant relationship with each other. “But he gave them a hell of a fight trying to get you back. And he’s spent every second since then trying to find you.” He leans in a bit and tells you, “I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve grown worried for—”

“(Y/N),” Bruce says from the doorway, and your head snaps up.

Sure enough, Bruce is in the doorway, his eyes fixed on you. He looks exhausted himself, his hair lank, his face pale, dark smudges still around his eyes— you don’t know if it’s faded paint, tired bruises, or both.

Just seeing him— seeing him here, the evidence that he’s alive, that you’re alive, that you’re both going to be okay— has your delicate grasp on your emotions faltering. You let out a shaky half-sound, a gasp, halfway to Bruce’s name.

Bruce comes right to you. Even if you weren’t completely coherent, he still seems to understand.

“You’re alright,” Bruce promises you. He takes you into his chest, lets you rest your head over his heart. He’s only in soft clothes, sweats you bought for him when you realized most of his clothes were impossibly uncomfortable. “You’re okay. You’re alive.”

You nod weakly into him, just trying to catch your breath. You’re embarrassed, and tired, and confused, and then—

And then you remember what you said to him, and you pull away quickly, afraid.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks. You can hear the obvious concern heavy in his voice.

You aren’t sure. You don’t know what the answer to his question is.

Instead, you ask a question of your own. You can’t meet Bruce’s eyes; you look down at his hands as you ask him, “Why were you watching me when I got out of work?” because it’s the only other question you have to ask.

“I’ll just give you the room, then,” Alfred says, and stands. He kisses you on the forehead, says, “I’ll be right outside if you need anything. I have a few ideas when your appetite is up. You just ask.”

“Okay,” you agree. You squeeze his hand, accept the hug he gives you. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Of course,” he says. “You did the same for me.”

You did. Of course, you did. You helped take care of Alfred just as often as Bruce did. You’re almost always here. Sometimes, you almost feel like a member of the family, but—

But.

You aren’t.

And you know you need to remember that.

When Alfred closes the door behind himself, Bruce looks to you again, and he looks almost— ashamed, for a moment, before the mask is on again. You hate when Bruce hides his emotions from you, even though you understand he does this to everyone, his automatic response when he’s afraid of being vulnerable, of getting hurt.

“Promise you won’t get mad,” Bruce says. It’s almost light-hearted, if it weren’t for the serious edge underneath. Bruce can be a fun guy, but, right now, he just seems off-balance.

“I promise,” you tell him, because you need to know. There has to be a reason, and it has to be— something, for him to ask you to make a promise like that.

Bruce hesitates for another beat. He looks away, then down before he confesses in a garbled rush, “I follow you sometimes. I want to make sure you’re safe. I just— have to keep tabs on you.” He pauses, then adds, like there’s blood in his mouth he’s trying not to spill, “You’re important. You’re m— You’re—” He looks frustrated.

“I’m what?” you ask him. He shakes his head. “No, Bruce, you can tell me. What am—”

“You’re not,” he bites out. There’s agitation in every line of his face before he says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“What am I not,” you ask, “then?”

He stares downward. You stare at him.

“Mine,” Bruce finally answers, spitting it into the silence like it hurt him, barbed on its way up and out of his throat. “You’re mine. But you’re not, so. I have no right to say that.”

Your heart is thudding in your chest. The monitor attached to the device on your other hand responds accordingly, corresponding rapid beeps starting to speed up. It gives Bruce a look into your pulse, lets him know how you’re feeling, the rush of emotion currently coursing through you.

His eyes flicker to the screen, then to you, reading the source of the heartbeat. His brow furrows, and he asks, “What—”

“I’m really sorry,” you tell him. Your voice breaks, because you’re scared, and you’re taking a leap of faith here, but you have to. “I’m— Bruce, I’m so sorry, but I think— If I’m wrong, you’re allowed to hate me, but I want— I think we want—” You take a shuddering, steadying breath, and tell him, desperate to have him understand, “I’m in love with you, Bruce. I meant that, I mean it now. And if you want me to be yours, you just— You just have to ask me, I’m right— I’m right here, I’m right here, I thought you knew that, I thought you didn’t want me—”

The words just keep spilling out of you, becoming faster and more honest and more desperate as you go. You’ve kept them in for so long that, now that they’re coming out, you can’t stop them.

It’s Bruce who stops you, leaning in to quickly press his lips to yours. It’s only a fleeting push, his lips there then gone, but it silences you effectively.

For a second, you stare at each other.

Then, Bruce tells you, eyes bloodshot, “I want you,” like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and still like he’s never had to do anything easier. It’s so difficult for Bruce to express himself, but here he is, putting himself into plain words in front of you, just so you’ll understand him without doubt.

Your heart is exploding. You can barely process this; the monitor reflects it accordingly, beeping so rapidly Bruce even glances up at it.

“Are you alright?” He asks. There’s mild concern in his tone as well as amusement.

You reach for him, tugging for the back of his neck. You draw him into another kiss. This one lasts longer, though you’re uncoordinated and sluggish from the drugs.

Your lips part, briefly, and Bruce responds in kind. You can feel the briefest drag of his tongue against your lower lip before he draws back. When he looks down at you this time, he’s almost smiling, though he seems— distant, a bit, somehow.

“Bruce,” you tell him, trying to reach across that distance. “I’m yours. If you want to follow me, follow me. But,” you tell him, “you don’t have to stay behind me. You can always come and be with me.”

Bruce’s eyes flicker up to meet yours. It looks like he’s putting the pieces together, understanding that he can trust you, that you’re telling the truth, that this is real. You understand; you’re going through the exact same thing yourself. It’s not easy, but it’s important, and you hang onto him, unwilling to let go.

“I do want you,” Bruce tells you. He’s testing the waters. “You— are mine. I want you so much, sometimes, I just—” He breaks off. He makes a motion near his throat with his free hand, then a frustrated noise. “Fuck.”

Words aren’t always Bruce’s strong suit. That’s okay, though. You know that about him, and you’ve never needed words from him. You’ve only ever needed him.

“Hey,” you tell him. “We’ll figure it out.”

You reach for him, pulling at him with weak fingers. Bruce looks down at you, catches your hands in his. He draws them up to his mouth, letting his lips press into the backs of them before he speaks, brushing your skin as he says, “I felt— like I was going insane when you were gone. I didn’t know what I’d do if—” He stops, then says, “When I found you—” and stops again.

You kiss him, softly, and he makes a broken sort of noise into your mouth.

“I can’t lose you,” he tells you, and you can hear everything he can’t say, feel every emotion he’s struggling to express. You can feel his fear, his complete devastation, his terror over losing you, his agony, everything he endured without even knowing if you were alive.

You can feel his desperation. You can feel it because you felt it; you thought you’d never see him again, either.

“I wanted to kill them,” Bruce admits to you. His eyes are red again, and he lets tears spill. A confession like this from him, that— that is enormous, enormous, this is him admitting he almost broke everything Batman is, and over you, and for what—

Bruce surges into you again, but it’s not for a kiss, this time. Instead, he just— holds you. He wraps his arms around you, and he buries his face in your throat, and he hugs you as tightly as he can. After a beat, you bring your arms up, winding as close to him as you can. He brings his legs up, tucks into your bed with you, and burrows into you, as if he’s trying to climb into your skin. He surrounds you, he’s everywhere, and his mouth finds your hairline. His teeth press into the bone of your skull when he speaks.

“I can’t lose you,” he repeats, and then, softer, voice cracking, “I love you, too,” before he’s hugging you again. It’s like he can’t let you go, clinging to you so tightly you’re remembering where your wounds are, but you don’t give a shit. You hang on just as tightly, tears burning your own eyes.

There will be time to talk about everything when you’re recovered, and the both of you have slept, and you can have a good, complete discussion about everything. That time isn’t now, though; it can’t come yet.

For now, all you can do is cling to him, and let him cling to you. All you can do is feel that raging terror, and the pulsing love, and the undying need to be with him, and know that he’s feeling the same way for you. He’s holding you the same way, hanging onto you with all that impossible strength. Maybe the voice in your head whispers that he wouldn’t want you, but Bruce’s actions speak louder than your mind’s foolish words.

Bruce isn’t a man who does things he doesn’t want to do. He uses his family’s fortune to repair Gotham, and he spends his nights as Batman, and he’s in love with you. No matter what other people want from him, Bruce always does what he wants.

He follows you around. He didn’t stop until he got you back. He nearly broke his code and risked everything so he could kill the people who hurt you.

You understand, then. Even when you discuss this later, there are still emotions and moments and understandings that can never be truly verbalized, and you’re having one of those now, about him, about you, about you together, in this moment.

“I love you,” you tell him again, hoping it conveys the enormity of what you mean. I’m yours to have, yours to do what you want with, yours to possess, yours to protect, yours to love, yours, yours, yours, if you’ll have me—

“I love you, too,” Bruce replies. He drags you up into a biting kiss before burrowing into your throat again. You can feel his response in every shift and press, the corresponding, You’re mine and I’m yours, you’re mine to have and I’m yours to do what you want with, you’re mine to protect and possess and love and I am yours and you are mine, mine, mine, mine, if you’ll have me—

And you will, so you bury yourself in him and don’t let go. Bruce pulls your hand up, kisses a small bandage over your wrist, buries his face in your palm. Your fingertips brush along his brow, feeling the warmth of his skin. You don’t think you’ll ever, ever be able to bring yourself to let him go, not for anything.

-

requests used:

"Hey! Can I request a story where the reader is insecure and thinks Pattinson!Bruce Wayne is acting strange because he is seeing someone else and also because of all the nights away, but he shows the reader he loves her with all his heart." (anonymous)

"to have loved was soooooo precious and good on my soul. beautiful work, you have such a good grasp on bruce’s character! i especiallyyyy liked the possessiveness peaking through, wanting the reader fully to himself. i find it difficult to write him as so desperate and open with what he feels, but you’ve executed that perfectly! i wanted to request anything with bruce and the need to possess— something dark, a small fixation on the reader that deteriorates to an unhealthy obsession. (seeing him stalk selina did something to me. yandere type beat, if you are comfortable with that kind of thing!) thanks so much, and again, wonderful work!" (anonymous)

"this is a very vague request, so I'm sorry, but any sort of hurt/comfort with Bruce would be super lovely 💗 something like .. perceived unrequited love due to the readers low self esteem ? it's just on my mind lol. idk I just love angst 💗💗💗 Tysm I love everything you do fr" (anonymous)

"Hey! Can I request a Bruce/Batman x reader? If so, I can give you some kind of plot if that's okay for you." (anonymous)

"OPEN REQUESTS! OK YAY! maybe could i please have whump with a happy ending where bruce goes totally out of control berserk when the reader is threatened/hurt and he wants to protect them?" (anonymous)

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bruce wayne taglist:

@jelliebeanss @zofps @trans-librarian @Probablyasatanworshipper @phoenixhalliwell @bb-skyrunner @myguiltypleasures21 @eeveeangelcakes @freyafriggafrey @neptuneswritingwork @middimidoris @herbsschmerbs @satansrighthandmanchild @iwillstaywiththemforever

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dc universe taglist:

Besides, he agrees with you that you should keep your relationship secret. Though, of course, he’s more worried about what he refers to as one of his “many, many, many evil nemeses” getting their hands on you.

“Babe, I’m a superhero,” he had said to you, like he was Superman or Captain America and not the masked instigator of half of Evergreen’s fights. To you, though, he’s a greater superhero than the rest combined, so you’d just nodded, unable to stop smiling. “There are so many people who would want to use you to get to me. Like, so many. I can’t let that happen.”

You both had your reasons, and, right now, those reasons were too important for the two of you to reveal your relationship. To you, it was enough that you were with each other at all. Eventually, you’ll have to do something— You’ve already told each other, “I love you,” eventually this is going to have to go somewhere.

Today, though, is luckily not that day.

However, a big part of you wishes it was, because you think you’re about to actually go insane otherwise.

Because John and Leota had opted to stay behind in your team’s new van and provide behind-the-scenes support, the tech and tactics John’s so good at and Leota wants to be better at, you and Adrian had been the ones assigned to monitor Emilia and Chris while you were all inside the lavish hotel ballroom together. The cover Emilia’s assigned to you is a married couple that’s visiting the city. You’ve been invited to this party— which isn’t really a party like parties you go to, but seems like more of a gala like you’d seen in movies— because a friend of a friend of “yours” is here. It’s all made up, but you’re used to going undercover. You can sell this.

It is the responsibility of you and Adrian to keep an eye on Emilia and Chris all night. Don’t let anyone get too close; keep track of any suspicious figures; make sure nobody gets hurt. Pretty basic. You could do a mission this easy in your sleep; you don’t even think you’re going to have to shoot anybody tonight. By the end of the night, you’re all supposed to go to the hotel rooms you’ve been assigned, sleep there, and regroup in the morning. When you’d asked why you all had to stay, Emilia said it was less suspicious than if someone checked later and saw you were the only guests who had neglected to stay afterwards.

So, really, it’s not that bad. You just have to have your friends’ backs, eat some nice food, and sleep in a fancy hotel room. Really, it’d be nice if all missions were like this.

The major problem here has nothing to do with the target, or the gala, or the mission itself. It has to do with your assignment, with Adrian’s assignment, with your roles together; it has to do with what you’ve been told to do, and what you’ve been dressed in—

—Which, you can’t be too mad about. Your clothes fit you perfectly, shimmering and ornate and just— fancy, much fancier than anything you’ve ever owned before, or even worn before. Even the fabric feels rich, so silkily textured beneath your fingertips. The material had practically slipped out of your fingers when you first lifted it out of the box Emilia had given to you. It was thin, nearly sheer; the material’s so dark blue that it nearly shimmers to black in some places, small drops of brightness beaded throughout. It drapes off your shoulders, hugs your frame tightly down your body. At your waist, the tight bodice of the dress flows into a looser skirt; a slit comes up the side of your right leg to stop shockingly high. The overall effect of the dress, when you put it on, is like stars in the night sky, or moonlight on water— light winking in and out of existence as you move, twisting in the mirror to examine it from all sides.

You’d protested the dress on instinct, telling her that you had no protection while wearing a dress like this, but she informed you that wearing a dress like this was your protection.

“You’re supposed to blend in,” she’d said, and then stepped in to adjust the front, checking the fit. “This is your armor. Now, turn around so I can button it and make sure it fits.”

It had fit you well enough, but Emilia had pinned it in a few places anyways, determined that it fit exactly right. It’s part of your costume, she told you; people as wealthy as you’re pretending to be would be wearing something bespoke, that fit them perfectly, so you have to, too.

The same had happened with Adrian, even if you hadn’t actually gotten to see his clothes yet. He’d been too embarrassed to show you then, even though you reminded him you’d see him in it eventually.

It’s not until you’re actually showing up at the coordinates Emilia gave you that you’ll get to see Adrian fully dressed.

You get there before he does, tragically, showing up in a parking lot you’ve all used as a pre-mission meeting spot before. It’s easy to find Chris, Emilia, Leota, and John already there. With your arrival, you’re all just waiting for Adrian.

When you get out of your car, already ready to go, John playfully whistles at you. You laugh, unable to stop yourself from actually blushing— partially because you’re not all that used to compliments on your appearance, and partially because you’re embarrassed, you never look like this in front of them. It feels strangely revealing, to be dressed so well in front of people who frequently see you at your worst; it’s like you feel like they’ll know it’s all fake, or something.

Chris and Emilia are dressed up, too, though, and they look incredible, and that doesn’t feel fake to you, so— maybe there is something real to their compliments of you. Emilia’s golden dress falls down her body like shimmering water, clinging tightly to each small dip and curve of her body. She has her hair straightened, sleek and shining and elegant; her makeup’s done even more beautifully and dramatic than normal, her eyes, just— stunning. She looks incredible. You’re not surprised seeing that Chris is having a hard time not looking at her. Even you’re having a hard time not looking at her.

For his part, Chris looks handsome, too. Emilia must have dressed him, because he actually looks muted, for once. She’s put him in all black, and he looks the perfect picture of an imposing bodyguard— even if he can’t stop looking at his supposed employer. You feel like you’re practically invisible next to them, even if you spent way longer than you would normally doing your hair and everything to make sure you looked as perfect as you could tonight.

For the mission. Obviously. Not for Adrian.

“You’re going to be taking this,” Emilia tells you, motioning you over to one of the two cars beside your team’s mission van. They’re impossibly nice, sleek and clean and new, a car you’ve never even seen before, let alone driven in. “Chase should probably drive.”

“What, don’t trust me?” you ask, examining the gleaming black exterior.

“No,” she says. “Because that’s not your role. He’s the head of the household, you’re—”

“The demure partner, I know,” you finish for her. “I read your whole bio you made up. You should be a playwright or something, it was pretty good.”

Emilia actually laughs, then says, “Glad you liked it,” and you can’t help smiling. It puts you at ease that she’s in a good mood. She’s relaxed, and you’re relaxing, and—

—And Adrian’s car is pulling up along the other side of the mission van. Your heart is instantly in your throat, the same way it usually ends up whenever you see him while there’s other people around. You always want so badly to go right to him, but you almost never can.

Tonight, the feeling is amplified, multiplied infinitely because of the way he looks. You have never seen him like this, never. Adrian’s usual wardrobe consists of one of only a few different options. He’s either in one of his favorite sweater-jeans combos; his Vigilante armor; shirts and shorts that are legally color atrocities; his work uniforms; or nothing at all, which seems to be his personal favorite when you’re alone at one of your places together.

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen him in actual formalwear. And this is more than just him wearing nice clothes because he’s trying to take you out to dinner somewhere he has to wear a tie. This is—

This is Adrian rounding his car in a suit. His clothes fit him so perfectly, and they’re so— so fucking nice, beautiful and dark. You can’t look away from him, from the broad spread of his shoulders in the well-fitting suit jacket, over his strong chest beneath the white dress shirt underneath, down his legs that feel impossibly fucking long in these pants, the way they’rethey’re fitted to his legs, tucked up around his body. His satiny-looking shirt is buttoned up to the top, a black bow tie in place at the center of his throat. He’s even combed his hair back, though the way his hair is curling can’t really be held back, already loosening in a couple places.

When you actually manage to focus on his face, he’s adjusting his glasses, a flush melting over his cheeks, spreading red up his ears. You linger over the dimples at the smiling corners of his mouth, the freckle by his eye, the tiny scars along his jaw. He’s cleaned the lenses of his glasses, you notice, and his eyes seem so bright through them.

His eyes don’t meet yours when you look at them, though. They’re below your eye level. They’re looking— right at you, burning over your body everywhere, moving from your throat down over your chest, your waist, your hips, your thighs, down and back up. You can’t stop yourself from blushing, too.

“Jesus, Adrian, put your eyes back in, you’re being a creep,” Chris says, and you snap back into yourself. You’re embarrassed, heart belatedly pounding. You hope nobody thinks too deeply about the way you were just fucking— eye-fucking each other in this parking lot.

“Sorry,” Adrian says. “I really— I wasn’t trying to be a creep, you just look stupid nice. Like, you should dress like that all the time, you look—” He huffs a little nervous laugh, says, “Ah, fuck, I’m being a little bit of a creep. I don’t mean to be. Uhh— This is— What if— Okay, so, this is me being normal and trying to be not creepy: you look really, really nice.”

You can’t help the smile that comes up at that. In the back of your mind, you wonder what Adrian would be saying if there weren’t people here and he could say anything he wanted. You wonder what he’d do, if he could do anything you wanted.

Your eyes flicker up to meet his again, and you make yourself be as normal as you can be, too, when you want to run and just— jump at him.

“You look really nice, too,” you tell him. “And you’re not being creepy, don’t worry. Not everyone has to be so distracted by Emilia that they can’t compliment anyone else.” You have to force yourself to smile at your own joke, to tear your eyes away from Adrian to look at Emilia instead. “Not that I blame him, obviously. You did a great job with all of us, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Emilia replies. “Literally ever.” She tosses the keys to the sleek car you’re standing beside to Adrian. “The location’s already keyed into your car’s GPS. Remember, watch us until eleven, make sure you see my signal, and then go up to your room like you’re sick and going to bed early. There should be pajamas and toiletries— like, toothbrushes and all that shit— provided for you by the hotel, and I’ll have clothes for you to change into in the morning.” She hands you a hotel key in the form of a card, says, “Sorry, you’ll have to share a room tonight to keep up the act, but it’s got a huge bed so just— build a pillow wall so he doesn’t hump you while you’re sleeping.”

“Got it,” you reply, smiling up at Adrian as he draws closer, trying to make it clear to him— without making it obvious to everyone else— that that’s not necessarily unwelcome.

His eyes catch yours, blown mostly black; his movements are stiffer than normal, and you can’t help reaching out to catch him by the shoulders. He stiffens impossibly further, back straightening, shoulders spread. You slip the hotel key card and your phone into the inside pocket of his jacket to hold for you before fixing his lapel for him. Your fingertips reach for his collar next, straightening it out for him. Just to keep touching him, you continue moving to pick at the sleeves of his jacket, loosening them up a bit, giving him a little more movement.

When you reach up to fix the very top edge of his collar, you can feel his pulse rabbiting in his throat, impossibly fast. His skin is warm under your touch, and you exhale with a hint of a shake to your breath. When you glance up at him through your eyelashes, he’s already looking at you. This close up, it’s hard not to drag your palms flat down his chest and yank his hips into yours and just— beg him to do— something, anything, but you make yourself just smile, even as the backs of your knees sweat.

“There you go,” you tell him, taking your hands off him. He exhales, but doesn’t step away, leaving it to you to do it.

You separate, making to head for the passenger side door, but Emilia says, “Wait, hold on,” and you turn back, brow furrowed. She’s fishing through the tiny bag she’s carrying before she holds something out. Adrian reaches out automatically, and she drops whatever it is into his palms. “There’s your wedding rings.”

“Congrats,” Leota laughs. Your pulse jumps, even though it’s fake, even though there’s no way Leota actually knows anything. “Should I have gotten you something?”

“Haha,” Adrian says, out loud. You glance up at him, bewildered. “Yeah, because— it’s fake, so— There’s no real— Anything. That’s super funny, actually.”

There’s a beat of silence before you try to salvage his brief mental lapse, saying quickly, “So, are you going to give me mine, or are we already divorced?”

Adrian’s eyes snap to yours. His fingers briefly curl around the matching rings in his palm before he steps closer to you again, reaching for your right hand. He pauses, reconsiders, then reaches for your left.

“That was my left,” he comments, humor and anxiety lacing his tone. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you reply. He takes your hand in his, slips the ring onto your left ring finger.

For a moment, the two of you just stare at it.

Then, you say, “Okay, let me,” and take his to do the same for him. You slide it on, then turn his hand over, running the pad of your thumb over the band. “This is really nice.”

“And here,” Emilia says, fishing through her bag. She motions to you, says, “Come here.”

You step closer, and she gives you another ring. This one is less of a band, and you realize it’s meant to be an engagement ring.

“Almost forgot,” Emilia says, and you want to just— lay down and breathe, for a second, but you have to make yourself be normal.

You slip it on, avoiding looking at Adrian again as you do so, while Emilia busies herself fixing a heavy jeweled necklace around your throat. You shift it where it sits, readjusting the weight against your chest; Emilia moves to your ears next, slipping earrings in that probably cost more than your own fucking car. You should definitely be getting paid more than you are.

“There,” Emilia finally says. She sweeps your hair up and back. “Alright, perfect. You actually do look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you reply, “though I could do without the surprise,” and she laughs again.

“We ready to go?” John asks, hauling open the back door of the van so Leota can climb in.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Emilia says. She pushes her keys into Chris’ hand, says, “You’re driving me,” before she turns to you and— you think— fucking— winks at you.

You’re not sure you saw it, before you have to move and get into the car. You’re pretty sure you didn’t, actually, but— it would be funny if you did.

You climb into the passenger’s side of the sleek vehicle, slipping down into the low seat, the material of it soft and warm beneath you. When you’re sitting inside, you tug the door shut and turn only to find Adrian already beside you.

“When we get there,” Adrian says, “You should let me get out and get the door for you. It’s— It’s probably what Jack would do.”

Your characters for the night are Jack and Morgan Curtis, a newly-married couple; you are just supposed to be a trophy partner, whereas Adrian’s character is meant to be some wealthy media investor. His bio also said he was very shy, and prefers to spend time alone with only his partner— which you assume is Emilia’s way of trying to avoid letting Adrian talk too much and allowing something to slip by accident.

“Okay,” you agree. Adrian draws his driver’s side door closed behind him, then exhales.

Looking down at the wheel, he says, “I’m not gonna crash this. Right?”

“Right,” you agree. He takes another breath before actually moving to start the car. When the engine snarls, pushing a light little vibration through the car, you can’t help leaning back a bit, getting comfortable in your seat.

Adrian glances over at you, then forcibly looks away, eyes snapping violently forward.

“P— Do you think they can hear me?” Adrian asks abruptly, voice dropping down.

You glance backwards, then towards him again, shaking your head.

“I want to fuck you so bad right now,” Adrian tells you in a rush, his head still down. He’s staring hard at the car’s little screen; you can see his pulse throbbing in his throat, his face pinking again. “Oh, my God, I’m so fucking hard right now, I’m going to go insane, I don’t know how the fuck I’m gonna do this without cumming in my pants.” You huff a tiny laugh, heat throbbing between your own legs. “No, I mean it, I’m serious, I’m so fucking— See, here, feel— No, wait, don’t—”

“Adrian, goddamnit,” you laugh, a little breathless. “We still have three hours until eleven o’clock. Fuck, we still have to get there.”

“Good fucking luck with that,” Adrian replies. “Can I even drive like this? Wait, hold on—” He reaches down, readjusts his dick in his suit pants. You look down, then back up quickly. He wasn’t lying; he’s very hard, and it’s impossibly obvious, when he’s grabbing it in his own hand. “Okay, f— fuck, there.”

You close your eyes for a moment, then look out the window, just trying to breathe. You hear Adrian take another deep breath himself before he’s buckling himself in and moving to start driving.

“Buckle up,” Adrian tells you. “It’s the law.”

You smile to yourself again as you do as he says. “Would you kill me if I didn’t?”

He considers your question for a moment before replying, “No. But that’s not an invitation to break the law, just because I have a soft spot for you, alright? Because people are gonna figure me out if that happens.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you reply, still smiling. He nods, eyes fixed ahead on the road.

The air in the car is— impossibly warm, and thick, and charged. At least, to you, it is— and you think it is to Adrian, too, because his muscles are all still stiff as he drives. He’s keeping all of his focus on the road, which, for Adrian, means his mind is definitely somewhere else, because he can’t really ever do just one thing at a time.

Eventually, you can’t take it anymore, and you tell him, “I think you look— insanely good tonight. And it makes me feel kind of crazy that nobody knows about us because part of me wants to just— kiss you so fucking hard—” You bite your words back, say, “I’m sorry, that’s not helping—”

“No,” Adrian replies, a little strangled. You don’t know if that’s a, ‘No, it’s not helping,’ or a, ‘No, please, keep going,’ so you risk leaning over the center console between you a bit. There are low blue lights in the car, casting his handsome face in sharp shadows, defined by the angles of his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, his brow. He glances at you, eyelashes casting a shadow down his cheek.

You can’t really resist him, especially not now that you’re alone. You chance another shift, leaning up to gently press your lips to his lower cheek, close to the line of his jaw.

Adrian’s grip tightens on the steering wheel until his knuckles are white, and he says, “We have a mission, we have a mission, we have a mission,” over and over on a loop, like he’s trying to remind himself of that fact.

You pull away from him, making yourself let him go. You practically have to push yourself against the passenger’s side door in the car, near the comparatively-cold glass of the window, just to cool yourself down. When you turn back to Adrian, you see him glancing down at the GPS screen, then starting to make a turn. He flicks on his fucking directional, then executes a madman’s turn, winging around the corner.

You reach over, letting your fingertips rest just inside his elbow. The fabric is silky-soft beneath your touch, and you glide upwards until your fingers are gliding over his on the wheel.

Adrian takes that one hand off the wheel so he can turn it over in yours. After a beat, he glances down, then draws the back of your hand up to his mouth. He presses his lips to the fine bones in the back of it. After a beat, the kiss pushes a little firmer. The throb of heat between your legs is pretty much impossible to ignore.

Adrian separates you, then, letting your fingers thread with his as he draws your hand away from his mouth. Tangled up, your hands rest between the two of you. You stroke your thumb over the strong back of his hand.

“I wish I could give you road head,” you comment, and Adrian accidentally flicks on the turn signal again. Face pink, he turns it back off, eyes fixed ahead.

“We’re going to be there in two minutes,” Adrian tells you.

“I think I could still get it done,” you reply,

Adrian makes a strangled noise. “Please, I think I’ll die, and we’ll crash, and then you’ll die, but—” You let your fingers drift up the soft skin inside his wrist for a moment. “—But, you know, I’m actually a pretty good driver, and you’re pretty good at sucking dick, so maybe we c—”

“You have reached your destination,” the tiny, robotic voice of the GPS says, and Adrian bangs his fist on the wheel.

“Motherfucker,” he curses. “You fucking— cockblock GPS, you’re a bag of fucking dicks—”

A valet waves Adrian up, and he instantly changes his entire demeanor, beaming at the guy. He rolls his window down, says, “What’s up?”

The valet hesitates, like he’s not sure he wants to say something. He chances it, though, and says, “You have to— step out of the vehicle, sir.”

Adrian blinks up at him, then says, “Oh, d— Yeah, right. Yes, of course.” And then actually parks the thing to get out. He practically sprints around the car to get to your side before you can get your hand on the handle, jerking it open for you.

He holds out his hand to you, and you take it. You are, actually, grateful for his help standing; you wobble for a second, climbing out of the low car, but he steadies you, keeping his hand in yours, reaching to balance you by the shoulder. When he offers you his arm instinctively, you take it, looping your own through his.

“I wish I had more guns,” Adrian whispers to you as he helps you up the hotel stairs. The entire place seems old as shit, like it’s from a hundred years ago, all huge cream columns and beautiful statues and rich, lush carpeting. There are incredibly strange and intriguing paintings on the walls that you examine as Adrian scopes out the other guests. He’s doing what he always does, you know that: automatically looking for every way he could kill everyone in your immediate vicinity.

“I have a knife strapped to my thigh,” you tell him, voice low. He glances down at you in a snap, then looks up again, eyes scanning the lavish hotel lobby.

After a beat, he says, “Oh, shit. We’re supposed to be married.”

You’re about to ask what he means by that phrasing, exactly, but then he’s ducking down to press a kiss to your cheek. It doesn’t have any finesse, just a quick, smushing press, his glasses digging into your temple before he withdraws.

That’s when you get what he means. The two of you can be as close as you want tonight. Everything you usually suppress— every kiss you want to give him, every touch, everything— can come up and out tonight, spilling right out of you. You’re allowed to do any of it, all of it. The others will just see it as you being good at your job, if you do.

You turn to look up at him, reaching to touch the side of his face. He looks briefly startled, for a moment, before his eyebrows lift and he’s smiling. You guide him down into a soft kiss— your first like this— and your heart leaps up into your throat. You’re glad that it would be too obvious for you to have an earpiece; only Chris has one tonight. If Leota or John needs to tell you anything, Chris will have to pass you the message. That means you can’t hear them— and they can’t hear you.

You shift into him slightly. When you twist up, you can see the light of the chandelier above your heads reflecting over his face, in his bright eyes. You hadn’t even noticed it before; you’ve been too distracted by Adrian.

It says a lot, you think, that this is one of the nicest places you’ve ever been invited to go to, let alone been, and you’re too focused on Adrian to notice any of the finer details. Instead, you’re just captivated by him as you lean up into him, reaching up to thread your hand through his soft curls, feeling the light product he’s combed through it under your fingers.

“That’s true,” you reply, heart racing. You lean in closer, adding, “Husband,” and his cheeks flush pink. You drag your touch along his face, your thumb pressing into the freckle beside his eye.

All his breath punches out of his lungs, and he says, “Oh, my God, I think you found a new kink for me. I kind of want to be married to you so fucking hard— Oh, shit, should we get each other pregnant?”

“Adrian,” you whisper softly.

Adrian makes a soft whining noise, then hisses to you quickly, “No, my name is Jack, remember?”

You kiss the line of his jaw before releasing him. He doesn’t let you go far, reaching down to snag you around the waist. He’s a little too jerky to be subtle, but that’s okay, if he’s supposed to be shy and newly married. You think he’s giving off the honeymoon phase vibe pretty well.

“Well, Jack,” you reply. “You have three hours to keep it together before we can go up to our room. Do you think you can handle it?”

Adrian shakes his head automatically. “But I’ll try,” he tells you, impossibly earnest.

You huff another laugh, not sure of your own abilities, either. You push up into him one last time, drawing him into a proper kiss. He smiles, briefly, before you deepen the kiss, parting your lips so he gets the hint.

His hands reach up, threading into the intricate weave of your hair as he draws in closer to you, licking into your mouth for a moment. You feel the fleeting press of his hard cock against your thigh before he’s withdrawing again, chest heaving, practically yanked backwards.

Actually yanked backwards, you realize, as Chris and Emilia pass you by, and Chris subtly grabs Adrian by the back of the jacket and jerks him away from you.

“Keep it subtle, dude, you’re gonna freak ‘em out,” Chris hisses to him on the way past. You don’t think you’re supposed to hear that; judging by the way Adrian’s eyes dart to yours, you think you definitely weren’t supposed to. You wonder how long Chris has been trying to set the two of you up, not knowing you’re already together.

“Okay,” Adrian breathes. He shakes himself out as Chris and Emilia leave, passing you by to continue onward into the ballroom. Exhaling, tilting his head so his neck cracks to one side, then the other, Adrian attempts to refocus on the mission. He starts guiding you to follow after Chris and Emilia into the ballroom, saying, “Alright. Let’s do this. We can do this, I can do this. I’m a professional. I am not going to cum in my pants—” as you laugh at him, hoping desperately he’s right— about the both of you, honestly.

— — — — —

There’s only about half an hour left to go, and you very deeply, sincerely, genuinely don’t think you and Adrian are going to make it.

The entire night, the two of you have only been getting— closer, and closer, and closer to the edge. It’s by the grace of some fucking god you don’t even believe in that the two of you make it through the dinner part of the evening without anything illegal happening in public. His hand does push your skirt up to trace along the bare inside of your thigh more than a few times, but you keep enough strength of will to keep pushing him away.

You’re weakening more every moment, though. As the night wears on, the two of you really start losing your handle on yourselves. You can’t keep your hands off each other. The fact that you’re not only allowed to be doing this with each other, but encouraged to, is making the both of you a little bit unhinged.

You’d had drinks next before music had started and you’d been encouraged to dance. The night was coming to a close, and Emilia was drawing nearer to your target. You and Adrian are both half-keeping an eye on her and Chris, half-focused on each other.

Adrian had held his hand out to you, and said, keeping his voice low, “I don’t really know how to dance, but I’m willing to try,” and you just couldn’t resist that.

You’d taken his hand, and Adrian had drawn you close, and then it didn’t matter if he didn’t know how to dance. Just being close was enough, and the music had gotten slow, and you just— how the fuck could you say no to something like this? You’re usually not allowed to touch him in front of your friends, and now you’re basically being told to dry-hump him in a ballroom, for your job. It feels like a dream come fucking true.

Adrian lifts his eyes, watching Emilia as she finally gets close enough to the mission target to strike up a conversation with him. Adrian spins you, just slightly, so you can both watch subtly, sideways.

You both see as Emilia drops something in his drink without anybody looking, Chris’ bulk covering the only camera with eyes on her from the angle they scouted previously. You’re experts, you’re good at this.

Emilia turns to you then and inclines her head, then signals to you with a glancing motion along her hip. You nod your head in return, returning your attention upwards to Adrian.

“All set,” you inform him, voice low.

“Mission accomplished,” Adrian says, throat tight.

“Well,” you reply. “First mission accomplished.”

Adrian’s eyes are dark, his face flushing as you slip a little closer to him. One of his hands drifts down, slipping just beneath the slit cutting up your dress, gliding up your thigh to find your hip beneath the material.

The juxtaposition of the Adrian you usually know and this Adrian is just— incredible. You love everything about him, and seeing him dressed up like this is so— so— so. He’s such a fun guy, and goofy, and he’s an excellent murderer, but so rarely do you see him dressed up. It’s impossible how handsome he is; you feel a little wild, knowing that anyone else can see him right now. You want him all to yourself.

With the way he’s looking at you, so hungry as to seem fucking starving, you think he might just be feeling the same way about you. The edge of that thought has your skin prickling in the darkness of the ballroom, beat pounding through you. Your skin is prickling with heat.

“Sorry I’m not so good at dancing,” Adrian says. “I’m good at, like, other kinds of dancing, though. If you ever wanted to go out. I could definitely take you. Or I could learn— Aah,” he bites off near your ear when you slip your arms up behind his head., winding to tangle your wrists at the nape of his neck. “Oh, fuck—”

“I think you’re pretty good at it,” you murmur upwards to him. You take his hips in your hands, helping him move along to the rhythm with you.

You can feel Adrian’s heart galloping where he’s pressed against you. Yours is paced to match, thundering in your chest, up into your throat. Every shift of his body against yours with the music has your blood pulsing madly through your body, surging down to your core, beating between your legs. You can barely breathe when he drops his head down, cheek dragging along yours. You don’t care if it does anything to your makeup; it’s about to very severely not matter anyways.

“Oh, shit, I’m going to lose it,” Adrian murmurs near your ear. “Please, please, please, are we done? I promise we can go dancing some other time, but, fuck, I’ve spent, like, three hours just getting harder and harder and I think I’m going to fucking die—”

“Okay, yeah,” you breathe. “We can be done, I can— I can— What am I doing?”

“Playing sick,” Adrian says, dropping into your throat. “Pretend you’re about to shit yourself or something so we can get out of here.”

You huff a laugh, then draw away from him. You drag your hands down, over your own stomach, then lean into him. If anyone were watching, they’d see you weakening, leaning into him. They probably don’t know why your face is flushed all red and your knees are nonexistent, so you use it to your advantage.

“Oh, no,” Adrian says loudly, in the affected little voice he’s adopted for this character. “You don’t look good, darling,” and the endearment rolls off his tongue so well that a bolt of lightning crackles down your spine. “I think you should lay down, you look awful.”

He drops down and scoops you up into his arms. Apparently, it doesn’t matter to him that people don’t just— do that, scoop their spouses up off of the floor in ballrooms when they’re wearing fucking gowns, and there’s something about that that’s even more endearing than you thought possible. And— fucking hotter than you ever thought possible.

“Let me take you to our room,” Adrian begs you. It’s not so much an instruction as it is a plea. Hopefully, nobody’s actually paying enough attention to notice the exact cadence of his tone. “Make you all— all better.”

You have to fight back a laugh. Instead, you turn your face into his chest. If he’s going to carry you, you’re going to play up needing to be carried, weak in his arms. You know you’re not supposed to want to feel weak— and you’re not, and you don’t, but— but there’s something really comforting about letting him take care of you, and something erotic about how badly he wants to do it, and you’re just— overwhelmed by how much you love him.

You’re also overwhelmed by how badly you want him to fuck you, but you’re so close now, you just have to— focus on getting there.

Adrian carries you to the elevators, pressing the up button with his elbow. He’s watching the numbers ticking above the doors, for a moment, before he glances down at you. When his eyes meet yours, you can see intent blazing there, hard, dark determination.

He exhales shakily, and looks up again. Staring straight ahead, he says, “I want to totally just— obliterate you. You make me feel crazy. Like I was born to climb inside you.”

You clutch at his suit jacket with your fingers. He gathers the skirt of your dress up so he doesn’t trip on it as he carries you into the elevator, your hands slipping the top buttons of his shirt free. You glide your palm along his heated skin beneath, seeking his chest, and he exhales in a punch.

“Please, we’re so close,” Adrian says. “Don’t make me cum in my pants here, I really think I’m gonna make it—”

As the elevator doors are dinging shut, you draw Adrian into a searing kiss. Away from eyes that are supposed to think you’re sick, you let Adrian dive into your mouth. He licks behind your teeth, pushing over to the wall of the elevator so he can use the railing there to balance your body. He kisses you so hard his teeth drag along the seam of your lips when he draws back; he makes a sharp little sound, strong muscles moving in his broad arms beneath you as he tries to keep his grip while losing his control.

The elevator dings again, the doors starting to open. Adrian nearly staggers before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, and then he’s hauling you down the hallway.

“Get the key card,” he tells you, and you reach inside his jacket to pull it out, as told. “What’s the—”

“1018,” you read the room number off the card. He’s reading the signs on the wall, then taking off. After a beat, he turns, realizing he’s supposed to be going in the opposite direction. He’s moving faster than you think you’ve ever seen him move, and you reach up, dragging his head down a bit so you can suck a kiss into the column of his throat.

Adrian groans, guttural and primal, as he finds the door and nearly slams into it. You reach to push the card into the slot in the door, and then Adrian’s kicking it in, the two of you fumbling with and at each other desperately, spilling through the doorway into the room.

You barely have time to notice anything about the room. Later, you’ll get to spend the rest of the night alternatively fucking each other in the suite’s enormous bathtub, and in the shower, and over the balcony edge, and on the long sofa in the little sitting area, but right now, Adrian doesn’t even stop to look at any of that. He heads right for the huge bed in the center of the suite’s bedroom, not hesitating, single-minded in his quest.

You have to agree with his methods, because you’re pretty much out of your mind yourself, by now. The bed is enormous, taking up most of the space in the bedroom, lavish, heavy curtains hung around the entire thing. He kicks open the curtain at the foot of the bed in dragging jerks before he’s throwing you down on the mattress.

The covers are so impossibly soft beneath you, just like the sheer, silken material of your dress, and the satiny glide of Adrian’s suit over your bare, hot skin. He shoves you up until your head is on plush pillows, dragging himself down between your legs.

“Fuck,” he groans, already pushing your dress up. He gathers the sheer material in his strong hands, trying his best not to rip it as he noses along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He finds the knife holster you told him about; smiling, he murmurs, “Gotcha, you little fucker,” before biting the clasp apart with his teeth.

The holster comes off, and he lifts it in his hand. Sitting up, he evaluates you, then removes the knife from the sheath.

He drops down over you, bringing the knife up to the hollow beneath your throat so he can drag the blade down. You keep it as sharp as you can, and so it easily parts the material of your dress, splitting it apart, exposing you like he’s unwrapping you, all your skin on display underneath. Your heart throbs beneath the glint of your blade in his hands. You’d opted to wear nothing underneath to avoid lines in your form-fitting clothes, and Adrian moans when he realizes, dropping down to bury his face in your belly.

“Holy fuck, oh, fuck,” Adrian curses into your skin. He drags down between your legs, his hand coming up to push your thigh slightly further apart. His eyes coast over your center, starving. “Please, can I—”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and he drops down over you, hungry, desperate to get his mouth on you. His tongue is— fucking insane, because all that talking he does is not for nothing. He knows how to use his mouth, his lips, his teeth, his tongue. He’s devouring you like he’s dying without you, like this is the only thing he actually wanted in his mouth tonight.

Adrian’s hand glides up over the fabric of your dress, dragging up roughly to your chest so he can thumb your nipple. You cry out, back arching; tilting your head down so you can see Adrian, you almost sob.

He’s still fully dressed in that fancy fucking suit, but he’s humping the mattress beneath him like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. The unconscious movement just keeps— happening, his hips moving as his mouth works on you, lower lip dragging, and then his hand is dragging in closer, and you reach down to thread your hand through his thick hair. You can’t stop watching his dark head moving between your legs, and you can’t help it— You need to kiss him, now.

Watching him enjoy putting his mouth on you like this so much that he can’t fucking control himself, grinding down for friction because of how he feels giving you pleasure, you think you’re about to fucking pass out. You tug on his hair, and he lifts his eyes to you. Seeing the green shine of them meet you sends a jolt through you, and you say, “Pl— Adrian, please,” practically begging.

Adrian seems to get what you’re saying without you even saying it. He draws away from you so he can climb up between your legs, dropping down to brace himself on the bed beside you. He threads his fingers up through your hair, guiding you into a hard kiss; you can taste yourself in his mouth.

He makes a soft noise, then a harder one, reaching to push your dress further away so he can touch you anywhere, everywhere. His touch is practically tearing you apart; he is rending your dress in strips, destroyed where it lays in a pile along the edges of the bed. You hope Emilia won’t care, but you can’t bring yourself to care, right now. All you want is him.

Adrian guides himself to where he’s just had his mouth on you, where he’s just eaten you apart, sloppy and loose and wet. He almost seems to forget that he’s fully dressed himself.

“Fuck,” he curses, pushing back up onto his knees. He tears his jacket backwards off his arms, throwing it blindly backwards. His dress shirt joins it, bow tie practically ripped apart, buttons being torn off to fly and land in all random places across the hotel room. He practically breaks his pants opening them, but then, then he’s drawing his cock into his hand, melting with the relief of it. He groans, spine relaxing, wrapping his hand around it. “Oh, fuck, I’ve wanted this so fucking bad, oh, shit— I’m not gonna last—”

“I don’t need you to, just— Get in me,” you beg him, feeling so impossibly empty.

He doesn’t waste any more time. The mission was a success, and nothing else matters but the two of you, and you’ve been on the edge all night, and he’s finally, finally bringing his cock to your entrance and pushing in.

You swear, you fall apart around him. All your muscles start falling apart, and Adrian gathers you up in his arms, drawing you nearer. He fucks into you in a smooth slide.

Your name falls out of his mouth, and he falls over you, hand slamming down onto the soft sheets beside your head. His eyes find yours, and then he’s kissing you, finding a slamming rhythm with his thrusts into you. You grind up into him, grasping for him, grappling to get more friction. Mumbling his name into his mouth, you thread your fingers up through his hair, breath coming fast, faster. Heat and lust is gathering in your spine, pooling like lava, spreading like fire, and it’s all-consuming. It’s been building for so long that just feeling it is overwhelming.

When you look up at him above you again— at the strong lines of his face, at the dark sweep of his eyelashes above his light, bright eyes, at the shine of his this glasses still on his face so he can see you when he looks up at you, at the pink flush spreading across his handsome, sharp cheeks, over the freckle beside his eye, until you chase it up into his dark, sweat-slick hair— you’re falling apart. This is Adrian, the person you love more than anyone, and you just can’t fucking deal. He’s all you can think about, all you can feel, right now.

His hand comes up, dragging up your side, and you can feel the press of his wedding ring where it pulls along your skin. You’d forgotten about them, and it doesn’t matter if they’re fake; seeing it on your hand, feeling it on his, has you almost about to cum, just so close to the edge—

“Fuck, I love you,” Adrian says, like he knows. He drags you in for another kiss, says, “Oh, my God, you’re like— the hottest person ever, oh, God, I want to— I want to lock us in a room together until we die there, I just— I want— I want you forever, holy shit—”

The nonsense ramblings of his brain spill out of his mouth as he gets closer and closer to losing it. He’s falling apart, unable to keep his rhythm as his kisses along your throat grow sloppy, his grinds into your slick heat dragging and pulsing. He takes all of you, slams into you as fast as he can. He even pulls your leg up, hitches it so he can fuck deeper into you, and you drag him into another kiss.

It’s then that you tell him, “You have me forever,” and he cries out, kissing you with a loose jaw, unable to coordinate himself. He’s making out with you like he can’t breathe without you, his cock impossibly hard and thick inside you, taking you to pieces. “I’m yours, c’mon, Adrian, fuck—”

He yanks you back in for a half-biting kiss, your name falling off his lips in half-syllables down your throat as he cums inside you. He breaks off into gasping for breath, just trying to keep his mouth on you as he fucks you through his orgasm, unable to stop moving. It’s enough to drag your orgasm out of you, too; an explosion that sparks inside you, rocketing to blow a haze through your limbs and your mind until all there is is him.

As you come back into yourself, all you want is him, so you open your eyes to find him. He’s still keeping himself half-upright above you—

You realize it’s so he can look at you, his bright eyes fixed on you. He’s smiling, and you can’t help smiling back, automatic when you see him so happy.

“What is it?” you ask him.

“I kinda love you,” he tells you. It’s something you’ve said quite a few times to each other, now, but it still makes your stomach twist, your aftershocks rattling pleasantly through you. “I kinda wanna really marry you or something. Maybe we should— Maybe we should think about doing, like— relationship paperwork or something. Right? Like, something dumb like that, maybe? That says I’m yours and you’re— You’re mine, maybe—”

“Is that what you want?” you reply lazily, catching him. His red face goes even redder, caught, and you drag him in for a smiling kiss. He shifts slightly inside you; you both make soft sounds in response, broken off into each other. When you gather yourself, you ask, “You want me to say I’m yours? That I’m only yours, that—”

“Please,” he begs you, “give me, like— five minutes, babe, okay? I’ll get so hard, but right now— Oh, fuck, you have to stop looking so hot, you’re gonna make my dick explode—”

“Jesus fuck,” you laugh, and tug him into another kiss. He whines, dragging his hands along your sides, gripping you as tight as he can.

“Okay, two minutes, then,” he amends. Your next laugh disappears down his throat, and he’s already dragging you off the bed, intent on the bathtub he knows he saw on the way in here.

-

adrian chase taglist:

Adrian thinks he might just be the luckiest man alive. He’s not entirely sure he can die, he’s a hero who gets to fight bad guys with his friends, and he has you at his side. It doesn’t seem like anything can ever go wrong; this is more than he ever thought he’d have, more than he’d ever thought to even want. You’re funny, you’re sweet, you’re smart, you’re hot, and you’re always at his side, even though he has abilities and you don’t.

Or— as far as he knows, you don’t.

Adrian’s never seen you get hurt, because he always takes the hit before you can even get hurt. He’s never seen you heal, because you’ve never needed to, in front of him. He’s never thought about it before.

Now, it’s all he can think about.

Fighting the butterflies— that’s unlike anything Adrian has ever had to deal with. The two of you have fought a lot of bad guys, but never anything like this. You're fighting side-by-side, for most of the final battle, but then Adrian gets separated from you. He loses track of you, lost in the throng of bodies. He keeps trying to find you; even when he's shot, he refuses to go down, pushing back up to standing and trying to find you again.

He’s fighting his way through five separate humans— or, human-ish bodies occupied by butterflies— when he hears your cut-off scream. All his blood runs cold, his hands going numb, his head snapping up the second he hears it.

It’s obvious what’s happened, if not the exact details of it. He hears the scream of pain, the agonized shock as the sound tears out of you, more animal than consciously human. You’re cut off part of the way through with a wet sound, and then silence.

Adrian is already moving. His adrenaline is pumping, heart pounding so quickly it doesn’t feel like it’s beating at all, pushing his body to move as quickly as it can. He feels the shot in his stomach healing already, pushing the bullet out onto the ground. Every slash on his arms, every wound through his body, every injury he sustains— he barely even feels the pain. It all heals so quickly it doesn’t matter. It’s all barely a blip on the radar compared to his abrupt terror and urgent, desperate need to find you.

“Vigilante!” John’s voice calls. Adrian’s already running in his direction, and he finds John laid on the ground, snapped leg laid out beside him, and your head cradled in his lap. “It’s going to be okay, man, don’t worry—”

Adrian’s ignoring him, not even listening, falling to his knees beside you in a second, pulling you over to him instead. The movement jostles you, and you make a pained noise, unable to stop yourself from feeling the unspeakable hurt of your injuries in this moment. You’ve been hurt too badly, a knife run directly through your heart. Adrian sees it still there, stuck out of your chest.

“Oh, fuck,” Adrian curses, voice already weak, breaking. He’s never seen you hurt before, never, not like this, and it feels like a nightmare to see it happening. “Fuck, fuck, I don’t— What do I do? What do we— We have to get out of here, we have to—”

“Adrian,” you stop him, reaching up for him. He goes silent, eyes dropping to your face, his gloved hand coming up to cup your cheek in his hand.

You try to speak again, to continue, but you can’t manage it. Instead, Adrian can only watch with horror, completely useless in the face of your death, as you cough up blood. It spills red down your chin, seeps from your nose. Adrian sweeps it away, clutches you closer.

“God, no,” Adrian begs you. “I was— I should’ve been here— Oh, fuck, fuck, we have to get to a hospital—”

“Adrian,” Chris says above him.

Adrian’s head snaps up, and he looks up at him from behind his visor, vision stained red, tears dampening the fabric of his mask until it clings to his skin. Chris is standing just behind him, but his eyes aren’t on Adrian. They’re on you— on the knife in your chest. He can’t stop looking at it.

“They’re not going to make it,” Chris tells him. “Th—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Adrian interrupts him sharply, already looking away, dismissing him as worse than useless. He shifts to get his legs under him instead, shifting you into his arms. “Okay, I’m gonna lift you up, alright? I’m gonna get you to the car, and we’re gonna—”

You shake your head as best as you can. You keep trying to speak, to get the words up your throat and out of your mouth, but you can’t quite manage it. You’re choked off by your own blood and the screaming pain inside you. Instead, you grapple to hang onto Adrian, trying to tell him as much as you can with your touch and your eyes and your face, even if you can’t speak.

Adrian just clutches you close, strokes your bloody face with his hand. He tears his mask away, rips his gloves off, gets his bare hands on you.

You reach up, grasping for the hilt of the knife in your chest. Adrian tries to tug your hand away, to stop you from pulling at it, but you push at his wrist. You shove at him so you can grab onto the knife; in one swift movement, you yank it up and out. Your heart nearly cracks to pieces in your chest, and blood rushes from the hole in your front as surely as it gushes up from your mouth.

“What the— What the fuck would you do that for, what the fuck are you doing,” Adrian’s demanding to know, but you can barely hear him, anymore. He doesn’t understand why you’d do that, unless you’re going fucking insane.

You can’t manage to get the words to explain. With each second, you’re losing more blood, your face going white, your eyes getting glazed. You’re not really responding to Adrian, not anymore, and he grabs you, shakes you again. He can’t stop holding you, can’t let you go.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures you. His voice breaks, and then he sobs, pressing his forehead to yours as he tries to stagger to his feet again. This time, it sounds more like he’s begging when he repeats, “It’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay, I’ve got you, it’s okay—”

You shake your head again, trying to reach up and touch his face. You barely succeed, leaving only a smear of blood and the faint warmth of your fingertips, ghosting across his skin. You’re going cold so quickly. Adrian can’t process this; it feels like a living nightmare.

You try to say something, but no sounds come out. Your mouth moves, and Adrian’s trying to figure out what you’re saying, but then—

—then your heart is stopping, and your breath is stilling, your chest no longer moving. Your eyes don’t move away from Adrian’s, but they grow distant, looking at nothing. Glassy, empty. You’re no longer present there in them.

“Hey,” Adrian says, voice scraping, breaking apart. He can barely speak through the tears as he demands, “Hey, hey, what— What are you— Hey! You can’t— You can’t fucking—”

He collapses in the next moment, unable to get in enough air to properly cry, let alone breathe. He’s just gasping, tears streaming. It feels like his entire body is cracking apart; it feels like he’s cracking apart, like everything that he is is just splintering to pieces. It doesn’t feel real, a waking nightmare, an unreal madness, a living death.

His fingertips stroke up your face, clutching you to him. He pushes his forehead to yours, kisses you hard, blood filling his mouth. It spills down his own chin when he tells you, “Fuck, I c— I love you, I can’t— I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t fucking do this, I can’t—”

This can’t happen. It can’t. He wasn’t alone— He wasn’t alone anymore, when he was with you. He had a life with you, he was happy, he can’t— he can’t lose you. He clutches you closer, buries his face in your still chest, and sobs, he screams, he falls to fucking pieces. He thought you’d outlive him; he can’t stand the idea of you dying now, the absolutely unreal idea of him being forced to live in a world without you, to live a life without you. It can’t be real. It can’t. It’s not fucking fair, it’s not— It’s not—

Adrian’s so lost, adrift in a haze of nothing but white noise and darkness and you, the immense, unending loss of you, an immediate rejection of a grief so immense he can barely process it— that he doesn’t realize, not at first.

He doesn’t realize there’s a little color and warmth coming back into your face. He doesn’t realize your hands are shifting slightly. He doesn’t realize your chest is starting to lift, just a bit. He doesn’t realize your heart is desperately trying to move, to start beating again, sluggishly attempting to restart itself in your chest.

He doesn’t realize until your hand actually starts to come up, your fingers touching his temple before you thread through his hair. You clutch him close, for a weak moment, before pressing your lips to his hair.

It’s then Adrian realizes what’s happening. He jerks upwards so quickly he nearly knocks the crown of his head into the underneath of your chin. He recalibrates at the last moment, steadying himself so he can look down at you with his bloodshot eyes, still unable to stop crying, not believing any of what’s happening.

He presses your face between his hands, incredulous. Softly, he says your name, and your eyes flutter for a second before they close and then fucking— open again. You look up at him, blinking, eyes refocusing and clearing.

“Oh, fuck,” Adrian gasps. He drops down into you again, hysterical. “Oh, fuck— Oh, what the fuck, what the fuck was that, what the fuck—”

You can feel your body slowly repairing itself, pulling you back together piece by piece. This hasn’t happened in a long time, not since you were much younger, but it does happen. You’ve known for years that you had resurrection abilities— ever since you fell out of a window when you were hardly two years old, then revived yourself on the pavement below, got up, and walked back inside covered in blood. It’s never actually come up with anybody before; you assumed everybody in the 11th Street Kids knows about your abilities, because they’re in your file.

Of course, you forgot that Adrian isn’t officially a member of the team. He doesn’t know about your abilities. You never mentioned them because you figured he already knew, and he’s always been so nonchalant about his own abilities— you figured it was just no big deal, and he saw no point in bringing it up.

As you rouse yourself now, though, and return to the land of the living as you have had to do several times before, and you find Adrian going completely fucking berserk, deranged in his collapsing, desperate mania to have you back, you realize he doesn’t know about your powers. He must have never known about them, because the way he’s looking at you is not the face of somebody who knew you were going to be okay in about five minutes.

“What the fuck?” Adrian whispers, holding you close. He kisses you, tasting the blood still in both your mouths, bewildered. He can’t begin to process this, can’t begin to understand.

He doesn’t know if he’s died, or if he’s gone insane, or what, but he doesn’t really care. If you’re here, he’ll take it; it doesn’t matter what’s happening. He’ll never let it stop.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. Your voice is still rough as your body restarts itself. You might have the ability to come back, but that doesn’t make it easy. You’re already exhausted; you want to shower, eat something, and sleep sooner rather than later. “I thought you knew.”

“What?” Adrian repeats. “Knew— Knew fuck— Knew fucking what? What the fuck just happened—”

“I can’t die,” you interrupt him. He stares at you, bewildered, then looks up to Leota with confusion, the first person he makes eye contact with. “They know. I thought you knew.”

“What the fuck?” Chris demands. “I didn’t fucking know—”

“I was trying to tell you,” John defends himself. “I was just trying, and nobody was listening to me—”

“Because I thought they were fucking dead,” Adrian shouts at him, voice breaking again. He turns back to you, looking desperate again in his need to confirm you’re okay, and alive, and that this is all real. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me—”

“I thought you knew,” you repeat, “I swear, I really did, I mean— You never talk about yours, you just do stuff, so I figured it was just no big deal—”

“No big deal?” Adrian echoes incredulously. “No big— No big deal? That you can’t fucking die?”

You blink up at him, your heart finally reaching its normal pace. Seeing Adrian this close, so terrified of losing you, it starts going even faster, racing in your chest.

“Surprise,” you whisper up to him. “I really am sorry.”

He stares down at you for a beat before he fucking— laughs, through the still-falling tears. He’s smiling, then, and he can’t stop; the feeling inside him is exploding, overwhelming him, and he can’t let it go. He’s realizing this is real, that you’re actually alive and it’s okay and you’re here with him—

—And he is going to demand explanations, and he’s going to want to see what your abilities are like, and the two of you are eventually going to end up testing the extent of your abilities together, but, for now—

For now, Adrian laughs, and repeats, “‘Surprise,’ you— You fucking shithead, I love you so fucking much,” before he’s kissing you again, dragging his bloody hands along your face, down your body, trying to touch every inch of you. He chases after your pulse, feels for your pounding heart, tastes the air from your inflating lungs, and keeps smiling through his tears, hopelessly determined to show you just how much he needs you here, with him, alive, forever.

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requests used:

"I am living for your Adrian Chase fics! Have you seen the fandom headcanon that Adrian has regenerative abilities, like his comics counterpart? So that headcanon is gospel to me now and I like the idea of him being with a reader who has abilities too, and they’re like a total bombshell and badass but also a huge dork in their own way and they and Adrian just get each other. They run around being the most stupidly in love chaotic couple ever. I hope it’s not too random to share this thought lol." (anonymous)

"Hey! I love your work so so much!!! Would it be possible for you to write a oneshot with Adrian where like… after the final battle with the butterflies, reader takes a hit for Adrian and he holds them in his arms as they die, like full stop, eyes glazed and staring at nothing, no pulse. But, little does he know (mainly because it never came up in conversations with the Kids), reader actually has regenerative/resurrection powers? ((If this is too specific then feel free to ignore—absolutely no worries :) and thank you for all the amazing content you create; it’s honestly amazing and whenever I get a notification that you’ve posted, I get the biggest smile on my face!))" (anonymous)

"Hi ☺️ Prompt 100. Adrian Chase x reader. idk if I make up the prompt or you do, but if I’m the one who has to make it up, can it be the reader revealing to Adrian they have powers?" (@thatidomagirl)

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