#peacemaker fic

You were someone important. Very important. And very special. Extremely so.

Adrian knew it. From the moment he first saw you. You were the only one of the big guys who showed up on time and actually helped them with the whole Butterfly mess.

Months had passed since then. 

You lived in the great Metropolis, there, you stuck close to the Justice Gang— a name you absolutely disliked, in fact. Guy had practically begged you to join them (secretly, since he had told everyone else that you had been the one to beg him), exclaiming that you would be the perfect addition to the team.

People already loved you, and you had earned a good place among the world's protectors. It was only logical that you would encounter them.

And yet, through all that, you still kept in touch with the 11th Street Kids.

John would send you selfies sometimes from his tiny office at A.R.G.U.S.. Leota would send you voice messages every other day, updating you on her life and asking for love advice—as if you were the bearer of truth. Emilia would text you as well, recounting how many men she had beaten up recently. Chris would send you photos of Eagly from time to time.

And Adrian... Adrian talked to you every day, constantly. He would also call you, videocall you, chattering about some bird he spotted on his way to work, storytelling about some criminal gang he had crushed, occasionally asking you to lend him some money, and invariably expressing how much he missed you.

You had seen each other exactly eight times, not counting the first time you met. Sometimes you'd traveled to Evergreen to see him, and other times he'd traveled to Metropolis (in your private jet, all in your courtesy, of course).

He is very special to you.

And just like him, your relationship is special. You don't have any sort of label, nor any set boundaries, but there's always that heavy tension hanging in the air when you're alone with him, that... complicity.

You two would be chatting for hours and hours about manta rays or owls or spiders.

And you would listen. You would just sit there all pretty, gazing at him with soft eyes and a gentle smile, asking him with sincere interest about his favorite spider.

“You're my favorite person in the world, by the way,” he would blurt out, gazing at you with big, sparkly eyes and a all soft smile on his lips. His fingers caress yours with the utmost tenderness.

“In the whole world?” you would raise an eyebrow, using a tone of voice that borders on teasing. “What about Peacemaker?”

“Pff,” Adrian puffs out his lips, gesturing dismissively with his other hand. “Peacemaker is super cool, but you're like— incomparable, leagues way above him. You're way out of my league, even.”

His face swoons with sheer love when he earns a sweet kiss on the cheek from you.

Everyone believes that, very firmly. That you're all out of his league. You're a baddie— very self-confident, outrageously gorgeous, a fucking badass. And then there's Adrian. With his silly self, his nerdy glasses, his weird behavior, and his psychopathic tendencies.

You like him, though. More than you would like to admit, even.

Because he understands you, he understands that you're more than just beautiful and confident, more than a hero. You're a true one, though. One of the good ones. The kind of who's been written about in newspapers, whose name trends online whenever you make an appearance, whose face is printed on posters that kids pin on their bedroom walls. People stop in their tracks when they see you, fans scream your name, and strangers dream about you with a kind of hungry devotion. 

To the world, you're untouchable, a fucking sun, something they crave but can never have. Adrian empathize with them in that case. Because he's just another planet orbiting around you.

To the people, you're a legend. To Adrian, you're heaven, his favorite girl.

“Now, I need to know if you and that Green Lantern guy have hooked up.” Economos asks after taking a long swig from his beer bottle, pointing at you accusingly. 

You had invited them to your penthouse, and luckily you all had that one weekend off, so you suggested they come visit you in Metropolis. Which they did—traveling on your own jet, by the way.

Everyone had brought small gifts for you, though. Adrian had brought homemade cookies, those ones you loved so much.

You're munching on one of them while chatting with the guys, all of whom are very comfortable and well settled in your penthouse.

Leota wrinkles her nose, grimacing in disgust as she pops open another beer bottle, “Ew, dude. You don't ask that.”

Economos raises both hands to wave for peace, “What? That's what I read he said in a Twitter thread.”

“He said that?” You raise an eyebrow, wondering in disbelief. You were definitely going to scold Guy for that.

“He's a fucking arrogant jackass for all I know,” Chris adds before taking another sip of his beer. “Like, genuinely dumb.”

“Honestly, I thought you were fucking Superman. I mean, if I were you, I totally would.” Economos shrugs, nodding his head in an approval with himself.

Adrian, who until now seemed to be entertaining himself by looking at you as if you were his favorite thing in the whole world, turns toward him with narrowed eyes.

“Dude,” Leota reprimands him once more, her voice disapproving.

“His eyes and hair are dreamy,” he blurts out in his defense.

Emilia rolls her eyes. “Sure, because his eyes and hair are all you look at, you pervert.”

You snort, shaking your head, a little bit confused by the chosen topic and his choice of words. “You're spending too much time on the Internet, John.”

Leota is reflective, letting out a sluggish chuckle, “No, actually, you two would look cute together.”

Now Adrian is pouting, looking at her with a dejected expression with a mixture of emotions that you can't quite identify.

“He's a dickhead.” Chris denies with his head, in deseagreement with the topic discussed.

“Yeah.” Adrian agrees with him, because of course he agrees with Peacemaker.

“You both represent the same thing, I suppose,” Emilia reflects, perhaps too drunk to just ignore the stupidity everyone is talking about. “You bring hope and serve humanity.”

“Okay, that oversimplifies what I do,” you retort, rolling your eyes, totally offended. “I'm not fucking him. I'm not fucking anyone.”

“Yeah, right.” John snorts incredulously, “So it's the cyborg that controls those creepy circles, then.”

“They're not circles, they're spheres,” you correct him with full seriousness, slightly aggravated. “And he's not a cyborg.”

Adrian definitely doesn't like the way you talk about the man. In fact, he doesn't like you to talk about any man.

“Sure, because you know him so well.” John tries to fucking ragebait you once again, smiling like an idiot.

“I'm going to the bathroom— I think I'm gonna throw up,” Adrian mutters unenthusiasticallyinterrupting the stupid conversation.

Then, he promptly turns around and walks away, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

You stare after him in total silence, until Leota gives you a little nudge, making a silly face and gesturing towards the hallway, encouraging you to follow him.

And you do.

“He actually got jealous, holy shit, I can't believe it worked,” you catch John's words as you are walking across the hallway.

Then you hear Leota whisper-exclaim “shh!”, followed by a small thump and an “ow!” from John.

“She can hear you, you idiot,” Chris scolds him in an obvious tone.

All of that makes you roll your eyes.

They were truly ragebaiting not you, but Adrian.

When you eventually reach the end of the hallway, the music and chatter of the others sound like a distant echo. You knock on the door softly, and just as you are about to knock for the third time, it swings open abruptly, revealing an Adrian with fogged-up glasses and a flushed, sheepish face.

“Hey,” you greet him in a soft whisper, looking up at him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Hey...” he greets you back in the same tone, as if everything were a big secret. It is, in a way. “Y-yeah, I just felt a little dizzy— the beers.” He shakes his head dismissively, his curls swaying with the movement. His smile twists for just a moment into an awkward grimace. “I think I had too much.”

He opens the bathroom door for you, wiping his sweaty forehead as he closes it behind you. You notice how sweaty he really is in that moment.

And so, you reach for a hand towel from one of the cabinets, and he instantly understands what you want to do. And he allows you to do it, leaning back against the sink vanity, placing his hands on the edge of it at each side of his body to support his weight—and to squeeze it, since your scent and warmth and closeness are so overwhelming.

“Yeah, you stink of beer,” you murmur with amusement as you carefully run the hand towel over his cheeks, wiping away the traces of sweat.

“I think I had too much to drink,” he repeats as he raises his eyebrows, and with the movement, his glasses slip slightly down the bridge of his nose. You're quicker than him to adjust them, and that makes him smile and blush like a teenager in love.

He's drunk, yes, but there's no clumsiness or uncertainty in his eyes: there's desire, there's devotion. There's love.

“Your hands are so warm and soft...” his voice breaks a little; the alcohol has loosened his tongue. Although love has softened him all over. You have softened him all over. And now he is cracking down for you. “Feels nice...”

Touch.

You know that's important to him. You know this is important to him. He doesn't let anyone else touch him, hug him, hold him. Only you. And that basically tells you everything about how he feels about you. It's real.

Adrian hates it when other humans touch him. And even fiercer, he hates skin-to-skin contact.

But Adrian adores you. More than anything else in the world.

And against who he is essentially, contrary to his soul's nature, he absolutely adores being touched by you, and he loves touching you. He cherishes your skin, every inch of your body. Oh, believe it, if he could merge his skin with yours, he certainly would.

He couldn't possibly envision a world where he's not there, right by your side, holding your hand, fiddling with your fingers, caressing your hair, your face, all of you.

Adrian had always thought that his purpose in life was to be a vigilante, to put an end to evil, to bad people—most of them, anyway. But no, he had been wrong all along, because his purpose was truly you. To be there for you. To love you. To be yours.

“Yeah?” you hum and smile, biting your lower lip.

“Mhm,” he hums contentedly, although that joy doesn't quite reach his eyes. Something is bothering him, a quiet voice rustling in the back of his head.

“Are you okay?” you ask again, taking your eyes off the side of his face where you're running the towel so you can look at him directly. His eyes are already on you, of course. In awe. “Your heart is beating really fast, Adrian.”

You can hear it. Beating at a wild, racing pace.

You graze the edge of his glasses with your fingertips before carefully removing them. Adrian blinks, somewhat vulnerable without them, but there is no trace of doubt in the intense sparkle of his eyes: there is only you.

“Why does everyone have to want you?” he asks in a whiny, quiet voice, seemingly struggling to hold your gaze. “Everyone wants you. Everyone talks about you. All the time. I read what they say about you.”

You hold back a little smile that threatens to tug at the corners of your lips as you look at his pouty face. “What do they say?”

He shifts his gaze to the floor for a moment, clenching his jaw, perhaps remembering the comments he read online from people talking about you.

“Things... very inappropriate,” he finally responds, looking back at you. “Very off limits.”

“Well, I'm a public figure, Adrian, very public.” You sigh softly, raising your hand to gently wipe his forehead with the towel, drying the remaining drops of sweat. “I knew what I was getting into when I started all this.”

“That's doesn't make it right,” he mutters, frowning slightly. “You save them, every day. You risk your life for them. For all of us.” His thumb brushes against your thigh as he reaches out to you once more, longingly. “And this is how they repay you? By turning you into some kind of sex symbol?”

You raise your eyebrows, pulling your hand and the towel away from his face, looking at him, unimpressed, “Sex symbol?”

He is nodding with his head, huffing lightly, very sarcastically, “I'm sure you discuss this with Superman or Mr. Terrific.” Oh, he is jealous. “They talk about you with them all the fucking time. How great of a duo you are when you're with one of them. They are good partners for you.”

He pronounces the names with suspicion and disgust, and that makes you chuckle softly. He looks at you as if you were committing a crime.

You're making fun of him. You never make fun of him. You're one of the few people who doesn't—the only one who never does.

You snort, shaking your head, both confused and slightly offended, “What is that supposed to mean?”

You know exactly what he means, though.

“Well, you spend more time with them, after all. They're like your–your work-husbands,” he cringes, unleashing his tongue and just going with what he feels in the moment, which is an tsunami of emotions that has been building up for months.  “And I... I'm Adrian, and I live miles away from you, in a small shitty town where the most scandalous thing that happens is some stupid fucking guy spray-painting graffiti on a wall that doesn't belong to him.”

His drunken confession—but a confession nonetheless—sinks into you like a deeper heartbeat. 

Your heart skips a beat and your lips part, not really knowing what to say for a few long seconds.

He is staring at you, vulnerability blazing in his eyes, his fingers tapping eagerly against the ceramic of the sink vanity.

“I'm here,” you tell him, you assure him. “I'm with you. Just you.”

Something breaks in his face then— not in a bad way, but in a way that softens him completely. His voice comes out smaller, almost like a child's.

“I know... I know you do. It's just— sometimes I feel like a raccoon who found the most beautiful shiny thing in the world, and the whole forest wants to take it away from him.”

You can't help a little laugh at the analogy, even though your heart squeezes at his honesty. 

“I think you're drunk, Adrian,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.

Adrian smiles sheepishly too, with that mixture of tenderness and awkwardness that melts your heart. But when he feels your hands on his skin, his eyelids close slightly, as if each caress were a luxury reserved only for him, and he leans closer to your touch.

“I'm drunk, y–yeah,” he admits softly, brushing your palm with his cheek, like a cat purring and demanding affection. “But I'm also... very, very aware of what I want right now.”

The heat emanating from his body envelops yours. You feel his fingers slide down the curve of your waist, so slowly that you have time to notice how your skin ripples along every inch.

He continues to slide one hand down your side, brushing against the fabric of your shirt, stopping just before the edge, playing with the boundary. His breathing quickens a little more.

There's no rush. The silence in the bathroom is intimate, heavy with complicity. The distance between his lips and yours is almost non-existent; you can feel his warm breath, mixed with beer and something sweeter that is uniquely him.

Adrian slides a hand up to your neck, caressing the line of your jaw with his thumb, slowly, reverently. His lips finally brush against yours, just a touch, an electric brush that lingers long enough to make you tremble.

“Can I kiss you?” he gently inquires in a whisper that his tongue slurs. His eyes, filled with affection, disconnect from yours to gaze at your lips, darkened by love and desire. “Please...”

Your hands, which until now had only been holding the towel, remain still for a second on his chest. Under your palms, you feel the irregular beating of his heart, fast and intense, like a drum that draws you in. 

You smile against his mouth, responding in a voice that trembles with anticipation, “Yes, please, Adrian—”

His mouth breathes in his own name.

The kiss that follows is neither clumsy nor rushed; it is slow, deep, charged with everything that needs no words. One of his hands attaches itself to your face and the other comes to rest on yours on his chest, pressing it gently against his heart, making you feel his rapid beat, making you feel the effect you have on him. That you still hold. After all this time.

When he finally pulls away, just a few inches, his breath hits yours. 

Adrian chuckles sheepishly after the kiss, burying his face in your neck like he's trying to hide how much you affect him and also how he's blushing. His warm breath tickles your skin, and you can't help but smile too, running one of your hands up his back, scraping your nails across his shoulder blades.

His body visually and physically reacts to your touch, trembling slightly under your hands, like jelly.

His voice drags out in a hoarse whisper, pressed against your neck, his words slurring into your skin. “I think you're my soulmate. Like, in the swan-soulmate way.”

The towel slips from your hands, forgotten, as Adrian tilts his head to seek your mouth again. The kiss is different now: hungrier, more needy. His lower lip trembles slightly against yours before gently capturing it, then with firmer pressure that draws a sigh from you.

You tilt his chin up with your fingers, forcing his hazy eyes to meet yours. Even drunk, even flushed and trembling, Adrian's gaze is a mirror of devotion.

“You're so weird,” you breath out, giggling softly. You don't say it in a negative way, no, but rather in a way that speaks of admiration and love.

At that, he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent, and averts his gaze from yours.

“Hey...” you murmur, your voice low and steady, almost a lullaby. “Look at me, Adrian.”

He hesitates, then lifts his head slowly. His eyes are glassy—not just from the alcohol—but from the storm of emotion swirling behind them. His mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but he just swallows hard instead.

“No one has me but you,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. “You're not 'just' Adrian,” you keep talking, very softly and sweetly. “I'm here because I choose you. I really like you, not because of your suit or your glasses or the type of guns you use, but because it's you. Because you're Adrian. My Adrian.”

His breath hitches. The blush on his cheeks deepens, and something vulnerable flickers across his face.

And then, he tilts forward and kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

When you detach yourselves from each other's mouths, you carefully put his glasses back on, and he blinks leisurely, taking in the gorgeous scene in front of him, which is you.

“I get so fucking jealous every fucking time I see you with them—with anyone who isn't me...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You don’t let him.

Your lips press against his once more, quieting every insecurity, every tremor of doubt still lingering in his chest. And this time, he melts. Completely. His hands find your waist, grounding himself in your warmth, your reality.

He pulls you close to him, impossibly close, so close that you can actually feel his flesh pressing against yours, his muscles, the beating of his heart, becoming one with yours.

When you part, his forehead rests against yours.

The bathroom light flickers softly, reflecting on the edges of his glasses. Perhaps it's an effect of your power, twinkling in your veins, in each of your breaths, in each beat of your heart. But no, it's the effect he has on you.

“You don’t have to be jealous,” you whisper, fingertips brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “You already have me, Adrian.”

He laughs quietly, that broken, boyish kind of laugh that sounds like relief. “You say that like you don’t know how impossible that sounds.”

You smile at him, that smile that ruins him in all the best ways. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

He studies your face like it’s something sacred, like he’s afraid to blink and lose the memory of it.

“You know what’s crazy?” he murmurs, voice quiet, like he’s afraid of scaring the moment off. “I don't think I could be with anyone else. It's only you. It's always been you. So, I think I’d still find you. In another life. If there’s a hundred worlds out there, I’ll find you in all of them.”

Your laughter softens into something quieter, more tender. “You already did.” You lean in to kiss his cheek affectionately, but he turns his face just in time, kissing your lips instead. “Come on, the others will be wondering why we're taking so long.”

“They'll think I fucked you, something I'm totally fine with, by the way,” he jokes, puffing out a giggle.

And then, he follows you— because of course he does. Still holding your hand, his arm sneaks around your waist as you both head toward the door. His thumb rubs slow circles on your hip, like he can’t quite bring himself to stop touching you.

And then you open the door.

The hallaway falls completely silent.

Leota, John, Emilia, and Chris are all there — waiting, frozen mid-conversation, all holding drinks or snacks like they’ve been standing there for a while.

The silence stretches for one glorious, painful second.

Then Chris raises an eyebrow. “Well. Took you long enough.”

Emilia crosses her arms, smirking. “Told you they’d make out before midnight.”

John turns to her, groaning, before giving you both a mean look. “Ugh, seriously? You horndogs couldn’t wait five more minutes?”

Leota bites her lip, trying so hard not to laugh, and then looks at Economos. “Pay up.”

John groans, digging into his pocket. “You said next week! That doesn’t count!”

“Dude,” Chris says, pointing at Adrian basically hugging you from behind, at both of your very obvious post-make-out faces — “that definitely counts.”

Adrian just blinks, confused and still a little tipsy as he interrupts them. “Wait— were you guys betting on us?”

“Obviously,” Emilia deadpans, sipping her drink. “It was painfully obvious, Vig.”

Adrian gasps, genuinely offended. “Obvious?! I was so subtle!”

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his beer. “Yeah, man, nothing says subtle like calling her your soulmate after two beers.”

Emilia shrugs, already walking back toward the living room. “Please. You two have been making heart eyes since John's christmas party.”

Leota winks at you as she follows. “We’re just glad you finally admitted it.”

Economos mutters something about being “robbed” while he hands Leota a crumpled ten.

Adrian is blushing so much.

a small, weak kitten sitting at the side of the road, hugging the sidewalk. your little puppy ran to it, looking up at you with brows furrowed and eyes glassy, "kitty needs help." she mumbled, looking at you with wide blue eyes she'd inherited from her father. you smiled, ruffling her hair, "their mom might just be looking for food them, christie. they'll be fine."

you could see christine's heart break at that, but you knew cats; the kitten's mother could be out hunting for food, "don't worry." you stroked christine's hair, "we'll come back in a few days and if the kitty's still doing bad, we'll bring them home."

"promise?" christine asked, her brows furrowed. "promise." you ruffled her hair once again. "taking a child from their mother for no reason is abuse and if someone does that, they should be punished." adrian said with a straight face, and you smacked him on the back of your husband's head; but you saw a chance.

"but, you should know that cats and dogs don't get along that often. so if we do bring a cat home, we can't have a little puppy."

christine immediately straightened up. "there's no dog at home! we can bring kitty home!"

"i thought you were-" before adrian could finish his sentence, you smacked the back of his head once more.

originally, the kitten was a ploy to get christine to stop acting like a dog, but when you were taking leona and edgar out the next day while christine was at kindergarten the kitten was still in the same spot, now letting out pitiful meows. you let out a sigh, looking to the infants sleeping in your stroller. "their mama's not coming back, is she?"

without a second thought, you scooped the cat up and put her into the stroller's storage basket between the diapers and bottles you'd brought, already thinking of the local veterinary office's business hours.

later that evening, your door was opened by an enthusiastic kindergartener marching into the living room, "mama, they tried to teach me the abc's, but i already-"

christine's words were cut off by the sight of the little kitten resting on your stomach. you chuckled, acting as if everything was normal, "and?"

christine crawled onto the couch right next to you with wide eyes, "what... what did you do?" your eldest questioned, and you chuckled, ruffling her hair, "she didn't have a mama, or a home. so i brought her here so that we can give her a home. but kitties don't like doggies, so you probably shouldn't get close to her."

"i'm not a dog!" christine exclaimed, "i'm a kitty. meow." christine raised her brows, carefully poking the kitten's head and waking her up, "this is so much better than when those humans came here." she mumbled, pointing her head to the corner where leona and edgar slept.

adrian frowned, "christine, being mean to your siblings is bad."

christine scoffed, "they can't even understand what-"

"christine, apologize."

it was the first time you'd ever seen adrian be… stern. christine huffed and puffed, but eventually she made her way to the matching cribs.

"i'm sorry leona." she mumbled, "i'm sorry, edgar."

later that night, you and adrian were laid up in bed, your hand on adrian's chest, drawing patterns on his skin, "you know, i was really impressed with you earlier."

adrian turned to you with furrowed brows, "you were?" "yeah. i think it's the first time i've seen you be stern with christine."

"a person should never be mean to their sibling.” adrian said with a huff, "being mean to your parents is fine, but not your siblings. you need to put up a united front."

your husband's mouth was in a straight line, brows furrowed so hard you weren't sure if they could straighten, mouth silently mumbling curses... and adrian had never looked as attractive to you as he did in that moment.

before you could even think about your actions, you were straddling him, your lips needily sucking on his, your hips grinding down on his like you were a desperate virgin, a whine leaving your mouth when he started to get hard.

adrian tugged your panties to the side, the man grinding into you through his pajama pants like there wasn't any fabric between you, adrian suddenly jerking his hips up into you, making you feel like-

screeches and cries suddenly started up from the room next to yours. you let out a deep breath, getting off adrian's lap as your husband let out a groan, pressing a small kiss to his cheek, "to be continued."

and as another tiny voice joined the schreeching choir, both of you were forced to get up.

BONUS:

surprisingly, you hadn't had to wake up to nurse leona and edgar, or even the nameless cat you'd picked up all night. you rolled your shoulders back, prepared to make a full pot of coffee as you sat at the edge on the bed, only to hear a sound coming from the living room.

"ow!" adrian exclaimed, "guys, i want your mama to rest and not have to worry about- OW! dude, you're against me too? you're supposed to- OWWWW!"

"KITTYLANTE!" a small, screeching voice exclaimed; "christine, don't be so loud or you'll-"

as your husband spoke those words, a chorus of screeching cries came from the nursery.

"fuck." "bad word! bad word! curse jar!" you heard your daughter police "christ, fuck you and your fucking—" adrian sighed, "curse jar. of course."

but when he finally made it to the nursery, adrian found you there, holding both of the babies as you sat in the rocking chair he'd built when you were waiting for christine.

"you got them to calm down?" he asked with furrowed brows, making you chuckle.

"what, like it's hard?"

━━━━ JOIN HIS TAGLIST ♥︎

『••✎••』

You smell blood before you see it.

Not the kind that reeks of death or sterile gauze, but something faintly metallic, woven into the sweat on his skin like it's been there long enough to get bored of being noticed. You don’t register it fully at first — too distracted by the scrape of keys against the door, the quiet grunt he makes when he shoulder-checks it open because one of his arms isn’t working.

And there he is.

Adrian Chase, dressed in blood and bulletproof nylon, wearing that same boyish smirk like a band-aid on a gaping wound. One eye is puffed and half-shut, there's a cut above his brow that’s still wet, and he's limping like someone took a crowbar to his knee.

But he grins like it’s funny.

"Babe," he drawls, stumbling into the living room like this is just another Tuesday. "So, weird story. Turns out, you can get stabbed in the same shoulder three times and still do a somersault over a moving car. Science."

You freeze in the kitchen doorway, a half-empty mug of tea cooling in your hands. You’d made it for him. Stupid, you think. Stupid, like warm drinks fix bullet wounds.

Your heart’s hammering behind your ribs—panic, fury, the kind of cold, sharp fear that makes you feel like your bones might splinter from the inside. He sees it, you think. Sees all of it and keeps walking.

He doesn’t sit. Just drops his mask on the floor like it was dirty laundry and starts pulling off the top half of his suit, fingers clumsy with dried blood. There’s a spreading stain on his side, dark and sluggish.

You haven’t moved. Your throat feels tight.

"Adrian," you say, and it comes out too soft. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just small.

He glances up, and there’s a flicker in his expression—guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to it. But it passes like a cloud over the sun.

"Hey, it’s fine. Just a little... hole." He gestures vaguely to his side. "Think I’ve had worse papercuts, honestly."

You exhale sharply, jaw twitching.

"A papercut?"

"Yeah, y’know—big, aggressive paper. Like, militant origami."

His words are candy-coated, tossed out like a deflection grenade. You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, not from anger this time, but from something deeper. Rawer. The kind of helpless grief that’s been piling up like unspoken words between the cracks of each visit, each stitched-up night, each half-lie he’s smiled through.

He keeps talking — something about the guy who did this, how he "kind of respected his dedication to stabbing," how he managed to make a pun mid-fight that he was really proud of — and you snap.

Not loud. Not violent. But something in you gives.

You set the mug down with shaking hands. Walk over slowly. Kneel in front of him. Not to patch him up. Not yet. Just to look.

His hand is resting on his thigh. You touch it, and he flinches — barely, like his nerves can’t quite decide if they’re online — but he lets you. You lift his fingers. Blood under his nails. Calluses from the last time he shattered someone’s jaw.

"You’re not okay," you whisper. It’s not a question.

Adrian stares down at you. The air is too still. You wonder if he’s going to say something flippant, some callback to a joke from two nights ago — "Define okay," or "Baby, I’m invincible." But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You continue. Voice tight.

"You keep coming back like this. And I keep pretending it’s fine. Because you pretend it’s fine. But I’m—I can’t keep doing it, Ade. I can’t keep watching you bleed and smile like it’s a sitcom punchline."

His jaw tightens. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s still considering the punchline. But he doesn’t say it.

So you keep going. You have to.

"You laugh through pain like it’s a party trick. You get stabbed and joke about origami, and I’m here—every time—I’m just waiting for the time you don’t come back. Or the time you do, but you’re not you anymore. Just pieces of you. And I don’t think I can survive that, Adrian. I don’t think I’d even want to."

You don’t cry. Not really. You just press your forehead to his uninjured knee, breathing, shaking against the fabric of his suit.

Silence.

Then—

"You worry," he says.

It’s quiet. Not a question. Not even a thought, really —more like something that slipped out before his brain had a chance to process it.

His eyes are on you, but not in the way they usually are—no teasing, no deflection. Just that wide, strangely boyish sort of look, like he’s seeing you for the first time and it’s short-circuiting something inside him.

"You worry… about me."

He blinks slowly, as if the sentence is taking up more space in his head than he knows what to do with.

"I mean," he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand, "I knew you cared, obviously. You're here, you make tea, you patch me up when I’m leaking red stuff—very loving, very Florence Nightingale." He gestures vaguely, trying to play it cool, but his tone is all over the place—like he's trying to match what he thinks he should sound like and completely failing. "But this? This is like… real-deal worry. Like, emotional distress. Because of me."

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, barely holding together. "That’s wild."

You stare at him, stunned. The emotional rawness is still boiling just under your skin, and he’s over here having a mild existential revelation about the fact that someone loves him.

He leans back slightly, breath catching as it pulls at the wound on his side. Still smiling. Not the cocky kind—no, this one’s soft and stunned and almost… reverent.

"You love me," he says again, like he’s trying it out in different lighting. Like it might taste different if he says it slower.

You pull away, just enough to meet his eyes head-on. "Adrian, you’re bleeding."

"I know," he says, bright and breathless. "And you’re devastated about it."

His voice hitches on a laugh, and you don’t know whether to shake him or scream. Maybe both. Because this-this thing he’s doing, this delight in your suffering—he doesn’t even realize it’s breaking you.

"Why is that a joke to you?" you ask, quieter now. Fragile.

And that stops him.

Adrian’s grin falters, like someone blew out the candle behind his eyes.

"I’m not joking about you," he says, and it’s honest—plainspoken in a way that sounds strange coming from him. "I’m just… I didn’t think anyone could feel that way about me. Not really. Not past the first couple dates, anyway."

You blink, the words hitting you somewhere low in the chest. "You think I’m still here out of politeness?"

"I don’t know," he says, voice low. "I guess I thought you just had a hero thing. Or a kink. I don't know, man, it's confusing. I've never been loved before."

The words hang in the air, awkward and too heavy for how simply he said them, like a punchline that forgot to land.

He doesn’t meet your eyes now — just stares a little past you, past the room, past himself maybe. His breathing is shallow, and not just from the pain in his side. There’s something deeper in it. That quiet, jittery type of fear that has nothing to do with knives or bullets.

You blink at him. Slowly. Like, if you do it too fast, the weight of what he just said might tip you over completely.

"You... seriously think that?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "That I’m here because I have a kink?"

“I said maybe,” he mutters quickly, defensive in that dumb, knee-jerk way of his. “Could be. I mean—come on, have you seen me in this suit?”

Your expression doesn’t change.

His smirk flickers. Dies as he exhales, looking away again. "Sorry. That was—yeah. Not the time."

A beat passes. You sit back on your heels and stare at him, arms limp at your sides. Not because you’re angry anymore. You’re not even sure what you are. Hollow, maybe. Bone-tired.

"I thought you knew," you say, finally. "That I loved you."

"I mean, yeah. Kind of. You say nice things sometimes. You look at me like I’m not completely insane. You make soup." He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen, then winces. "But I didn’t know it meant something. Not like this. Not in a 'you break down when I’m bleeding' way."

You shake your head slowly. "Adrian… love is that. It means that. It’s not just soup and looking at each other. It’s being scared out of your mind because the person you care about walks into your house full of holes like it’s a joke.”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance down at his side. Blood is still seeping through the half-unzipped suit, slower now, but enough to make your stomach turn. You reach for the med kit on the table beside you, pull out gauze with shaking fingers, and move closer.

He watches you quietly, for once not narrating every second of it.

"I don’t want you to change who you are," you say softly as you press gauze against the wound. He hisses between his teeth but doesn’t pull away. "But I need you to stop acting like your life is disposable. Like it’s fine if you don’t come back one day."

Adrian swallows hard. "It’s not that I think it’s fine. I just… I don’t think about it."

"That’s the problem," you say, your voice breaking at the edges. "I think about it all the time."

He’s silent again. The tension in his jaw twitches under the weight of whatever he’s holding back. You tape the gauze in place and sit there for a long moment, hands still hovering over his ribs.

"I don’t want you to die thinking you’re unloved," you whisper.

That gets him. Visibly.

His fingers curl around your wrist, not hard, just enough to make you look up at him. His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes—glassier now—search yours like he’s trying to memorize this moment, every sharp, fragile bit of it.

"I won’t die," he says, voice cracking in a way he clearly hates. "Not without telling you that I love you too. Probably, like, five hundred times. In a row. In increasingly bad accents."

You huff out something like a laugh, watery and aching.

"I’m serious," he goes on. "You’re gonna get so tired of hearing it. Like, 'Shut up, Adrian, I know you love me, you’ve said it in an Irish accent and a pirate voice and while bleeding out in my kitchen—'"

"Ade."

He stops.

You lean forward, gently pressing your forehead to his. His breath catches.

"I love you," you say, quiet but sure.

And when he says it back—rough and soft and a little terrified—you know he means it.

No punchline. No mask. Just Adrian. Still bleeding, still broken.

But real.

“Baby, not today,” you prayed to him in a whisper, smiling at your boyfriend's almost childlike grin.

“But you have to know how many eggs a clownfish lays a year,” he insists, following you around the house like a puppy as you take off your boots and coat. The man rushes to help you unwrap your scarf, though he only manages to make them both get tangled up. “Oops.”

And just like that, he made you laugh. He brightened your day. Adrian always manages to bring a smile to your face, even when you're at your lowest.

“How many eggs do they lay?” you asked then. 

 Adrian follows you around the apartment as you start to undress, talking about how clownfish lay 200 eggs a year, manta rays curl up to sleep and hammerhead sharks build caves. You were almost certain those facts were wrong, but you asked if clownfish all lived together, if manta rays curled up together when they found mates or if only hammerhead sharks built caves. You loved the way his eyes sparkled behind his glasses when you egged him on, and in return, he helped you by choosing comfortable underwear and giving you his favorite tshirt to sleep in.

“And whales eat one shark a year,” he continues, still excited, while adjusting the shower water for you. Exactly the way you like it. “Are those my socks?”

 You look at your feet, naked except for the blue stockings with goldfish. Yes, they're Adrian's socks. You probably put them on in your sleep that morning, amidst the chaos that mornings with your clingy boyfriend always were. It was hard to get out of bed with Adrian promising to make you feel great if you skipped work. And as tempting as it sounded, you had bills to pay, and he had some bloody work to do too.

“They are,” you laugh as you slip them off your feet and step into the shower. You place a soft kiss on his lips before disappearing behind the glass screen. “Sorry, baby.”

Baby.

The nickname drives him a little crazy.

“You can wear whatever you want, my lovely Glaucidium brasilianum,” he assures you, and that's saying everything.

The man was very particular and careful with his clothes, cutting off all the annoying labels and wearing only 100% cotton. Except for his boxers, those had to be made of cool silk. 

 And yes, Adrian Chase thought calling you by specific animal names was romantic. You had no idea what a Glaucidium brasilianum was, and you weren't sure you wanted to know.

So, as you finally relaxed under the warm water after a long and arduous day at work, Adrian began to unload all the facts he knew about marine animals. That night it was about pufferfish and clownfish.

 There was something relaxing about the scent of your special soap and your boyfriend's constant chatter. Most people found Adrian a little annoying, especially when his nerdy exciting side came out, but that's precisely what made you fall in love with him. His love for (in)correct facts is just one of the ways he shows his appreciation, his boundless energy and the sweetness and innocence hidden beneath that bloody antihero exterior. The intensity of his personality was simply a reflection of the intensity with which he loved. And Adrian Chase loved you intensely.

And that's why, even as he helped you dry off after you'd already washed, he kept talking about marine animals, but they weren't facts anymore.

“You remind me of an angelfish,” he murmured, trying to pull your underwear up your legs, but he was actually tangling everything somehow. “Although with this, you look like a disco fish,” he added, looking at the pattern of your clothes.

“Thanks, baby,” you replied as always, because you understood that was his way of complimenting you.

 You put on the Eggle t-shirt Adrian gave you for Christmas and fix your hair a bit, all under the watchful eye of your boyfriend, who never stops talking.

“Although you were as hypnotic as a betta fish,” Adrian remarks after an unusual moment of silence. Your gaze meets his in the mirror. You can see him frowning behind his glasses. He seems to be analyzing you, though he looks more like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head.

“What’s wrong?” you ask with a yawn, walking toward him and raising your hand to adjust his glasses, which are slipping down the bridge of his nose.

“You look tired,” he murmurs, as if it were an afterthought. You smile tenderly.

“I am, baby.”

 For a moment longer, Adrian just stares at you as if he's trying to do some major mental calculation. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he picks you up, pulling your body over his shoulder. You squealed his name in surprise, but he completely ignored you.

“Did you know that fish sleep curled up?” he continues, rambling, leading you to the bedroom, gently lowering you onto the large bed. “And they cover themselves with seaweed, nestled in their little reef houses,” he says, covering you with the sheets and beginning to undress. “They decorate their houses with dead snails,” he doesn't stop, making a mess by turning off all the lights and snuggling up beside you.

And it fills your heart with something warm. When you and Adrian first met, he barely tolerated you holding his hands, but now he was the one initiating contact.

“Are we fish now?” you manage to joke, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, snuggled together. Your words make Adrian laugh.

“Don’t be silly,” he laughs, hugging you tightly. “You are you and I am me,” he states matter-of-factly, but adds: “If we were fish, we’d be wet and we’d live in…”

⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Kissing Adrian is like swimming. 

A wade through wave after wave of sensation broken by a gasp of air. An upward tilt of her chin brings the large hand at her nape to cradle her head. Her lungs grasp for oxygen. He allows that heartbeat of respite, his mouth open, hovering atop hers, waiting to clash tongue and teeth once more. Her panting breaths fan over his lips. Her eyes are lidded low, blown out and black, her vision curtained by her lashes. Impatient, Adrian takes and sucks her bottom lip, tugging as far as he can before it pops away, teased and plump, slick with his spit. It earns him a whine, and he watches hungrily as her tongue soothes over it. 

He dips in again. She shoves his jaw with her fingers.

“Let… me just… Just give me a second...” 

Her breathlessness is amusing to him. With it, a drop of pride. She’s a delicious mess of his own making, sans the blood and guts he’s accustomed to. She smells much better, like a cloud made of flowers and baby powder. Tastes better, too. Sweet, fresh, topped by cake batter lip balm. It’s her favorite, and by extension, his. There’s no shame in admitting that he’s stolen a few sticks, applied them when he missed her, licked his lips to taste her from miles away. It wasn’t a secret, either. He proudly presented the information when asking her to be his girlfriend. Luckily for him, his offbeat tendencies were found endearing. A lot can be said about her off of that life decision alone. Now, she’s on his lap, occupying a corner with a sunken couch at a house party that stinks of weed and cheap liquor. 

“You need a breather?” He murmurs, sticking his tongue out, licking down her jaw, sucking at the hinge of it. The hand keeping her head upright smoothes over her spine, his arm wrapping around her bicep and squeezing her shoulders together. He holds her tighter, her hair stands static as her head comes to rest on his shoulder, his sweater the culprit. “You must really like me if just kissing me has you so worked up.” She rolls her eyes, but he isn’t wrong. Making out would bring her to his point on any other day, yet he’s purposefully playing dumb, ignoring the hand under her skirt, the thumb under the gusset of her panties rubbing circles onto her clit. 

“You’re a dick,” she bites back, shaky, fangless. 

“A really good one… you came, like, five times the other—”

“Adrian. Shut up.” Her words are slurred against his mouth. He’s smiling, innocent as can be, like a thick digit hasn’t begun to work its way inside her, like a second one isn’t prodding alongside it. She inches her hips towards his fingers. He stops just as her jaw begins to drop, leaving her with his fingertips. Smug little fucker. She cups his chin, squeezes, a tough front betrayed by her pleading eyes. They glimmer with a need only he can provide for. “Are you gonna do it or not?” 

“You’re not being very nice.” Adrian pouts, teasing. So fucking condescending. “If someone was about to fingerfuck me—” Her hand flies to clamp over his mouth with an audible smack! that makes him flinch. He isn’t startled for long. The apples of his cheeks rise with a grin and his tongue swirls against her palm, leaving it slimy. Her hand leaves as quickly as it’d come, her nose scrunched, lips pursed in disgust as she wipes it on his shirt. “Aw, you look so cute like that.” The wrinkles in her expression deepen, bordering on irritation.

Adrian hates when she looks upset. He makes sure it doesn’t last long.

“I’m taking that as a no— oh, fuck…” His fingers sink in, both at once, slow, steady, up past the second knuckle, and curl. Her rebuttal fuses with a moan, every line in her face softening, her spine arching. If it weren’t for his arm behind her, she would’ve tipped out of his lap and blown their cover. It’s a shock that their bickering hasn’t pulled attention towards them, her little noises sneaking in alongside it. “Ad — ri — an —” 

“Baby,” he coos. It would almost be loving if his eyes weren’t crazy, glimmering for her undoing, so excited that he’s almost vibrating. His fingers pump now, bicep flexing, filling out his sleeve as he works them inside her. His fingertips kiss at her sweet spot, the one that makes air catch in her throat and her thighs jerk. “See? Isn’t this better than fighting with me?” The question is purely rhetorical, a trap to get her mouth open for whatever smartass answer she wants to spit at him, all so he can slip his tongue inside it and capture her into a kiss she can’t refuse. It marks the end of their bickering, her hands slithering from his chest to his nape, up into his curls as his thumb finds her clit again, her noises swallowed as they come. Slow circles, fingers still going in, out, in — they stay there, the tips finding the squishy, spongy area amongst her walls, massaging it in rhythm with his thumb. Squeezing her legs does nothing, his mouth keeps hers occupied, and with a sigh, she gives in completely. 

Adrian notices in an instant, feels her body ease atop him, around him. What was left of the teasing flies out the window, the tempo he’d set a moment earlier goes with it, his pace quickening, their shared moans doing little to overshadow the way her pussy sounds off with wetness. She squeals, his lips muffle the sound. He wants nothing more than for her to soak his fingers. Even better, his jeans, so he can spend the rest of the party smelling like her. He can feel it already, the moist spot forming where she drips down his knuckles. The thought of it makes him dizzy, fuels him to go even faster, a little harder, lost to his own selfish objective.

He’s forgotten they’re at a party, with people that can see them, hear them, maybe even guess what they’re doing. Him being him, he’d hardly care if they did. The way she hugs his fingers occupies his full focus. He turns it up another notch, the pad of his thumb pressed onto her clit, his fingers working quicker inside her. She’s writhing in his lap, her feet twitching, digits tugging his hair hard. It does nothing to slow him down, pain rarely does. 

Then, her teeth sink into his lip, like she’s trying to bite it clean off, forcing him to pull his mouth back, lick over the blood forming at the corner. Even that doesn’t matter, because the pleasure in her countenance says what she can’t. A squeak, her thighs draw together, and with a final pull of her walls around his digits, she cums, smacking her lips against his to hide the noises of her high. Her arousal pools at his palm, for he’s buried his fingers knuckle deep, and her insides squeeze around him, pulsing as she works through the waves of her orgasm. She can’t even kiss him for long, her head tipping back to breathe, hands releasing his curls, gripping the fabric of his sweater instead. 

Adrian keeps his hand between her thighs until she physically pushes at his wrist. The spot on his jeans grows, and he wipes his fingers against it to make it even better before his arm wraps around her waist. Her blurry vision comes to clarity on the picture of satisfaction, expectant eyes awaiting praise, validation. “Was it… better than fighting me?” 

She pretends to ponder, her gaze darting about, mostly for dramatic effect, though she finds herself checking whether any eyes were on them. The coast seems clear until she sees Emilia, who stares at her with eyebrows raised above the rim of her drink. When she lowers it, she’s smirking, almost impressed. Beside her, Leota lounges, offering an awkward grin, clearly in the know. 

“Baby? You have to think about it for that long?” Adrian’s voice is whiny, his strong arms hugging her tighter. Her gaze drifts back to meet his puppy eyes. “Was it better or not? What can I do next time if it—”

“It was good. Really good.” 

“Yeah? Really?” His expressions brightens in a way that makes her heart twinge, a feeling inappropriate amongst the lewd series of past events. She takes his chin, plants a soft, soft kiss to his lips. 

“Yeah. Really.”

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