Do you think youâll ever come back to this blog? Please donât delete your stories.
hello!!
i am not going to delete my stories!! don't worry!! i will leave this blog up for people, and i will leave the stories up on ao3 (though they're on my main account now)!!
i don't currently have plans to write for this blogâ but i never say never!! i may want to return, i may notâ i don't know what's to come!! but i have loved writing here, and if i do write here again, i can't wait to love it all over again!!
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[comes to you like an old timey journalist]
Ay kid, I got something for ya..
Bruce Wayne intimacy, caring for him, washing the dirt and grime out his hair, helping alfred stitch his wounds and make him eat and sleep, reassuring Dick when things look bad, being there for him when he feels he has nobodyâŠ. ya knowâŠ. the good stuff
it's just a feeling
pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gn pronouns)
rating: t
word count: 4,296
one-sentence synopsis: bruce returns from a night out as the batman in gotham, and you remind him what it is to just be bruce, and to let himself be taken care of, for just a little while.
author's note: oh god the intimacy........... a hot scoop if ever i had one buckaroo
read on ao3!
Youâre usually lucky if Bruce is home before dawn.
Tonight, youâre not so lucky.
The sunâs already started to spread back up into the sky, beams of dim grey light fighting through Gothamâs near-constant cloud cover. The curtains are drawn throughout Wayne Manor, however, keeping the palatial spread of Bruceâs home in darkness until heâs actually ready to start his day later.
Alfred joins you in the window, watching the trees outside the estate, waiting for the telltale flash of neon and the rumbling engine that promise the Batmobileâs backâ that Bruce is back, that another night as Batman is over, that heâs survived long enough to come home to you once more.
When you see it, you visibly relax. The house is so silent that the distant purr of the engine seems like the loudest crash. When it skims underneath the property, vanishing into the bowels of Wayne Manor, Alfred sighs beside you. You glance over at him.
âAnother night,â Alfred says. He doesnât elaborate before he turns to make his way to the elevator thatâll take him down to the Batcave, and you follow after him. You donât speak, either; thereâs really nothing that needs to be said, right now. The two of you have long since fallen into a routine with Bruce. As the two (adult) people who live with him, who take care of him, who love him most, itâs difficult for you to see Bruce like this.
You hear pounding footsteps before the elevator doors close, and then a tiny hand is slamming in, stopping them from shutting. Dick stares up at you from the other side as the doors snap back open. He still looks half-asleep, pillow lines on his face, pajamas as rumpled as his hair, but heâs alert enough to glare at the both of you.
âIs he home?â Dick asks. His jaw cracks around a yawn in the next second, and you hold your hand out to him.
âHe is,â you tell him as Dick comes to you, slipping his hand into yours. He leans into your leg sleepily, letting his eyes drift shut as he yawns again. âYou, however, should be asleep.â
âI want to make sure heâs okay,â Dick informs you. Itâs just an explanation, not an argument.
Alfred crouches, and Dick steps into the circle of his arms, letting him lift him up onto his hip. Dick refuses to release your hand, clinging tightly as Alfred keeps him close.
The elevator dings into place in the dark subterranean Batcave, the doors clattering open. You can see the Batmobile at the far end of the space, the lights still glowing as the machine cools down enough to be turned off again, and the shadowy shape of Bruce moving through the aisles of worktables and equipment. His cowl, cape, and armor are all still in place, though you can see a fray in the material near his eye, a tear along the left edge of the cape, a chunk ripped out of the armor covering one thigh.
Youâll need to make repairs today and patch together other armor for him to take when he goes out tomorrow night; the last thing youâd ever do is let him go out with less than perfect protection from you.
Bruce finally lifts his eyes, when heâs drawn close enough. You can see the bright glint of them as they hit you first.
In that moment, thereâs no filter, no screen, no divide; the wall that Bruce likes to hide behind most often isnât there, and heâs just looking at you, connecting with you, raw and exhausted and worn. Your lips part slightly; youâre not sure if you need a breath, or if youâre going to say something.
âBruce!â Dick exclaims, wriggling to get out of Alfredâs arms. The both of you release him, and he sprints to Bruce, colliding with his legs. You donât miss the way Bruce staggers backwards, catching himself against the worktable behind them.
He still wraps an arm around Dick in response. He bows to hold him for a moment before he lifts him.
âYou should be asleep,â Bruce informs him. It sounds like heâs trying to be stern, but heâs landing at slightly concerned instead.
âI just wanted to say hi,â Dick says. He pulls at Bruceâs cowl, and so Bruce reaches up to tug it off, dropping it aside. He looks absolutely fucking exhausted, his face drawn, hair crushed flat, skin wan and split here and there. You canât see the bags under his eyes, smudged as the space around his eyes is with impossible amounts of reflective black paint, but you know thereâs going to be tired bruises there when his face is clean again
âHi,â Bruce tells him. âWhen did you go to sleep?â
Dick immediately appears sheepish, and lies, âEight oâclock.â Bruce looks up at you and Alfred for confirmation, and Dick hurries to correct himself, saying, âI meant ten!â
âYou shouldnât stay up so late,â Bruce tells him, moving to set him down again. âYou need your rest. Go back to sleep, kid, okay?â
Listen to your own goddamn advice, you canât help yourself from thinking. Itâs different, you know that. And you canât help being impossibly endeared by how deeply Bruce cares about Dick and his well-being, even if itâs offset by the obvious contrast in how little he cares about himself and his own well-being.
At least, you think, he has you. And Alfred, and Dick, you mentally amend, but mostly you, because Alfred keeps Bruce functional and the house running, and Dick keeps Bruce balanced and controlled and happy, but you keep Bruce alive. You care for him the same way he cares for Gotham: absolutely, without concern for yourself, determined to do this one job right and protect what matters most to you.
Dick is frowning, but Bruce says, âAlfred, would you?â anyway.
Alfred extends his hand, and Dick hesitates for a rebellious moment before he gives in. He must still be tired, and you wonder how long he waited up after you put him to sleep still waiting for Bruce. Youâre sure heâs still lying about ten oâclock, but youâre not about to call him out on it, not right now. Later, you can try and convince him about the merits of a good nightâs sleep, even when his fatherâ or, father figure, or mentor, as they insist, but you know betterâ is setting a terrible example.
âIâll return in a moment,â Alfred informs you both, but Bruce waves him off, already turning away to start unfastening the latches on his armor.
âNo need, Alfred,â Bruce replies. âIâm all set tonight, you can go to bed. Thanks for waiting up.â
Alfred is obviously skeptical, hesitant, and heâs about to argue with him before the two of you make eye contact. You and Alfred have gotten excellent at nonverbal communication; itâs easy for you to talk about Bruce without Bruce ever hearing a word.
Now, Alfred lifts an eyebrow at you slightly. You incline your head. When Alfredâs eyes flick over to Bruce, then back to you, you shake your head slightly, a small furrow coming between your brows.
I can still come back, heâs saying.
No, you tell him, Iâll take care of him. I can do this.
âGet some rest, Alfred,â you tell him. Alfred nods, now, surrendering Bruce to your care. It doesnât look like Bruce has been busted up in any major ways, no enormous lacerations or deep injuries that need immediate wound care from somebody trained under fire. When Bruce needs a different kind of care, itâs better if itâs only you there. He tries so hard to stay strong for Dick and Alfred, no matter how often youâ all of youâ insist he doesnât have to.
You all love him, and he loves you all. The hard part is just convincing him that itâs as true in one direction as it is in the other. You have an unconditional love for him, as does Alfred, as does Dickâ but Bruce is terrified that heâll someday still find the one condition thatâll stop that love, the one thing that will leave him alone again.
He loved so deeply before, only to lose everything, to be broken completely. Heâs always so terrified to love againâ to lose againâ but you know that heâs losing every second heâs not letting himself love.
When Alfred and Dick vanish behind the closed elevator doors, the machine carrying them up and away into the proper body of Wayne Manor, you return your attention more fully to Bruce.
With nobody here but the two of you, Bruce is starting to crumple. He grasps for the fixture on the cape, and you step up without hesitation, stretching to unclasp it yourself. You send the fabric slithering to the floor. Itâs important; of course, itâs important. Everything Bruce makes for Batman is important.
Bruce, however, is more important, and takes precedence over his uniform. You unwind the wraps from his hands, freeing each finger in turn until his bruised hands are free. Each piece of his armor gets separated and set aside next, either placed on a worktable or dropped to the floor to join the cape. Youâll pick it up later, or Alfred will, or Bruce himself will; whoever gets to it first. Right now, it doesnât matter. Theyâre just things, just clothes. They can be mended in time. Bruce needs mending immediately, needs care he canât wait for.
When youâve got him down to his tight black boxer briefs and his black undershirtâ all soaked in sweatâ you can take a better catalogue of his injuries.
Really, compared to other nights, itâs not that bad tonight. Thereâs a long cut looping near his hip that mustâve slipped through his armor; luckily, though it stretches for a fair length, itâs shallow. A slightly deeper cut is near his collarbone, and thereâs a few fresh bruises, which youâve grown horribly used to.
âCâmon,â you tell him, and take his hand to guide him. He grabs his notebook on the way, letting you take him upstairs into the proper house, through the dark, twisting hallways and up the stairs to his bedroom.
In the enormous bathroom attached to his bedroom, you sit Bruce down on the edge of the bathtub. You run the hot water, letting the rushing sound fill the room, steam thick with heat following after. In that roaring silence, Bruce scribbles in his notebook, his hand flying in his struggle to keep up with the pace of his own thoughts.
While he works and the bathtub fills, you start examining his wounds. His skin prickles everywhere your fingers drag. You make a soft noise when you see a little fresh blood around the injury near his collarbone, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.
âIâm going to stitch this one,â you tell him.
He nods, then says, âThank you,â his voice rough. You nod, leaning in to kiss his cheek, tasting paint and sweat and dirt and God knows what the fuck else.
Bruce keeps up his rapid scribbling while you dig out the massive first aid kit you and Alfred keep under the sink for him in here. You clean the wound on his hip first, then neatly close it with butterfly stitches. He barely seems to notice. When you move up to his collarbone, he switches to writing with his other hand. He only reacts once, when you first dab this wound; his expression tightens a bit, the muscles in his jaw jumping.
You move more carefully, cleaning out the deeper cut as tenderly as possible. He doesnât respond again, still writing, mumbling softly to himself as he works. Itâs a rhythm the two of you have long since established. In the beginning, he used to apologize a lot. It took you telling him many, many times that youâre here for him, not some changed and different version of him, for him to actually believe you, letting it sink in that he can sometimes just be quiet and think. You know he needs to process his time out as Batman when he gets home; this is just another part of the routine.
You finish cleaning Bruceâs injuries and stitching him up before heâs finished writing. You let the water run a little bit, letting a bit of it out so he can finish up. Itâs only once heâs done that you finally allow the bathtub to fill up the entire way. He seems surprised, nearly as if heâs forgotten where he was, when you reach out to lay a hand on his wrist.
âCan I take that?â you ask, and he nods. Slipping the notebook from his hand, keeping his pen inside to keep his place, you tug him into standing again.
He starts to strip off his own undershirt, so you kneel to hook your fingertips in the waistband of his underwear and tug them down. His clothes end up in the laundry basket; the notebook is safely removed to the nightstand in his bedroom; the first aid kit is replaced to its home beneath the sink.
Bruce takes your hand, lets you lower him down into the hot water. His face screws up slightly in response to the heat. You watch Bruce start to sink back into his own body, bit by bit, coming back to you.
The physical sensations are going a long way towards dragging him up out of the trance he usually ends up in when he comes home on nights like these. You roll your clothes up so you can sit on the bathtubâs edge without getting anything wet, your own legs submerged in the water up to your knees.
You stretch to reach for Bruceâs bath sponge. He tilts forward obediently, and you reach down to soak the sponge in water before you bring it up over his back and squeeze it out, letting the water rush down his skin. It drags dirt and grime with it, leaving trails of slightly cleaner skin behind.
You take up Bruceâs soap and start working it through the sponge until thereâs a lather. His eyes drift closed when you bring the sponge to his back again, starting to scrub at his shoulder blades, suds washing away the filth thatâs gathered on him over the course of the night. You work over every inch of his back, taking care to make sure you donât miss anything. You go back over it again, to loosen his muscles, and he sighs, his head hanging forward, shoulders slumping.
You take Bruceâs wrist in your hand, stretching out one arm so you can scrub it clean. You do the same with the other, and Bruce tilts his head back to watch you, his bright eyes hazily half-focused on your face as you work.
Every now and then, unable to resist him, you lean in and press a kiss to some part of his face. The corner of his mouth, the space next to his eye, the skin between his brows, the side of his nose. He smiles slightly every time, tipping just a bit into each kiss like heâs chasing after them with half a mind, slowly, drowsily returning to his own body.
While youâre focused on his face, you bring a washcloth up to scrub the paint and sweat and filth away. You swipe under one eye, sponging the paint off of him in sweeps to reveal pale skin and the bruises you knew would be underneath his eyes. You scour his entire face until heâs pink and raw when you bring the filthy cloth away. The thing is stained, but you just chuck it towards the laundry. Itâs more important that Bruce is clean than the washcloth is.
You take up the sponge again to bring down between his legs, dipping into the creases near his hips, his thighs. His head tilts back against the rim of the tub, and he shifts. You let your hand glide over his cock once, but thereâs no intent. Heâs clean, heâs warm, heâs safe, heâs here. Thatâs all you wantâ right now, anyways.
Gliding to his inner thigh, you make sure heâs clean everywhere. You scrub behind his knees, along the fine bones of his ankles, winding around and back up the other side. You make sure heâs clean everywhere, not a drop of the night left on him, before you abandon the sponge and take up Bruceâs shampoo instead.
Bruce tips his own head into the water to wet his filthy hair, sweat-soaked and crushed flat to his scalp as it is. He has such beautiful hair, not that he seems to realize it.
You scratch your nails down to his scalp, working out every tiny bit of grit, every speck of dirt, every oil-slick strand. He relaxes under your ministrations, his eyes drifting open and closed and open again, slipping up to find your face. He flickers back and forth as he watches you, a small smile at the edges of his lips.
When his hair is completely washed, you rinse it, then start again. He gets scrubbed twice before you carefully condition his hair, even as he huffs a laugh at you.
âHow was it tonight?â you ask, when he starts to engage with you again.
âMm.â He shifts, the water rippling slightly against the sides of the bath. âIt wasnât bad. Nothing terrible. Just another night in Gotham.â
For Bruce, âjust another night in Gothamâ can mean anything from stopping a couple of muggings to witnessing somebodyâs death, so youâre not about to let him just blow off whatever happened tonight. However, you also know he processes in his own time, so you rinse his hair again before kissing him on the temple.
âUp,â you say. âGet in the shower, let me clean the bathtub.â
âIâm sââ
âGo,â you tell him, and he goes. A trail of dripping water is left behind in tiny puddles in his wake. Really, the bathtub isnât so hard to clean; you rinse it out twice and itâs mostly fine. You find Bruce in the shower after, his forehead pressed to the tile, hot water cascading over the crown of his head to sluice down his body.
âCome on,â you say. You tangle your fingers with his, and he comes with you to stand on the rug in front of the sink. You stretch to towel his hair dry, combing it with your fingers before you twist to find his actual comb on the counter. He stands still as you comb his hair back for him, then pat him dry all over, kneeling to rub the towel down the backs of his thighs.
Small goosebumps are lifting on his skin when you finish, so you reach for his bathrobe to wrap him in it, soft, dark fabric sliding over his skin. He follows you from the bathroom to his bedroom.
When youâre sitting him down on the edge of the bed, sweeping his hair back from his face, thereâs a soft knock at the door. You leave him there with a kiss on the forehead before you go to answer the gentle sound.
On the other side of the door, Alfred waits with a tray. He passes it off to you, asks, âHow is he tonight?â
âHeâs okay, I think,â you tell him. You glance over your shoulder, and Alfred does the same, the both of you watching as Bruce shuffles himself back against the pillows, still on top of the covers. âJust tired.â
âArenât we all?â Alfred asks, and you smile slightly. When you turn back to Alfred, he leans in to give you a kiss on the cheek. âYou get some sleep, too. Donât think your hours have gone unnoticedââ
âGoodnight, Alfred,â you say, giving his hand a squeeze before you balance the tray again. âYou get some sleep.â
âRest assured, I will,â Alfred replies. Raising his voice slightly, he says over your shoulder, âGoodnight, Master Wayne.â
âGoodnight, Alfred,â Bruce says. He looks up, asks, âIs Dick asleep?â
âSoundly,â Alfred replies.
Bruce is smiling when he says, âThanks, Alfred.â
âGet some rest,â is all Alfred says. He eyes you, says, âThe both of you. And eat that,â he adds, pointing at the tray heâs given you. âAll of it.â
âYes, Dad,â Bruce says from the bed. Itâs a joke, but itâs not a joke, between them. Every time he makes the joke, the both of them get this smile that makes your chest feel tight, and youâre not even involved. Itâs nice, to see Bruce, who sometimes feels like the most well-known orphan in the world, not be completely without a parent.
Alfred bids you both goodnight again before leaving to retire to his own room. You nudge the door shut gently, quietly, before taking the tray heâs brought to Bruce in bed, slipping the cover up and off.
Itâs not muchâ itâs hot oatmeal, and warm water, and cornbread with butter melting in. Itâs not food that Bruce makes himself when heâs being specific with what he eats; itâs what Alfred makes him to comfort him.
Bruce accepts the food without comment, leaning back against the pillows to pick at pieces of it. You tear the cornbread and bring a piece to his lips.
He smiles. âYouâre feeding me, now?â
âItâs more for me than you,â you tell him. Leaning in slightly and lowering your voice, as if sharing a secret with a co-conspirator, you tell him, âI have a little bit of a crush on you, you know.â
Bruce laughs again, a soft noise that accompanies a bit of pink flushing on his sharp cheeks. You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth before you feed him the cornbread. His tongue chases the shine of butter on your fingertip, and you smile, too, watching the sleepily joyful edge that he has as he nears sleep.
You canât help but feel partially responsible for him, right now. For his contentment, for his happiness, for the way heâs stretching lazily and yawning when you know that, before you, he used to come home and lock his bedroom door and collapse in bed until he woke up the next day, if he slept at all. Itâs difficult to keep Bruce homeâ impossible, actuallyâ but you can at least make home a good place while heâs here, can make sure that heâs comfortable and safe and happy while heâs here with you.
Softly, unable to stop yourself, you ask him, âBruce. Are you happy?â
Bruce looks up from where heâs scraping the last of his oatmeal from the bowl, his brow furrowed. âWhat makes you ask that?â
Your chest hurts a little bit. âI just wanted to make sure.â
âOh.â Bruce looks back down at his spoon, then sets it down, abandoning the empty dishware. You take it from him as he says, âI am.â
âYeah?â you ask.
He reaches out, his long fingers encircling your wrist. You set the empty tray aside, joining him in bed again, bringing him painkillers from the bottle on the bedside table to take with the last of his water.
âYeah,â he agrees.
He takes the painkillers you offer, then draws you in. You climb over him to get under the covers, bringing them up and around the both of you. Snapping off the light beside the bed, you throw the room into darkness, despite the fact that you know the sun must just be rising outside. For Bruce, this is the time to sleep, the only time. Youâre going to make sure not a drop of sunlight comes in to ruin that before heâs ready.
Bruce twists to burrow into you in the darkness. You canât see each other, but you can feel Bruce wrapping himself around you, burying his face in your throat. His chest is rising and falling steadily, but his face feels warm as he tucks it into your skin.
His lips move slightly, but you canât hear what he says. Letting your hand drift up, you start carding your fingers through his damp hair, scratching lightly along his scalp.
You press a kiss to his hairline, then whisper, âWhat was that?â
Bruce takes a soft breath in. The inhale feels a little shaky, but you donât have time to ask if heâs okay before heâs murmuring again, voice raised slightly from before, âThank you for not⊠leaving me alone. Thank you for being here.â
Heâs saying that, but heâs saying more, so much more. Heâs saying thank you for staying when I told you to go. Heâs saying thank you for knowing me better than I know myself. Heâs saying thank you for caring for me when I donât know how. Heâs saying I love you and I canât be alone if it means being without you. Heâs saying nobody has ever loved me like this. Heâs saying I never thought I had anybody before I had you.
You tighten your hold on him, and he does the same in return. Burying your face in his hair, inhaling the warm soap-clean smell of him, you smile through the burn in your eyes.
âI love you,â you tell him. âYou donât have to thank me for loving you.â
He huffs a laugh that doesnât feel like itâs humored. You can still feel the smile against your skin, the hot burn of salt-wetness that soaks from his eyes, melting into you.
âI love you,â he murmurs back, voice warm like steam, absorbed by your skin. You kiss his skull, close your eyes, grounding yourself in the feel of him and in the knowledge that heâs here for another night, safe in his bedâ your bedâ your shared bedâ with you, at least once more.
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i did the math and when i counted up everything i posted/published in 2022........ it was well over a million words â ïž and that's just what i finished and shared!! proud of myself and also excited to find a balance this year between reading and writing?!
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I posted 1,319 times in 2022
That's 1,319 more posts than 2021!
940 posts created (71%)
379 posts reblogged (29%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@andillwriteyouatragedy
@honeycombstrawberry
@nobodys-baby-now
@peacemakernet
@chaseadrian
I tagged 1,312 of my posts in 2022
Only 1% of my posts had no tags
#answered - 860 posts
#not writing - 653 posts
#anonymous - 642 posts
#honeycombstrawberry - 478 posts
#adrian chase - 407 posts
#vigilante - 356 posts
#peacemaker - 215 posts
#dc - 190 posts
#adrian chase x reader - 188 posts
#vigilante x reader - 186 posts
Longest Tag: 139 characters
#i have to be better at reblogging fics on here that i read and like because i always forget and reblogging is vital to the tumblr ecosystem
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
Anyways. Just thinkin bout. Stealing Adrianâs clothes. Small/short reader. Stealing all of his hoodies and his suit and stuff. How he would get super possessive and touchy and cuddley and stuff. Just. Please. đđ
my favorite experiment
pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)
rating: m
word count: 7,108
one-sentence synopsis: you notice that adrian seems to like it when you borrow his clothes, so you decide to try a little experiment of sorts.
author's note: okay so when i say this got away from me i very sincerely truly mean that it completely got away from me. it ended up being over 7k words. but also i'm incredibly small and so this prompt spoke to me and obviously i'm here because i want this giant man to scoop me up and freak on me so this prompt immediately took a special place in my heart.
read on ao3!
Youâve never been very tall.
Itâs never really bothered you. You know people make a lot of jokes about height, but being short is just the way you are. Itâs not like you were taller and got shrunk; youâve never known what itâs like to be tall, so. This is just life. You donât mind it.
Youâve also never considered it to be anything specialâ
âuntil you met Adrian.
Heâs got at least a foot of height on you, but more than that, heâs justâ bigger. Heâs tall, and heâs broad, and heâs strong, and when youâre with him, you feel like youâre none of those things. And, in all honesty, it seems like something that Adrian genuinely loves about you.
You start getting suspicious right away. When you first get together, you both have a bad habit of staying over each otherâs places and just leaving shit everywhere. You canât keep your hands off each other, so, when youâre tearing each otherâs clothes off, things just happen to land all over the place. Neither of you is particularly organized in those moments, to be sure.
When youâve only been dating for a few weeks, you wake up in the middle of the night at Adrianâs place and realize youâre fucking thirsty. Youâre not surprised youâre dehydrated after what happened earlier, but you do know that you need waterâ like, nowâ and that Adrian is so deeply asleep that he doesnât even move when you slip out from under his arm.
You shiver in the cool air of the room. Searching for something to cover your bare skin, you just grab the first article of clothing you can find in the dark. Feeling it out, then tugging it on, you realize from how large it is that itâs Adrianâs shirt, but itâll have to do for now.
Besides, you like the idea of wearing his clothes. Itâs like a mark of ownership, sort of; like heâs staking his claim without even being there. Even more than that, it gives you a sense of belonging, that the two of you are so close that his clothes can keep you warm and safe, too, just like he does.
It feels nice, is all. You feel nice. So, you pull the shirt on, you realize itâs Adrianâs, and youâ leave it. Itâs not hurting anybody. Itâll just be quick, and then youâll be back, and it wonât even matter. He probably wonât even wake up to laugh at you.
You slip your arms through the sleeves and navigate through Adrianâs dark bedroom to find his bathroom. You slip the door closed, flip the light on, and get yourself a drink of water from the sink.
In your mirrorâs reflection, you can see yourself wearing Adrianâs shirtâ and literally nothing else. You watch your face heat up pink, flushing all over and spreading down your neck. You like the way it feels, you like the way it looks. You donât want Adrian to think youâre, likeâ clingy, or obsessive, or whatever. But you like this.
You yawn unexpectedly, reminding you you should probably actually go back to sleep instead of standing here, drinking water, looking at yourself in your boyfriendâs shirt.
Flipping the bathroom light off, you make your careful way back to Adrianâs bedroom, only to find that heâs sitting up, his lamp flicked on and a bewildered expression on his face. Heâs rubbing at one eye, glasses still on the side table.
When you come back, you say softly, âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to wake you up.â
âNo, no worries,â Adrian says, yawning until his jaw cracks. âI was just thiââ
He stops short as he drops his hand to actually properly look at you and meet your eyes. He only does that for a moment before his eyes fall down to skim over your body instead. He clearly canât see well, his vision unfocused before he scrambles for his glasses, cramming them onto his face. When he sees you in full clarity, he blushes red up to his ears, sprawling down his bare chest.
âHey,â Adrian says. His voice is lower, more of a bass in it. It makes your heart skip, heat coiling low in your gut, an instinctive response. He climbs up on the covers, crawls towards the end of the bed. He sits up at the foot of it, observing you from closer. âYou look really nice. Like, stupid nice.â
You look down at yourself. You know you must look pretty much like you do every time you wake up, except youâre wearing his clothes.
Adrian shifts where heâs sitting, and you look up to see him readjusting his position. Like you, he fell asleep without clothes on, and you can tell heâs already most of the way hard just from looking at you, which makes you feel like your blood is boiling just beneath your skin.
âWanna come back to bed?â he asks you, and you donât hesitate to come and climb right up on his lap, his hands gliding up under your shirtâ his shirt, on youâ as he tilts his head up for a kiss, searching, skin hot under your hands.
â
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951 notes - Posted March 1, 2022
#4
make a good man turn bad
pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gn pronouns)
rating: m (vague references to torture, possessive behavior)
word count: 5,337
one-sentence synopsis: you didn't think bruce was coming, but he wasn't going to stop until he found you again.
author's note: ohhhhh man. oh shit i love the requests you guys sent me i combined a BUNCH for this one i hope you love this!!!!!
>>> read on ao3! <;<<
Bruce isnât coming.
You reallyâ You really thought he was going to come.
At first, you fully believed he was coming. You knew it, you knew, he justâ He had to be coming. There was no other option. For somebody like Bruce, you really thought you were sure that he wouldnât stop until he found you again. You thought you meant something to him. You thought that, even if he was only recovering your body, he would have found you.
You thought he might have loved you the way you loved him.
Youâre realizing now that you thought wrong.
As each day passesâ Or, as what you believe is each day passes, since you donât have any windows to see the sunlight throughâ and Bruce doesnât come, you start to getâ worried. You donât doubt Bruce, but you canât help but doubt yourself.
What if he canât find me? you think. What if he doesnât want to? What if he hasnât even realized Iâm gone? What if he doesnât care?
You know he cares about people. You know you do. Itâs just that you arenât always sure that youâre worth caring about in the first place. You put so, so much work in with Bruce to help him learn to love again, to open himself up to a friend, to make himself vulnerable to being hurt by being willing to have a connection with another person. He is lovedâ even if Bruce doesnât necessarily know youâre in love with himâ and you truly believed he loved you in return.
Maybe he does love you, a tiny part of your brain considers. Maybe he just canât find you. Maybe he wonât find you in time and that wonât even matter. Maybe you should have said something and now youâll never get the chance.
Youâre not sure which option is worse.
With each maybe-day you spend confined in your cell, you grow more certain that Bruce isnât going to come. You donât know why, and you try to let go of reasons. Itâs more important that you embrace the inevitable, find peace within yourself.
You only wish youâd confessed to Bruce.
Orâ maybe you shouldnât 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. Itâs one of the only thoughts that gives you pleasure, and itâs double-edged with pain, laced through with poison. It hurts to think about what could have been when youâre growing increasingly certain youâll never get it.
At least heâll have Selina. It must be her that he keeps going to see, she must be the reason heâs not spending as much time with you, and he knows, he must know, butâ You never had a chance to justâ be honest. You could have ended it, or figured it out. You could have asked where he went all those nights he wasnât with you in Gotham. You could have told Bruce you wanted him, that you were right there, that he didnât have to be with someone else, that he could have you.
You want to live. You want to live. If for no other reason thanâ 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 didnât realize how strongly youâd regret not having been, in your last moments.
You have to live. For yourself, for him, forâ forâ anything that matters, you donât care, you just have to live. With each day that you become more certain that Bruce isnât coming, you become similarly determined to get out of this alive. Itâs a sick back-and-forth, when you know you really canât have one without the other. All the same, youâre dead set on getting out of here alive.
It really canât be that long since you were initially captured. Not too much time could have passed between then and now, youâre sure of it. Maybeâ a little over a week, or close to two? Not more than that.
That doesnât 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 youâd been knocked unconscious to transport you, you donât 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 andâ
âdoesâ
âanything they can to try and get you to give up information about Batman, butâ
âyou wonâtâ
âThey know, though.
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975 notes - Posted April 2, 2022
#3
since adrian is obsessed with friendship and the whole bff thing i was thinking what if his partner picks up one of those cute bff necklaces that are very obviously meant for children? they like âhey, you wanna wear bff necklaces?â i can imagine him lighting up and theyâre CONSTANTLY wearing them. he even wears it under his vig stuff. how would the 11th street kids react as well? also would it be possible to get little situations involving the necklace? i need to get this out of my head but iâm picturing them grabbing his and pulling him down to kiss him. obvi you donât have to do any of this i just thought it was cute đ
best friends forever
pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)
rating: gen+
word count: 2,228
one-sentence synopsis: you're not expecting adrian to have this strong of a reaction to a simple gift, but the response he ends up having is nothing short of life-changing.
author's note: i wrote and uploaded this entirely on my phone before breakfast on this lovely saturday morning so please excuse any madnesses
read on ao3!
You didn't think it was going to be a thing.
You at least thought it would be a thingâ that Adrian would think you're thoughtful, and he'd wear it a couple of times because he's loving and silly, but he'd ultimately end up forgetting about it. You'd just seen the matching BFF necklaces up near the counter when checking out with your groceries, and you'd thought, I bet Adrian would like that, and so you'd gotten them.
The matching necklaces sparkle with rainbow glitter, each of the necklace half of a heart that says BFF through the center. Though the word is visible in its entirety when you put the halves together, it's easy enough to guess what they are when separated. They're not the prettiest; they're gaudy, and cheap, and tiny, and you didn't really expect it to be a Thing, butâ
âBut when you get home and say, "Hey, Adrian, I got you a present!" and he came bounding out to find the two necklaces in your hands, he'd frozen completely, which wasâ unexpected, to say the least.
It's an entirely unanticipated response, and you stop now, too, confused.
"You got me a present?" he asks, with a strange inflection, like you'd somehow mean the other Adrian sharing this apartment with you.
"Yeah," you tell him. You tear the tag holding the necklaces together, then turn the charms so he can see the heart they form together, BFF sparkling inside. "See? They're BFF necklaces. One of the best friends wears one half, and the other wears the other."
You offer him one of the halves, the chain dangling from your fingers. He takes it like it's going to detonate somehow, his eyes all wide and focused down on it, his face pink. You're impossibly endeared by his reaction.
"You're my best friend?" Adrian asks, holding his half of the heart in the center of his palm.
"I mean, I was hoping so," you tell him. "Unless you want to give the other half to Châ"
"No!" he hurries to say. "No, I don'tâ I wantâ" His fingers curl up tight around the necklace. "No, Iâ Thank you."
He's not often at a loss for words, so you take it as a good sign that he liked his gift. It might be a little silly, and his reaction a little strange, but he does seem excited about it overall. He holds it out delightedly, asks, "Will you put it on for me?"
You grin and say, "Yeah, of course." He spins, and you reach to bring the necklace around his throat, clasping it together against the back knob of his spine. You adjust the necklace; he tugs it forward so he can look at it, held securely in his palm, locked around his neck, pressed over his heart.
He examines it for a beat longer, face pink, before he looks up and says, "Let me help you put yours on! Since we're best friends."
You laugh, and he smiles, but he does seem like he actually means it, that he's not joking. You hand him the necklace, and he turns you, bringing it up so he can fix yours on your own neck. When the charm settles in place over your sternum, you place your hand over it for a moment.
"You sure we can be best friends?" Adrian asks. It's like he's pushing you, testing your cracks, seeing if there's any way you might not mean this. You wonder how many times Adrian has thought he had a best friend that he didn't have before, his strong emotions unreciprocated by people who don't understand him.
You do, though. You tell him, "Of course we can."
"Even though we're together?" Adrian asks hopefully, skeptic.
"I think that's even part of it," you tell him. "We wouldn't want to be together if we didn't get along, right?"
Adrian considers this, then asks, "So⊠You're my partner, and my best friend?"
"Yeah," you tell him, a thrill running through you. "If that's okay."
"Okay?" Adrian repeats incredulously. "Iâ Fucking yeah! Oh, my God, fuck yeah, you're, like, the coolest friend I've ever had."
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1,085 notes - Posted March 5, 2022
#2
to have loved
pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gn pronouns, gn sex descriptions)
rating: e+
word count: 6,410
one-sentence synopsis: you see something you wish you hadn't before you and bruce make confessions to each other you never thought you'd make to anyone.
author's note: i wanted to write more for bruce and got some sooooft requests that made my heart sing so i hope you enjoy this little fic!!
read on ao3!
You know you donât have any right to be upset, but you are anyway.
Youâre upset, and youâre hurt, and youâre jealous, and youâre broken, just a little bit. You thought things were different, butâ clearly they arenât.
You and Bruce have been working together since he returned to Gotham just around two years ago. You help him with developing his technology, and repairing his equipment, and investigating his cases, and protecting Gotham. The two of you work together, as a unit. More often than not, youâre in the Batcaveâ either alone or with Alfredâ watching Bruceâs night through his eyes, unable to tear yourself away from the constant streams of his contact cams.
Youâre the voice in his ear, youâre his extra set of eyes, youâre his second opinion, youâre his partner-in-crime. Quite literally, you are his partner-in-crime, because the things you do with him and for him are often completely illegal. Not only that, butâ
Over these last two years, the two of you have grown⊠close. Really close. Closer and closer all the time, really. Bruce doesnât spend time with many peopleâ or, any people, reallyâ but he spends time with you. Youâre always in the Batcave together, or in the Manor together, or in Gotham together, or justâ together.
You really thought this was it. You and Bruce. That you were partners, friendsâ maybe even best friends.
Maybe even more than that. Or, you thought you would be more soon; you thought you could be more soon.
There have been a couple of almostsâ where you thought the two of you might kiss, but then it justâ didnât happen. Bruce will get this stricken look, and heâll withdraw, and you wonât be able to reach him again for a bit. He pulls into himself, away from you and everybody else for days every time that happens.
You shouldâve known why. You thought that he was just struggling to be close with you, still hurting so badly inside, afraid to love you because heâs afraid to lose you. You thought you understood him, butâ
You must not understand him at all. He must not want you. If he was trying to figure out his feelings for you, like you thought he was, he would probably not be kissing Selina right now.
And yet, here you are, watching through Bruceâs eyes as he kisses Selina. Itâs a small blessing that you canât see Bruce, but it almost makes it worse, that you know exactly what this looks like from his point of view.
Of course he wants her. Look at her.
Youâre glad that Alfred isnât here to see this. You know how obvious you must act around Bruce; heâd only be looking at you with pity right now. Itâs better you see this alone.
You and Bruce have a strong connection. You know that. You thought it was also a romantic connectionâ that he might be falling in love with you like you are with himâ but you must have thought wrong. When Selinaâs there, why the fuck would Bruce want you?
Itâs okay if youâre just friends with Bruce. You love him; youâre happy to be his friend. You justâŠ
You justâ
It doesnât matter, you tell yourself, even as your eyes burn. Bruce and Selina separate, and heâs saying something to her, but the blood roaring in your ears drowns out the low buzz of his words. You look down at your clenched hands, your mouth dry.
Your heart is racing. You frown, sniffling when your nose prickles, trying to calm your hitching breathing where it catches in the back of your throat. You feel like such aâ fucking idiot, you should have known better, you should have knownâ
â(Y/N),â Bruce says, voice low and sharp.
He cuts through the fog in your mind, and you blink, realizing heâs looking out at Gotham now. You donât see Selina anywhere anymore, and youâre mortified, wondering how many times you missed him saying your name before he had to change his tone.
âSorry,â you reply. âIâm here. Whatâs up?â
Bruce doesnât speak, for a beat. Your brow furrows as you frown. Youâre glad he canât see you, either.
âBruce?â you ask him.
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1,241 notes - Posted March 18, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
[comes to you like an old timey journalist]
Ay kid, I got something for ya..
Bruce Wayne intimacy, caring for him, washing the dirt and grime out his hair, helping alfred stitch his wounds and make him eat and sleep, reassuring Dick when things look bad, being there for him when he feels he has nobodyâŠ. ya knowâŠ. the good stuff
it's just a feeling
pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gn pronouns)
rating: t
word count: 4,296
one-sentence synopsis: bruce returns from a night out as the batman in gotham, and you remind him what it is to just be bruce, and to let himself be taken care of, for just a little while.
author's note: oh god the intimacy........... a hot scoop if ever i had one buckaroo
read on ao3!
Youâre usually lucky if Bruce is home before dawn.
Tonight, youâre not so lucky.
The sunâs already started to spread back up into the sky, beams of dim grey light fighting through Gothamâs near-constant cloud cover. The curtains are drawn throughout Wayne Manor, however, keeping the palatial spread of Bruceâs home in darkness until heâs actually ready to start his day later.
Alfred joins you in the window, watching the trees outside the estate, waiting for the telltale flash of neon and the rumbling engine that promise the Batmobileâs backâ that Bruce is back, that another night as Batman is over, that heâs survived long enough to come home to you once more.
When you see it, you visibly relax. The house is so silent that the distant purr of the engine seems like the loudest crash. When it skims underneath the property, vanishing into the bowels of Wayne Manor, Alfred sighs beside you. You glance over at him.
âAnother night,â Alfred says. He doesnât elaborate before he turns to make his way to the elevator thatâll take him down to the Batcave, and you follow after him. You donât speak, either; thereâs really nothing that needs to be said, right now. The two of you have long since fallen into a routine with Bruce. As the two (adult) people who live with him, who take care of him, who love him most, itâs difficult for you to see Bruce like this.
You hear pounding footsteps before the elevator doors close, and then a tiny hand is slamming in, stopping them from shutting. Dick stares up at you from the other side as the doors snap back open. He still looks half-asleep, pillow lines on his face, pajamas as rumpled as his hair, but heâs alert enough to glare at the both of you.
âIs he home?â Dick asks. His jaw cracks around a yawn in the next second, and you hold your hand out to him.
âHe is,â you tell him as Dick comes to you, slipping his hand into yours. He leans into your leg sleepily, letting his eyes drift shut as he yawns again. âYou, however, should be asleep.â
âI want to make sure heâs okay,â Dick informs you. Itâs just an explanation, not an argument.
Alfred crouches, and Dick steps into the circle of his arms, letting him lift him up onto his hip. Dick refuses to release your hand, clinging tightly as Alfred keeps him close.
The elevator dings into place in the dark subterranean Batcave, the doors clattering open. You can see the Batmobile at the far end of the space, the lights still glowing as the machine cools down enough to be turned off again, and the shadowy shape of Bruce moving through the aisles of worktables and equipment. His cowl, cape, and armor are all still in place, though you can see a fray in the material near his eye, a tear along the left edge of the cape, a chunk ripped out of the armor covering one thigh.
Youâll need to make repairs today and patch together other armor for him to take when he goes out tomorrow night; the last thing youâd ever do is let him go out with less than perfect protection from you.
Bruce finally lifts his eyes, when heâs drawn close enough. You can see the bright glint of them as they hit you first.
In that moment, thereâs no filter, no screen, no divide; the wall that Bruce likes to hide behind most often isnât there, and heâs just looking at you, connecting with you, raw and exhausted and worn. Your lips part slightly; youâre not sure if you need a breath, or if youâre going to say something.
âBruce!â Dick exclaims, wriggling to get out of Alfredâs arms. The both of you release him, and he sprints to Bruce, colliding with his legs. You donât miss the way Bruce staggers backwards, catching himself against the worktable behind them.
He still wraps an arm around Dick in response. He bows to hold him for a moment before he lifts him.
âYou should be asleep,â Bruce informs him. It sounds like heâs trying to be stern, but heâs landing at slightly concerned instead.
âI just wanted to say hi,â Dick says. He pulls at Bruceâs cowl, and so Bruce reaches up to tug it off, dropping it aside. He looks absolutely fucking exhausted, his face drawn, hair crushed flat, skin wan and split here and there. You canât see the bags under his eyes, smudged as the space around his eyes is with impossible amounts of reflective black paint, but you know thereâs going to be tired bruises there when his face is clean again
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1,853 notes - Posted March 10, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review â
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here is your weekly reminder to watch peacemaker if you haven't. you are missing out on such joy
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Omg! Youâre back! Back writing Adrian, I mean! I missed you!!
hello!!! i'm here!!!!! i posted a little thing tonight!!!!!! i don't know to what degree i'm back, but i am here!!!!!! hello!!!!!!! i missed you, too!!!!!!!!
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(my boyfriend is making fun of me for this smh) just imaging Adrian being the most loving person ever, like making you weird ass snacks late at night or when the bub crys Adrian would be like "love just rest, stay in bed I'll go" he would kiss your forehead before leaving to calm the little bub down but eventually brings him to you "he doesn't calm down when u try to but the moment you hold him he is the most quietest person in this world"
-đŠ
ugh yes god..... i love the insane man who will do insane things.......... this man would go bonkers if someone is slightly rude to him in public but he will endure torment from his own child. i am obsessed quite frankly. and he will do absolutely anything for those he loves i swear by this. my god i'm melting apart
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please god thank u i'm so so glad people still want to read my silly little stories even when i vanish endlessly!!!! thank u thank u thank u đđđđđ
this fire, these flames
pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns, pregnant)
rating: t (language)
word count: 1,476
one-sentence synopsis: you and adrian share a cozy, comfortable moment together as a family in your fireplace-warmed parlor while snow storms outside.
author's note: hi omg hello!! it's been so long!! my spotify wrapped just dropped and all the songs from the peacemaker soundtrack were on it and i was like!! fuck!! i miss my main man adrian!! so even though i have written like. two books and also a hundred ofmd fics. i have returned. to post another adrian fic. you knew i would always come home to you babe!!!! anyways raccoon anon inspired me to write this little doodad!!!! celebrating dilf adrian!!!!!! and so here we go!!!! back into adrian's loving arms đ đ«
>>> READ ON AO3 <<<
Itâs cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.
In here, Adrianâs stoked the fire, keeping it blazing-hot to fill this room with such a comfortable warmth that you canât help sinking into it. The entirety of your parlor is filled with that heat; you, too, are filled with it, until youâre hazy with it, lethargic where recline on the sofa.
You keep your eyes drowsily fixed on the lights ahead of you. The candles in the windowsill are so calm, flickering against the dark snowfall outside. Though the night is pitch-black, you can occasionally make out the glint of wet snowflakes drifting down fat and heavy just beyond the glass, filling up your yard with a wintry blanket of glistening, crystalline white.
Softly, in the corner, the fire crackles. Just beside it, on the console-table, Adrianâs set up your record player; one of his records is playing at a low volume, something instrumental and slow, heavy on percussion, lulling you deeper into lethargy.
Behind you, you hear the slight shifting of wood beneath weight, telling you Adrianâs rejoining you in the parlor. You tip your head up and back and, sure enough, youâre gifted a kiss on the cheek just a moment later.
âHey, there,â Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, âHands up.â
You do as asked, pushing the soft blanket wrapped up to your shoulders down to your lap, a puddle of warm burgundy fleece. When you lift your bare hands, he settles a mug into them, the ceramic glowing with heat though not too hot to touch, warming your chilled fingertips.
âWhat do we have here?â you ask, bringing the mug down so you can examine it, letting the warm liquid inside haze upwards with sweet steam, sliding up over your face and through until you can smell the chocolate like a taste on the back of your tongue.
âCocoa,â Adrian answers, though you donât need the information, anymore. Youâre happy to hear him say it all the same. âJust how you like it. Careful, itâs hot. Lemme blow on it before you take a sipââ
âYou do not need to blow on it,â you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.
Adrian pushes around the sofa, slipping down to join you amongst the cushions and pillows and blankets youâve heaped on with you. Wriggling his way in, he lifts you neatly with one arm. It takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to work himself beneath you, pulling you up and against him, partially on the couch and now partially in his lap, tucked into him.
âHowâs that?â Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. âComfy?â
âYes, very,â you tell him.
âFuck, yeah,â he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.
Transitioning your mug into one hand, you reach to tug your blanket off your legs a bit, shifting it so you can spread it across the both of you. Adrian tilts into you when you do, letting his cheek rest on the top of your head.
âThanks, babe,â he murmurs to you.
You canât help smiling, tipping your head back to rest against his shoulder. He takes advantage of your new perspective to kiss you, slowly, even at this strange angle. His tongue spreads along yours for an indulgent moment, and you canât help the soft hum that comes up, contented and happy to be in his arms. You can feel, too, when he smiles against your lips, unable to stop himself in response to your joy.
He parts from you with a jerk, then, his head twisting to look at his mug of hot chocolate just as he catches himself from tipping it and spilling on the blankets.
âShit,â he hisses. âFuckingâ Whoops.â
âDonât worry about it,â you whisper back.
He leans over your mug, just remembering his promise, and blows across the steaming surface of it. You laugh, and it makes him smile, but he just does it again.
âIâm not a little kid,â you tell him. âI can handle the heat.â
âAw, but your poor tongue,â Adrian replies between blows. You stick said tongue out at him, and he smiles right back at you before blowing again. His eyes shift, though, and he looks over at the loveseat kitty-corner from the sofa.
There, curled up beneath a thick woolen blanket, wrapped in comfortable browns and reds and pinks, your son is fast asleep. His head of dark hair is settled on a throw pillow; he looks so small, like this, like heâs still a baby instead of the toddler heâs quickly become, his thumb in his mouth as he sleeps through your mischief on the sofa opposite him. His dark eyelashes are swept downwards, closed in sleep. Even as you both watch him now, he doesnât wake, blissfully ignorant of his parentsâ goofing off so close by.
If anything, you think, heâs probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. Heâs been hearing it in his sleep since he was in the womb, practically, after all.
And, admittedly, also in pretty much every waking hour, as well. Heâs just usually also involved in those goof-offs.
âFuck,â Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. âI love that little shit. Donât you?â
You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, âI suppose. We can keep him, I guess.â
âOh, sure,â Adrian says. âBut then itâll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?â
âSomething like that,â you tell him.
ââSomething like that,ââ Adrian echoes, kissing the top curve of your ear. âAnd what about this one, then, you dingbat?â His free hand, previously settled amongst the blankets against your side, lifts now to drift over the swell of your belly.
âYou can take care of that one, too,â you insist.
âWhat the fuck?â Adrian laughs. âAlright, then. If Iâm raising our kids, whatâre you doing?â
You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.
âThis,â you tell him. âLiving indulgently.â
âYouâre such a shithead,â he replies, with such deep affection that youâre briefly overcome, in the moment before he kisses the side of your head again. âDrink your hot cocoa before itâs cold cocoa.â
âYouâre the one who was blowing on it,â you remind him.
Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.
Laughing, you say, âFine, fine, give it to me,â and pull it back from him, taking it up to your lips once more so you can take a sip. It is just how you like it, and you smile, enjoying the sweet spread of warmth down and through you, suffusing your entire body with that comfortable heat.
Adrianâs studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesnât last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, âWell? Do you like it, what do you think?â
You make him suffer for another silent momentâ in which he whines, frustrated, and you tip up to kiss the closest part of him, which turns out to be the edge of his glassesâ before you say, âItâs perfect, Adrian. Thank you for this.â You motion broadly, and add, âYou know, all ofâ this. The wholeâ All of it.â Youâre not sure how to express this, exactly, so you settle on the comfortably all-encompassing, âI love you.â
Adrian seems to glow from within, burning with the light your love and praise and appreciation give him. It stokes something inside of you, crackling just like the fire; you feel like youâre blazing with that same heat, flames licking up in such a similar way.
âI love you more,â he insists, so strongly you can feel the push of his love through him and into you, soaking down into your bones, tying your marrow into his.
You donât dignify him with an answerâ because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.
Instead of playful arguing, you dissolve instead into another upwards kiss with him, smiling as you come to him. When you meet, you can feel that heâs smiling, too, and it has you shifting slightly, turning so you can give him just a bit deeper of a kiss, careful not to spill the cocoa in your hands.
When you part, this time, the flames are warm and they flicker such golden light across Adrianâs face, casting him in long, dramatic shadows. You kiss the blurring edge of one, feeling the heat on his face to match.
âYou taste good,â Adrian tells you, and you huff another laugh, smiling when you tip up into another long, slow, warm kiss, held in his arms, cocoa at a distance, enjoying the comfort of the night.
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AAAAAAAAA the fic was sooo good. I love this my little heart has exploded it feels like just my sleep deprived brain has too many ideas to sleep with but it won't let me sleep either hate the brain at times. But seriously this was amazing and keep up the good work :)
-đŠ
YAY yes yes yes i'm so glad you liked this little story aahhh!!!! we deserve all the goodness!!!!! thank you thank you thank you, may our sleep be filled with dilf adrian and tender holds!!!!!!
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adrian chase taglist, part 2:
@anthonyedwinstark @sexysquatch @crimscnrains @trans-librarian @probablyasatanworshipper @phoenixhalliwell @perseajohnson @freyafriggafrey @psychadelictoadie @middimidoris @peacemakernet @satansrighthandmanchild @seeking-a-great--perhaps @ev-june @bvcksmurdock @staticspouse @acupnoodle @awkward-opossum @slashersimp101 @uwiuwi @16boyfriends-and-me @tigerlilygroves @stardust-galaxies @1-imaginary-girl
this fire, these flames
pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns, pregnant)
rating: t (language)
word count: 1,476
one-sentence synopsis: you and adrian share a cozy, comfortable moment together as a family in your fireplace-warmed parlor while snow storms outside.
author's note: hi omg hello!! it's been so long!! my spotify wrapped just dropped and all the songs from the peacemaker soundtrack were on it and i was like!! fuck!! i miss my main man adrian!! so even though i have written like. two books and also a hundred ofmd fics. i have returned. to post another adrian fic. you knew i would always come home to you babe!!!! anyways raccoon anon inspired me to write this little doodad!!!! celebrating dilf adrian!!!!!! and so here we go!!!! back into adrian's loving arms đ đ«
>>> READ ON AO3 <<<
Itâs cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.
In here, Adrianâs stoked the fire, keeping it blazing-hot to fill this room with such a comfortable warmth that you canât help sinking into it. The entirety of your parlor is filled with that heat; you, too, are filled with it, until youâre hazy with it, lethargic where recline on the sofa.
You keep your eyes drowsily fixed on the lights ahead of you. The candles in the windowsill are so calm, flickering against the dark snowfall outside. Though the night is pitch-black, you can occasionally make out the glint of wet snowflakes drifting down fat and heavy just beyond the glass, filling up your yard with a wintry blanket of glistening, crystalline white.
Softly, in the corner, the fire crackles. Just beside it, on the console-table, Adrianâs set up your record player; one of his records is playing at a low volume, something instrumental and slow, heavy on percussion, lulling you deeper into lethargy.
Behind you, you hear the slight shifting of wood beneath weight, telling you Adrianâs rejoining you in the parlor. You tip your head up and back and, sure enough, youâre gifted a kiss on the cheek just a moment later.
âHey, there,â Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, âHands up.â
You do as asked, pushing the soft blanket wrapped up to your shoulders down to your lap, a puddle of warm burgundy fleece. When you lift your bare hands, he settles a mug into them, the ceramic glowing with heat though not too hot to touch, warming your chilled fingertips.
âWhat do we have here?â you ask, bringing the mug down so you can examine it, letting the warm liquid inside haze upwards with sweet steam, sliding up over your face and through until you can smell the chocolate like a taste on the back of your tongue.
âCocoa,â Adrian answers, though you donât need the information, anymore. Youâre happy to hear him say it all the same. âJust how you like it. Careful, itâs hot. Lemme blow on it before you take a sipââ
âYou do not need to blow on it,â you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.
Adrian pushes around the sofa, slipping down to join you amongst the cushions and pillows and blankets youâve heaped on with you. Wriggling his way in, he lifts you neatly with one arm. It takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to work himself beneath you, pulling you up and against him, partially on the couch and now partially in his lap, tucked into him.
âHowâs that?â Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. âComfy?â
âYes, very,â you tell him.
âFuck, yeah,â he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.
Transitioning your mug into one hand, you reach to tug your blanket off your legs a bit, shifting it so you can spread it across the both of you. Adrian tilts into you when you do, letting his cheek rest on the top of your head.
âThanks, babe,â he murmurs to you.
You canât help smiling, tipping your head back to rest against his shoulder. He takes advantage of your new perspective to kiss you, slowly, even at this strange angle. His tongue spreads along yours for an indulgent moment, and you canât help the soft hum that comes up, contented and happy to be in his arms. You can feel, too, when he smiles against your lips, unable to stop himself in response to your joy.
He parts from you with a jerk, then, his head twisting to look at his mug of hot chocolate just as he catches himself from tipping it and spilling on the blankets.
âShit,â he hisses. âFuckingâ Whoops.â
âDonât worry about it,â you whisper back.
He leans over your mug, just remembering his promise, and blows across the steaming surface of it. You laugh, and it makes him smile, but he just does it again.
âIâm not a little kid,â you tell him. âI can handle the heat.â
âAw, but your poor tongue,â Adrian replies between blows. You stick said tongue out at him, and he smiles right back at you before blowing again. His eyes shift, though, and he looks over at the loveseat kitty-corner from the sofa.
There, curled up beneath a thick woolen blanket, wrapped in comfortable browns and reds and pinks, your son is fast asleep. His head of dark hair is settled on a throw pillow; he looks so small, like this, like heâs still a baby instead of the toddler heâs quickly become, his thumb in his mouth as he sleeps through your mischief on the sofa opposite him. His dark eyelashes are swept downwards, closed in sleep. Even as you both watch him now, he doesnât wake, blissfully ignorant of his parentsâ goofing off so close by.
If anything, you think, heâs probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. Heâs been hearing it in his sleep since he was in the womb, practically, after all.
And, admittedly, also in pretty much every waking hour, as well. Heâs just usually also involved in those goof-offs.
âFuck,â Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. âI love that little shit. Donât you?â
You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, âI suppose. We can keep him, I guess.â
âOh, sure,â Adrian says. âBut then itâll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?â
âSomething like that,â you tell him.
ââSomething like that,ââ Adrian echoes, kissing the top curve of your ear. âAnd what about this one, then, you dingbat?â His free hand, previously settled amongst the blankets against your side, lifts now to drift over the swell of your belly.
âYou can take care of that one, too,â you insist.
âWhat the fuck?â Adrian laughs. âAlright, then. If Iâm raising our kids, whatâre you doing?â
You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.
âThis,â you tell him. âLiving indulgently.â
âYouâre such a shithead,â he replies, with such deep affection that youâre briefly overcome, in the moment before he kisses the side of your head again. âDrink your hot cocoa before itâs cold cocoa.â
âYouâre the one who was blowing on it,â you remind him.
Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.
Laughing, you say, âFine, fine, give it to me,â and pull it back from him, taking it up to your lips once more so you can take a sip. It is just how you like it, and you smile, enjoying the sweet spread of warmth down and through you, suffusing your entire body with that comfortable heat.
Adrianâs studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesnât last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, âWell? Do you like it, what do you think?â
You make him suffer for another silent momentâ in which he whines, frustrated, and you tip up to kiss the closest part of him, which turns out to be the edge of his glassesâ before you say, âItâs perfect, Adrian. Thank you for this.â You motion broadly, and add, âYou know, all ofâ this. The wholeâ All of it.â Youâre not sure how to express this, exactly, so you settle on the comfortably all-encompassing, âI love you.â
Adrian seems to glow from within, burning with the light your love and praise and appreciation give him. It stokes something inside of you, crackling just like the fire; you feel like youâre blazing with that same heat, flames licking up in such a similar way.
âI love you more,â he insists, so strongly you can feel the push of his love through him and into you, soaking down into your bones, tying your marrow into his.
You donât dignify him with an answerâ because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.
Instead of playful arguing, you dissolve instead into another upwards kiss with him, smiling as you come to him. When you meet, you can feel that heâs smiling, too, and it has you shifting slightly, turning so you can give him just a bit deeper of a kiss, careful not to spill the cocoa in your hands.
When you part, this time, the flames are warm and they flicker such golden light across Adrianâs face, casting him in long, dramatic shadows. You kiss the blurring edge of one, feeling the heat on his face to match.
âYou taste good,â Adrian tells you, and you huff another laugh, smiling when you tip up into another long, slow, warm kiss, held in his arms, cocoa at a distance, enjoying the comfort of the night.
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adrian chase taglist, part 1:
@deputyrook @himboelover @pieriinova @gcldtom @violetrainbow412-blog @amysuemc @saturnngal @nptnewr @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @hillaryroadheadcllinton @ohmybubbletea @buckys-estrella @witchywcmans @qjuiq-odakyu @xothatnerdykid @thevalkyrior @mattsmanpain @sunflowerfive @deirdre-belle
this fire, these flames
pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns, pregnant)
rating: t (language)
word count: 1,476
one-sentence synopsis: you and adrian share a cozy, comfortable moment together as a family in your fireplace-warmed parlor while snow storms outside.
author's note: hi omg hello!! it's been so long!! my spotify wrapped just dropped and all the songs from the peacemaker soundtrack were on it and i was like!! fuck!! i miss my main man adrian!! so even though i have written like. two books and also a hundred ofmd fics. i have returned. to post another adrian fic. you knew i would always come home to you babe!!!! anyways raccoon anon inspired me to write this little doodad!!!! celebrating dilf adrian!!!!!! and so here we go!!!! back into adrian's loving arms đ đ«
>>> READ ON AO3 <<<
Itâs cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.
In here, Adrianâs stoked the fire, keeping it blazing-hot to fill this room with such a comfortable warmth that you canât help sinking into it. The entirety of your parlor is filled with that heat; you, too, are filled with it, until youâre hazy with it, lethargic where recline on the sofa.
You keep your eyes drowsily fixed on the lights ahead of you. The candles in the windowsill are so calm, flickering against the dark snowfall outside. Though the night is pitch-black, you can occasionally make out the glint of wet snowflakes drifting down fat and heavy just beyond the glass, filling up your yard with a wintry blanket of glistening, crystalline white.
Softly, in the corner, the fire crackles. Just beside it, on the console-table, Adrianâs set up your record player; one of his records is playing at a low volume, something instrumental and slow, heavy on percussion, lulling you deeper into lethargy.
Behind you, you hear the slight shifting of wood beneath weight, telling you Adrianâs rejoining you in the parlor. You tip your head up and back and, sure enough, youâre gifted a kiss on the cheek just a moment later.
âHey, there,â Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, âHands up.â
You do as asked, pushing the soft blanket wrapped up to your shoulders down to your lap, a puddle of warm burgundy fleece. When you lift your bare hands, he settles a mug into them, the ceramic glowing with heat though not too hot to touch, warming your chilled fingertips.
âWhat do we have here?â you ask, bringing the mug down so you can examine it, letting the warm liquid inside haze upwards with sweet steam, sliding up over your face and through until you can smell the chocolate like a taste on the back of your tongue.
âCocoa,â Adrian answers, though you donât need the information, anymore. Youâre happy to hear him say it all the same. âJust how you like it. Careful, itâs hot. Lemme blow on it before you take a sipââ
âYou do not need to blow on it,â you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.
Adrian pushes around the sofa, slipping down to join you amongst the cushions and pillows and blankets youâve heaped on with you. Wriggling his way in, he lifts you neatly with one arm. It takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to work himself beneath you, pulling you up and against him, partially on the couch and now partially in his lap, tucked into him.
âHowâs that?â Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. âComfy?â
âYes, very,â you tell him.
âFuck, yeah,â he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.
Transitioning your mug into one hand, you reach to tug your blanket off your legs a bit, shifting it so you can spread it across the both of you. Adrian tilts into you when you do, letting his cheek rest on the top of your head.
âThanks, babe,â he murmurs to you.
You canât help smiling, tipping your head back to rest against his shoulder. He takes advantage of your new perspective to kiss you, slowly, even at this strange angle. His tongue spreads along yours for an indulgent moment, and you canât help the soft hum that comes up, contented and happy to be in his arms. You can feel, too, when he smiles against your lips, unable to stop himself in response to your joy.
He parts from you with a jerk, then, his head twisting to look at his mug of hot chocolate just as he catches himself from tipping it and spilling on the blankets.
âShit,â he hisses. âFuckingâ Whoops.â
âDonât worry about it,â you whisper back.
He leans over your mug, just remembering his promise, and blows across the steaming surface of it. You laugh, and it makes him smile, but he just does it again.
âIâm not a little kid,â you tell him. âI can handle the heat.â
âAw, but your poor tongue,â Adrian replies between blows. You stick said tongue out at him, and he smiles right back at you before blowing again. His eyes shift, though, and he looks over at the loveseat kitty-corner from the sofa.
There, curled up beneath a thick woolen blanket, wrapped in comfortable browns and reds and pinks, your son is fast asleep. His head of dark hair is settled on a throw pillow; he looks so small, like this, like heâs still a baby instead of the toddler heâs quickly become, his thumb in his mouth as he sleeps through your mischief on the sofa opposite him. His dark eyelashes are swept downwards, closed in sleep. Even as you both watch him now, he doesnât wake, blissfully ignorant of his parentsâ goofing off so close by.
If anything, you think, heâs probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. Heâs been hearing it in his sleep since he was in the womb, practically, after all.
And, admittedly, also in pretty much every waking hour, as well. Heâs just usually also involved in those goof-offs.
âFuck,â Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. âI love that little shit. Donât you?â
You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, âI suppose. We can keep him, I guess.â
âOh, sure,â Adrian says. âBut then itâll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?â
âSomething like that,â you tell him.
ââSomething like that,ââ Adrian echoes, kissing the top curve of your ear. âAnd what about this one, then, you dingbat?â His free hand, previously settled amongst the blankets against your side, lifts now to drift over the swell of your belly.
âYou can take care of that one, too,â you insist.
âWhat the fuck?â Adrian laughs. âAlright, then. If Iâm raising our kids, whatâre you doing?â
You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.
âThis,â you tell him. âLiving indulgently.â
âYouâre such a shithead,â he replies, with such deep affection that youâre briefly overcome, in the moment before he kisses the side of your head again. âDrink your hot cocoa before itâs cold cocoa.â
âYouâre the one who was blowing on it,â you remind him.
Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.
Laughing, you say, âFine, fine, give it to me,â and pull it back from him, taking it up to your lips once more so you can take a sip. It is just how you like it, and you smile, enjoying the sweet spread of warmth down and through you, suffusing your entire body with that comfortable heat.
Adrianâs studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesnât last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, âWell? Do you like it, what do you think?â
You make him suffer for another silent momentâ in which he whines, frustrated, and you tip up to kiss the closest part of him, which turns out to be the edge of his glassesâ before you say, âItâs perfect, Adrian. Thank you for this.â You motion broadly, and add, âYou know, all ofâ this. The wholeâ All of it.â Youâre not sure how to express this, exactly, so you settle on the comfortably all-encompassing, âI love you.â
Adrian seems to glow from within, burning with the light your love and praise and appreciation give him. It stokes something inside of you, crackling just like the fire; you feel like youâre blazing with that same heat, flames licking up in such a similar way.
âI love you more,â he insists, so strongly you can feel the push of his love through him and into you, soaking down into your bones, tying your marrow into his.
You donât dignify him with an answerâ because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.
Instead of playful arguing, you dissolve instead into another upwards kiss with him, smiling as you come to him. When you meet, you can feel that heâs smiling, too, and it has you shifting slightly, turning so you can give him just a bit deeper of a kiss, careful not to spill the cocoa in your hands.
When you part, this time, the flames are warm and they flicker such golden light across Adrianâs face, casting him in long, dramatic shadows. You kiss the blurring edge of one, feeling the heat on his face to match.
âYou taste good,â Adrian tells you, and you huff another laugh, smiling when you tip up into another long, slow, warm kiss, held in his arms, cocoa at a distance, enjoying the comfort of the night.
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this fire, these flames
pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns, pregnant)
rating: t (language)
word count: 1,476
one-sentence synopsis: you and adrian share a cozy, comfortable moment together as a family in your fireplace-warmed parlor while snow storms outside.
author's note: hi omg hello!! it's been so long!! my spotify wrapped just dropped and all the songs from the peacemaker soundtrack were on it and i was like!! fuck!! i miss my main man adrian!! so even though i have written like. two books and also a hundred ofmd fics. i have returned. to post another adrian fic. you knew i would always come home to you babe!!!! anyways raccoon anon inspired me to write this little doodad!!!! celebrating dilf adrian!!!!!! and so here we go!!!! back into adrian's loving arms đ đ«
>>> READ ON AO3 <<<
Itâs cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.
In here, Adrianâs stoked the fire, keeping it blazing-hot to fill this room with such a comfortable warmth that you canât help sinking into it. The entirety of your parlor is filled with that heat; you, too, are filled with it, until youâre hazy with it, lethargic where recline on the sofa.
You keep your eyes drowsily fixed on the lights ahead of you. The candles in the windowsill are so calm, flickering against the dark snowfall outside. Though the night is pitch-black, you can occasionally make out the glint of wet snowflakes drifting down fat and heavy just beyond the glass, filling up your yard with a wintry blanket of glistening, crystalline white.
Softly, in the corner, the fire crackles. Just beside it, on the console-table, Adrianâs set up your record player; one of his records is playing at a low volume, something instrumental and slow, heavy on percussion, lulling you deeper into lethargy.
Behind you, you hear the slight shifting of wood beneath weight, telling you Adrianâs rejoining you in the parlor. You tip your head up and back and, sure enough, youâre gifted a kiss on the cheek just a moment later.
âHey, there,â Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, âHands up.â
You do as asked, pushing the soft blanket wrapped up to your shoulders down to your lap, a puddle of warm burgundy fleece. When you lift your bare hands, he settles a mug into them, the ceramic glowing with heat though not too hot to touch, warming your chilled fingertips.
âWhat do we have here?â you ask, bringing the mug down so you can examine it, letting the warm liquid inside haze upwards with sweet steam, sliding up over your face and through until you can smell the chocolate like a taste on the back of your tongue.
âCocoa,â Adrian answers, though you donât need the information, anymore. Youâre happy to hear him say it all the same. âJust how you like it. Careful, itâs hot. Lemme blow on it before you take a sipââ
âYou do not need to blow on it,â you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.
Adrian pushes around the sofa, slipping down to join you amongst the cushions and pillows and blankets youâve heaped on with you. Wriggling his way in, he lifts you neatly with one arm. It takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to work himself beneath you, pulling you up and against him, partially on the couch and now partially in his lap, tucked into him.
âHowâs that?â Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. âComfy?â
âYes, very,â you tell him.
âFuck, yeah,â he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.
Transitioning your mug into one hand, you reach to tug your blanket off your legs a bit, shifting it so you can spread it across the both of you. Adrian tilts into you when you do, letting his cheek rest on the top of your head.
âThanks, babe,â he murmurs to you.
You canât help smiling, tipping your head back to rest against his shoulder. He takes advantage of your new perspective to kiss you, slowly, even at this strange angle. His tongue spreads along yours for an indulgent moment, and you canât help the soft hum that comes up, contented and happy to be in his arms. You can feel, too, when he smiles against your lips, unable to stop himself in response to your joy.
He parts from you with a jerk, then, his head twisting to look at his mug of hot chocolate just as he catches himself from tipping it and spilling on the blankets.
âShit,â he hisses. âFuckingâ Whoops.â
âDonât worry about it,â you whisper back.
He leans over your mug, just remembering his promise, and blows across the steaming surface of it. You laugh, and it makes him smile, but he just does it again.
âIâm not a little kid,â you tell him. âI can handle the heat.â
âAw, but your poor tongue,â Adrian replies between blows. You stick said tongue out at him, and he smiles right back at you before blowing again. His eyes shift, though, and he looks over at the loveseat kitty-corner from the sofa.
There, curled up beneath a thick woolen blanket, wrapped in comfortable browns and reds and pinks, your son is fast asleep. His head of dark hair is settled on a throw pillow; he looks so small, like this, like heâs still a baby instead of the toddler heâs quickly become, his thumb in his mouth as he sleeps through your mischief on the sofa opposite him. His dark eyelashes are swept downwards, closed in sleep. Even as you both watch him now, he doesnât wake, blissfully ignorant of his parentsâ goofing off so close by.
If anything, you think, heâs probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. Heâs been hearing it in his sleep since he was in the womb, practically, after all.
And, admittedly, also in pretty much every waking hour, as well. Heâs just usually also involved in those goof-offs.
âFuck,â Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. âI love that little shit. Donât you?â
You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, âI suppose. We can keep him, I guess.â
âOh, sure,â Adrian says. âBut then itâll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?â
âSomething like that,â you tell him.
ââSomething like that,ââ Adrian echoes, kissing the top curve of your ear. âAnd what about this one, then, you dingbat?â His free hand, previously settled amongst the blankets against your side, lifts now to drift over the swell of your belly.
âYou can take care of that one, too,â you insist.
âWhat the fuck?â Adrian laughs. âAlright, then. If Iâm raising our kids, whatâre you doing?â
You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.
âThis,â you tell him. âLiving indulgently.â
âYouâre such a shithead,â he replies, with such deep affection that youâre briefly overcome, in the moment before he kisses the side of your head again. âDrink your hot cocoa before itâs cold cocoa.â
âYouâre the one who was blowing on it,â you remind him.
Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.
Laughing, you say, âFine, fine, give it to me,â and pull it back from him, taking it up to your lips once more so you can take a sip. It is just how you like it, and you smile, enjoying the sweet spread of warmth down and through you, suffusing your entire body with that comfortable heat.
Adrianâs studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesnât last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, âWell? Do you like it, what do you think?â
You make him suffer for another silent momentâ in which he whines, frustrated, and you tip up to kiss the closest part of him, which turns out to be the edge of his glassesâ before you say, âItâs perfect, Adrian. Thank you for this.â You motion broadly, and add, âYou know, all ofâ this. The wholeâ All of it.â Youâre not sure how to express this, exactly, so you settle on the comfortably all-encompassing, âI love you.â
Adrian seems to glow from within, burning with the light your love and praise and appreciation give him. It stokes something inside of you, crackling just like the fire; you feel like youâre blazing with that same heat, flames licking up in such a similar way.
âI love you more,â he insists, so strongly you can feel the push of his love through him and into you, soaking down into your bones, tying your marrow into his.
You donât dignify him with an answerâ because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.
Instead of playful arguing, you dissolve instead into another upwards kiss with him, smiling as you come to him. When you meet, you can feel that heâs smiling, too, and it has you shifting slightly, turning so you can give him just a bit deeper of a kiss, careful not to spill the cocoa in your hands.
When you part, this time, the flames are warm and they flicker such golden light across Adrianâs face, casting him in long, dramatic shadows. You kiss the blurring edge of one, feeling the heat on his face to match.
âYou taste good,â Adrian tells you, and you huff another laugh, smiling when you tip up into another long, slow, warm kiss, held in his arms, cocoa at a distance, enjoying the comfort of the night.
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Imagine cutting your hand and then for a whole as week adrian insists on doing everything for you - someone who cut their hand this week
oh my god..... first of all. i'm so sorry. your poor hand.
and second of all. oh my god. he WOULD. he'd insist on doing literally absolutely EVERYTHING. even tasks that do not normally involve the hand you cut. he INSISTS. he gets used to it. even after your hand heals he keeps opening doors for you and lifting bags for you and doing literally everything until you're like adrian babe i'm really okay now see? and he's like but....... i like doing this.............. like the simp he is!!!! ugh yes beloved adrian!!!!!!!!!!
i hope you feel better!!!!!!!! let thoughts of him heal you!!!!!!
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You are not the only one getting hurt (if I'm going down I'm taking everyone with me) also imagine autumn's with this man, waking up to a sweet smell of pancakes (or your favorite breakfast) trying your best to get out bed without feeling pain pulling on one of his shirts that is a little too big on you go downstairs to see Adrian with your barely a year old kid making pancakes and laughing as they make a mess of the kitchen before plating everything and looking at the creation of your love "let's take this to (preferred parental name)" Adrian would say in a cute voice before he notices you and goes red as you had caught him red handed
-đŠ
STOP HELLO?? it's maple time..... wearing a flannel that fits his broad shoulders..... hello......... he's covered in fucking pancake mix........... he wipes his face off on the shoulder of your (his) shirt and you shriek and he laughs and then you're all laughing.......... they present you with the insane pancakes and they're actually not awful-looking and you insist on all sharing them together and you pass around the fork and steal bites from each other and take turns feeding your baby........ please i'm a MESS!!!! HELLO WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ACTIVATED
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i miss slightly obsessive adrian who likes to squish his gf into the sheets after shes done putting on lotion and just laying there breathing her in, if she tries to move around before he's done cuddling he starts biting <3
omg yes yes YES!!!!! he runs and jumps down and lands right next to her and just buries into her throat and wraps all the way around her and just keeps inhaling please........ just keeps lightly nipping at her skin and playfully tugging her back in every time she tries to get loose, insisting it's not the same if she's not there with the nice smells, you make the smells nice, rubbing all over you and the sheets and just keeps trying to snuggle in closer and closer!!!! AAHHH!!!!!!!!
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I'm sorry (not actually hehe) but just imagine it christmas time cuddling with our dilfy boy Adrian near the fire place with hot chocolates as he sits behind you massaging your back as it aches as your 2 year old kid is asleep in their bedroom, he kisses you as soft music plays behind... Ahhhhh I'm killing myself here!!
-đŠ
okay look buddy. i'm opening the document i'm typing stop trying to HURT ME!!! god this image.... there's something so syrupy and sweet and indulgent about this stop i'm sobbing I'LL BE RIGHT BACK I HAVE TO WRITE SOMETHING
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I feel you, (I'm just suggesting this, you can take it or leave it its all up to you) I personally quite enjoyed dilf Adrian waaaaayyy tooo much like at this point I don't even know how to describe it but just...MY BOY DESERVES TO BE A DILF. So I kindly and respectfully suggest having more dilf Adrian with either pregnant reader (gn reader) or just dilf Adrian with kids and a partner
-đŠ
pleaaaaaaase raccoon anon, i'm not taking requests right now but MAN if you didn't know exactly the right words to say to me to activate me anyways....... oh god i'm opening a word doc. somebody please help me
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