honeycombstrawberry - Tumblr blog

honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Note

[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 nobody…. ya know…. 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!

You’re usually lucky if Bruce is home before dawn.

Tonight, you’re not so lucky.

The sun’s already started to spread back up into the sky, beams of dim grey light fighting through Gotham’s near-constant cloud cover. The curtains are drawn throughout Wayne Manor, however, keeping the palatial spread of Bruce’s home in darkness until he’s 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 Batmobile’s back— that Bruce is back, that another night as Batman is over, that he’s 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.

“Another night,” Alfred says. He doesn’t elaborate before he turns to make his way to the elevator that’ll take him down to the Batcave, and you follow after him. You don’t speak, either; there’s 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, it’s 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 he’s alert enough to glare at the both of you.

“Is he home?” Dick asks. His jaw cracks around a yawn in the next second, and you hold your hand out to him.

“He is,” 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. “You, however, should be asleep.”

“I want to make sure he’s okay,” Dick informs you. It’s 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.

You’ll need to make repairs today and patch together other armor for him to take when he goes out tomorrow night; the last thing you’d ever do is let him go out with less than perfect protection from you.

Bruce finally lifts his eyes, when he’s drawn close enough. You can see the bright glint of them as they hit you first.

In that moment, there’s no filter, no screen, no divide; the wall that Bruce likes to hide behind most often isn’t there, and he’s just looking at you, connecting with you, raw and exhausted and worn. Your lips part slightly; you’re not sure if you need a breath, or if you’re going to say something.

“Bruce!” Dick exclaims, wriggling to get out of Alfred’s arms. The both of you release him, and he sprints to Bruce, colliding with his legs. You don’t 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.

“You should be asleep,” Bruce informs him. It sounds like he’s trying to be stern, but he’s landing at slightly concerned instead.

“I just wanted to say hi,” Dick says. He pulls at Bruce’s 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 can’t see the bags under his eyes, smudged as the space around his eyes is with impossible amounts of reflective black paint, but you know there’s going to be tired bruises there when his face is clean again

“Hi,” Bruce tells him. “When did you go to sleep?”

Dick immediately appears sheepish, and lies, “Eight o’clock.” Bruce looks up at you and Alfred for confirmation, and Dick hurries to correct himself, saying, “I meant ten!”

“You shouldn’t stay up so late,” Bruce tells him, moving to set him down again. “You need your rest. Go back to sleep, kid, okay?”

Listen to your own goddamn advice, you can’t help yourself from thinking. It’s different, you know that. And you can’t help being impossibly endeared by how deeply Bruce cares about Dick and his well-being, even if it’s 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, “Alfred, would you?” 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. You’re sure he’s still lying about ten o’clock, but you’re not about to call him out on it, not right now. Later, you can try and convince him about the merits of a good night’s sleep, even when his father— or, father figure, or mentor, as they insist, but you know better— is setting a terrible example.

“I’ll return in a moment,” Alfred informs you both, but Bruce waves him off, already turning away to start unfastening the latches on his armor.

“No need, Alfred,” Bruce replies. “I’m all set tonight, you can go to bed. Thanks for waiting up.”

Alfred is obviously skeptical, hesitant, and he’s about to argue with him before the two of you make eye contact. You and Alfred have gotten excellent at nonverbal communication; it’s 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 Alfred’s 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, he’s saying.

No, you tell him, I’ll take care of him. I can do this.

“Get some rest, Alfred,” you tell him. Alfred nods, now, surrendering Bruce to your care. It doesn’t 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, it’s better if it’s only you there. He tries so hard to stay strong for Dick and Alfred, no matter how often you— all of you— insist he doesn’t have to.

You all love him, and he loves you all. The hard part is just convincing him that it’s as true in one direction as it is in the other. You have an unconditional love for him, as does Alfred, as does Dick— but Bruce is terrified that he’ll someday still find the one condition that’ll 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. He’s always so terrified to love again— to lose again— but you know that he’s losing every second he’s 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. It’s important; of course, it’s 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. You’ll pick it up later, or Alfred will, or Bruce himself will; whoever gets to it first. Right now, it doesn’t matter. They’re just things, just clothes. They can be mended in time. Bruce needs mending immediately, needs care he can’t wait for.

When you’ve got him down to his tight black boxer briefs and his black undershirt— all soaked in sweat— you can take a better catalogue of his injuries.

Really, compared to other nights, it’s not that bad tonight. There’s a long cut looping near his hip that must’ve slipped through his armor; luckily, though it stretches for a fair length, it’s shallow. A slightly deeper cut is near his collarbone, and there’s a few fresh bruises, which you’ve grown horribly used to.

“C’mon,” 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.

“I’m going to stitch this one,” you tell him.

He nods, then says, “Thank you,” 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 doesn’t respond again, still writing, mumbling softly to himself as he works. It’s 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 you’re 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 Bruce’s injuries and stitching him up before he’s finished writing. You let the water run a little bit, letting a bit of it out so he can finish up. It’s only once he’s done that you finally allow the bathtub to fill up the entire way. He seems surprised, nearly as if he’s forgotten where he was, when you reach out to lay a hand on his wrist.

“Can I take that?” 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 bathtub’s edge without getting anything wet, your own legs submerged in the water up to your knees.

You stretch to reach for Bruce’s 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 Bruce’s soap and start working it through the sponge until there’s 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 that’s gathered on him over the course of the night. You work over every inch of his back, taking care to make sure you don’t miss anything. You go back over it again, to loosen his muscles, and he sighs, his head hanging forward, shoulders slumping.

You take Bruce’s 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 he’s chasing after them with half a mind, slowly, drowsily returning to his own body.

While you’re 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 he’s pink and raw when you bring the filthy cloth away. The thing is stained, but you just chuck it towards the laundry. It’s 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 there’s no intent. He’s clean, he’s warm, he’s safe, he’s here. That’s all you want— right now, anyways.

Gliding to his inner thigh, you make sure he’s 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 he’s clean everywhere, not a drop of the night left on him, before you abandon the sponge and take up Bruce’s 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.

“How was it tonight?” you ask, when he starts to engage with you again.

“Mm.” He shifts, the water rippling slightly against the sides of the bath. “It wasn’t bad. Nothing terrible. Just another night in Gotham.”

For Bruce, ‘just another night in Gotham’ can mean anything from stopping a couple of muggings to witnessing somebody’s death, so you’re 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.

“Up,” you say. “Get in the shower, let me clean the bathtub.”

“I’m s—”

“Go,” you tell him, and he goes. A trail of dripping water is left behind in tiny puddles in his wake. Really, the bathtub isn’t so hard to clean; you rinse it out twice and it’s 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.

“Come on,” 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 you’re sitting him down on the edge of the bed, sweeping his hair back from his face, there’s 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, “How is he tonight?”

“He’s okay, I think,” 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. “Just tired.”

“Aren’t we all?” Alfred asks, and you smile slightly. When you turn back to Alfred, he leans in to give you a kiss on the cheek. “You get some sleep, too. Don’t think your hours have gone unnoticed—”

“Goodnight, Alfred,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze before you balance the tray again. “You get some sleep.”

“Rest assured, I will,” Alfred replies. Raising his voice slightly, he says over your shoulder, “Goodnight, Master Wayne.”

“Goodnight, Alfred,” Bruce says. He looks up, asks, “Is Dick asleep?”

“Soundly,” Alfred replies.

Bruce is smiling when he says, “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Get some rest,” is all Alfred says. He eyes you, says, “The both of you. And eat that,” he adds, pointing at the tray he’s given you. “All of it.”

“Yes, Dad,” Bruce says from the bed. It’s a joke, but it’s 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 you’re not even involved. It’s 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 he’s brought to Bruce in bed, slipping the cover up and off.

It’s not much— it’s hot oatmeal, and warm water, and cornbread with butter melting in. It’s not food that Bruce makes himself when he’s being specific with what he eats; it’s 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. “You’re feeding me, now?”

“It’s more for me than you,” you tell him. Leaning in slightly and lowering your voice, as if sharing a secret with a co-conspirator, you tell him, “I have a little bit of a crush on you, you know.”

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 can’t help but feel partially responsible for him, right now. For his contentment, for his happiness, for the way he’s 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. It’s difficult to keep Bruce home— impossible, actually— but you can at least make home a good place while he’s here, can make sure that he’s comfortable and safe and happy while he’s here with you.

Softly, unable to stop yourself, you ask him, “Bruce. Are you happy?”

Bruce looks up from where he’s scraping the last of his oatmeal from the bowl, his brow furrowed. “What makes you ask that?”

Your chest hurts a little bit. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Oh.” Bruce looks back down at his spoon, then sets it down, abandoning the empty dishware. You take it from him as he says, “I am.”

“Yeah?” 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.

“Yeah,” 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. You’re going to make sure not a drop of sunlight comes in to ruin that before he’s ready.

Bruce twists to burrow into you in the darkness. You can’t 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 can’t 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, “What was that?”

Bruce takes a soft breath in. The inhale feels a little shaky, but you don’t have time to ask if he’s okay before he’s murmuring again, voice raised slightly from before, “Thank you for not… leaving me alone. Thank you for being here.”

He’s saying that, but he’s saying more, so much more. He’s saying thank you for staying when I told you to go. He’s saying thank you for knowing me better than I know myself. He’s saying thank you for caring for me when I don’t know how. He’s saying I love you and I can’t be alone if it means being without you. He’s saying nobody has ever loved me like this. He’s 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.

“I love you,” you tell him. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

He huffs a laugh that doesn’t feel like it’s humored. You can still feel the smile against your skin, the hot burn of salt-wetness that soaks from his eyes, melting into you.

“I love you,” 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 he’s here for another night, safe in his bed— your bed— your shared bed— with you, at least once more.

2K notes · View notes

honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Text

i did the math and when i counted up everything i posted/published in 2022........ it was well over a million words ☠️ 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?!

#happy 2023 everybody #writing #from my main blog #not reader insert #not writing #on writing #showmeahero #honeycombstrawberry #nicole mello #personal ramblings #2022 #2022 year in review

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Text

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:

Anyways. Just thinkin bout. Stealing Adrian’s 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. 👉👈

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!

You’ve never been very tall.

It’s never really bothered you. You know people make a lot of jokes about height, but being short is just the way you are. It’s not like you were taller and got shrunk; you’ve never known what it’s like to be tall, so. This is just life. You don’t mind it.

You’ve also never considered it to be anything special—

—until you met Adrian.

He’s got at least a foot of height on you, but more than that, he’s just— bigger. He’s tall, and he’s broad, and he’s strong, and when you’re with him, you feel like you’re 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 other’s places and just leaving shit everywhere. You can’t keep your hands off each other, so, when you’re tearing each other’s clothes off, things just happen to land all over the place. Neither of you is particularly organized in those moments, to be sure.

When you’ve only been dating for a few weeks, you wake up in the middle of the night at Adrian’s place and realize you’re fucking thirsty. You’re not surprised you’re dehydrated after what happened earlier, but you do know that you need water— like, now— and that Adrian is so deeply asleep that he doesn’t 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 it’s Adrian’s shirt, but it’ll have to do for now.

Besides, you like the idea of wearing his clothes. It’s like a mark of ownership, sort of; like he’s 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 it’s Adrian’s, and you— leave it. It’s not hurting anybody. It’ll just be quick, and then you’ll be back, and it won’t even matter. He probably won’t even wake up to laugh at you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves and navigate through Adrian’s 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 mirror’s reflection, you can see yourself wearing Adrian’s shirt— 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 don’t want Adrian to think you’re, like— 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 boyfriend’s shirt.

Flipping the bathroom light off, you make your careful way back to Adrian’s bedroom, only to find that he’s sitting up, his lamp flicked on and a bewildered expression on his face. He’s rubbing at one eye, glasses still on the side table.

When you come back, you say softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“No, no worries,” Adrian says, yawning until his jaw cracks. “I was just thi—”

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 can’t 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.

“Hey,” 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. “You look really nice. Like, stupid nice.”

You look down at yourself. You know you must look pretty much like you do every time you wake up, except you’re wearing his clothes.

Adrian shifts where he’s sitting, and you look up to see him readjusting his position. Like you, he fell asleep without clothes on, and you can tell he’s already most of the way hard just from looking at you, which makes you feel like your blood is boiling just beneath your skin.

“Wanna come back to bed?” he asks you, and you don’t hesitate to come and climb right up on his lap, his hands gliding up under your shirt— his shirt, on you— as he tilts his head up for a kiss, searching, skin hot under your hands.

—

See the full post

951 notes - Posted March 1, 2022

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 isn’t coming.

You really— You really thought he was going to come.

At first, you fully believed he was coming. You knew it, you knew, he just— He had to be coming. There was no other option. For somebody like Bruce, you really thought you were sure that he wouldn’t 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.

You’re realizing now that you thought wrong.

As each day passes— Or, as what you believe is each day passes, since you don’t have any windows to see the sunlight through— and Bruce doesn’t come, you start to get— worried. You don’t doubt Bruce, but you can’t help but doubt yourself.

What if he can’t find me? you think. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he hasn’t even realized I’m gone? What if he doesn’t care?

You know he cares about people. You know you do. It’s just that you aren’t always sure that you’re 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 loved— even if Bruce doesn’t necessarily know you’re in love with him— and you truly believed he loved you in return.

Maybe he does love you, a tiny part of your brain considers. Maybe he just can’t find you. Maybe he won’t find you in time and that won’t even matter. Maybe you should have said something and now you’ll never get the chance.

You’re not sure which option is worse.

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

You only wish you’d confessed to Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—does—

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

—you won’t—

—They know, though.

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975 notes - Posted April 2, 2022

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 “hey, you wanna wear bff necklaces?” i can imagine him lighting up and they’re 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 i’m picturing them grabbing his and pulling him down to kiss him. obvi you don’t have to do any of this i just thought it was cute 😭

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 thing— 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, but—

—But 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 was— 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 Ch—"

"No!" he hurries to say. "No, I don't— I want—" His fingers curl up tight around the necklace. "No, I— 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. "I— 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

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 don’t have any right to be upset, but you are anyway.

You’re upset, and you’re hurt, and you’re jealous, and you’re broken, just a little bit. You thought things were different, but— clearly they aren’t.

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, you’re in the Batcave— either alone or with Alfred— watching Bruce’s night through his eyes, unable to tear yourself away from the constant streams of his contact cams.

You’re the voice in his ear, you’re his extra set of eyes, you’re his second opinion, you’re 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, but—

Over these last two years, the two of you have grown… close. Really close. Closer and closer all the time, really. Bruce doesn’t spend time with many people— or, any people, really— but he spends time with you. You’re always in the Batcave together, or in the Manor together, or in Gotham together, or just— together.

You really thought this was it. You and Bruce. That you were partners, friends— 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 almosts— where you thought the two of you might kiss, but then it just— didn’t happen. Bruce will get this stricken look, and he’ll withdraw, and you won’t 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 should’ve known why. You thought that he was just struggling to be close with you, still hurting so badly inside, afraid to love you because he’s afraid to lose you. You thought you understood him, but—

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 Bruce’s eyes as he kisses Selina. It’s a small blessing that you can’t 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.

You’re glad that Alfred isn’t here to see this. You know how obvious you must act around Bruce; he’d only be looking at you with pity right now. It’s better you see this alone.

You and Bruce have a strong connection. You know that. You thought it was also a romantic connection— that he might be falling in love with you like you are with him— but you must have thought wrong. When Selina’s there, why the fuck would Bruce want you?

It’s okay if you’re just friends with Bruce. You love him; you’re happy to be his friend. You just…

You just—

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, even as your eyes burn. Bruce and Selina separate, and he’s 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 a— fucking idiot, you should have known better, you should have known—

“(Y/N),” Bruce says, voice low and sharp.

He cuts through the fog in your mind, and you blink, realizing he’s looking out at Gotham now. You don’t see Selina anywhere anymore, and you’re mortified, wondering how many times you missed him saying your name before he had to change his tone.

“Sorry,” you reply. “I’m here. What’s up?”

Bruce doesn’t speak, for a beat. Your brow furrows as you frown. You’re glad he can’t see you, either.

“Bruce?” 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..

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!

You’re usually lucky if Bruce is home before dawn.

Tonight, you’re not so lucky.

“Is he home?” Dick asks. His jaw cracks around a yawn in the next second, and you hold your hand out to him.

“He is,” 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. “You, however, should be asleep.”

“I want to make sure he’s okay,” Dick informs you. It’s 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.

Bruce finally lifts his eyes, when he’s drawn close enough. You can see the bright glint of them as they hit you first.

He still wraps an arm around Dick in response. He bows to hold him for a moment before he lifts him.

“You should be asleep,” Bruce informs him. It sounds like he’s trying to be stern, but he’s landing at slightly concerned instead.

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1,853 notes - Posted March 10, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #y'all were HUNGRY #also WAY more bruce than I expected #adrian fanatics STEP UP NEXT YEAR #NOT WRITING #long post #not reader insert

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

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here is your weekly reminder to watch peacemaker if you haven't. you are missing out on such joy

#relevant to our interests over here #obviously i mean #you know me #but #just a reminder #peacemaker #dc #dcu #dceu #dc comics #personal ramblings #about me #from my main blog #not reader insert #not writing

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Note

Omg! You’re 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!!!!!!!!

#basementhands #HELLO!!!!!!!#answered

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Note

(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"

-🦝

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

#it's fine i'm fine #everything is fine #raccoon anon #🦝 anon #adrian chase headcanons #adrian chase #answered #anonymous #dilf adrian

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

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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 💕💕💕💕💕

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 💕 🫂

>>> READ ON AO3 <<<

It’s cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.

In here, Adrian’s stoked the fire, keeping it blazing-hot to fill this room with such a comfortable warmth that you can’t help sinking into it. The entirety of your parlor is filled with that heat; you, too, are filled with it, until you’re 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, Adrian’s 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 Adrian’s rejoining you in the parlor. You tip your head up and back and, sure enough, you’re gifted a kiss on the cheek just a moment later.

“Hey, there,” Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, “Hands up.”

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.

“What do we have here?” 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.

“Cocoa,” Adrian answers, though you don’t need the information, anymore. You’re happy to hear him say it all the same. “Just how you like it. Careful, it’s hot. Lemme blow on it before you take a sip—”

“You do not need to blow on it,” you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.

Adrian pushes around the sofa, slipping down to join you amongst the cushions and pillows and blankets you’ve 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.

“How’s that?” Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. “Comfy?”

“Yes, very,” you tell him.

“Fuck, yeah,” 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.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs to you.

You can’t 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 can’t 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.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Fucking— Whoops.”

“Don’t worry about it,” 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.

“I’m not a little kid,” you tell him. “I can handle the heat.”

“Aw, but your poor tongue,” 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 he’s still a baby instead of the toddler he’s 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 doesn’t wake, blissfully ignorant of his parents’ goofing off so close by.

If anything, you think, he’s probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. He’s 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. He’s just usually also involved in those goof-offs.

“Fuck,” Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. “I love that little shit. Don’t you?”

You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, “I suppose. We can keep him, I guess.”

“Oh, sure,” Adrian says. “But then it’ll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?”

“Something like that,” you tell him.

“‘Something like that,’” Adrian echoes, kissing the top curve of your ear. “And what about this one, then, you dingbat?” His free hand, previously settled amongst the blankets against your side, lifts now to drift over the swell of your belly.

“You can take care of that one, too,” you insist.

“What the fuck?” Adrian laughs. “Alright, then. If I’m raising our kids, what’re you doing?”

You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.

“This,” you tell him. “Living indulgently.”

“You’re such a shithead,” he replies, with such deep affection that you’re briefly overcome, in the moment before he kisses the side of your head again. “Drink your hot cocoa before it’s cold cocoa.”

“You’re the one who was blowing on it,” you remind him.

Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.

Laughing, you say, “Fine, fine, give it to me,” 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.

Adrian’s studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesn’t last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, “Well? Do you like it, what do you think?”

You make him suffer for another silent moment— 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 glasses— before you say, “It’s perfect, Adrian. Thank you for this.” You motion broadly, and add, “You know, all of— this. The whole— All of it.” You’re not sure how to express this, exactly, so you settle on the comfortably all-encompassing, “I love you.”

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 you’re blazing with that same heat, flames licking up in such a similar way.

“I love you more,” 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 don’t dignify him with an answer— 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 he’s 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 Adrian’s face, casting him in long, dramatic shadows. You kiss the blurring edge of one, feeling the heat on his face to match.

“You taste good,” 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.

#response rb #responded to #responded #fic response #i don't know how to tag this tbh #uwiuwi #i'm just excited #answered #adrian chase #long post

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Note

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 :)

-🦝

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!!!!!!

#LOVE LOVE LOVE #raccoon anon #🦝 anon #adrian chase #dilf adrian #answered #anonymous

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

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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.

>>> READ ON AO3 <<<

It’s cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.

“Hey, there,” Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, “Hands up.”

“You do not need to blow on it,” you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.

“How’s that?” Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. “Comfy?”

“Yes, very,” you tell him.

“Fuck, yeah,” he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs to you.

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.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Fucking— Whoops.”

“Don’t worry about it,” 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.

“I’m not a little kid,” you tell him. “I can handle the heat.”

If anything, you think, he’s probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. He’s 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. He’s just usually also involved in those goof-offs.

“Fuck,” Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. “I love that little shit. Don’t you?”

You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, “I suppose. We can keep him, I guess.”

“Oh, sure,” Adrian says. “But then it’ll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?”

“Something like that,” you tell him.

“You can take care of that one, too,” you insist.

“What the fuck?” Adrian laughs. “Alright, then. If I’m raising our kids, what’re you doing?”

You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.

“This,” you tell him. “Living indulgently.”

“You’re the one who was blowing on it,” you remind him.

Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.

Adrian’s studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesn’t last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, “Well? Do you like it, what do you think?”

“I love you more,” 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 don’t dignify him with an answer— because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.

#adrian chase taglist #taglist rb #taglist #there are still so many of you left #bless up

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honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Text

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.

>>> READ ON AO3 <<<

It’s cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.

“Hey, there,” Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, “Hands up.”

“You do not need to blow on it,” you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.

“How’s that?” Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. “Comfy?”

“Yes, very,” you tell him.

“Fuck, yeah,” he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs to you.

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.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Fucking— Whoops.”

“Don’t worry about it,” 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.

“I’m not a little kid,” you tell him. “I can handle the heat.”

If anything, you think, he’s probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. He’s 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. He’s just usually also involved in those goof-offs.

“Fuck,” Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. “I love that little shit. Don’t you?”

You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, “I suppose. We can keep him, I guess.”

“Oh, sure,” Adrian says. “But then it’ll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?”

“Something like that,” you tell him.

“You can take care of that one, too,” you insist.

“What the fuck?” Adrian laughs. “Alright, then. If I’m raising our kids, what’re you doing?”

You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.

“This,” you tell him. “Living indulgently.”

“You’re the one who was blowing on it,” you remind him.

Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.

Adrian’s studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesn’t last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, “Well? Do you like it, what do you think?”

“I love you more,” 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 don’t dignify him with an answer— because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.

#adrian chase taglist #taglist rb #taglist

69 notes · View notes

honeycombstrawberry · 1 year

Text

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.

>>> READ ON AO3 <<<

It’s cold outside, but not in here. Never in here.

“Hey, there,” Adrian murmurs to you. He brings one arm up and over your head, telling you, “Hands up.”

“You do not need to blow on it,” you insist, keeping your voice whispering-soft.

“How’s that?” Adrian asks you. He kisses the side of your head. “Comfy?”

“Yes, very,” you tell him.

“Fuck, yeah,” he whispers back, and you huff a laugh.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs to you.

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.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Fucking— Whoops.”

“Don’t worry about it,” 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.

“I’m not a little kid,” you tell him. “I can handle the heat.”

If anything, you think, he’s probably comforted by the presence of your shenanigans. He’s 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. He’s just usually also involved in those goof-offs.

“Fuck,” Adrian says, close to the shell of your ear. “I love that little shit. Don’t you?”

You laugh. Pretending to appraise your son from a distance, you answer, “I suppose. We can keep him, I guess.”

“Oh, sure,” Adrian says. “But then it’ll be my responsibility to feed him and walk him, is that it?”

“Something like that,” you tell him.

“You can take care of that one, too,” you insist.

“What the fuck?” Adrian laughs. “Alright, then. If I’m raising our kids, what’re you doing?”

You wave your free hand absently towards the room at large. Adrian has to quietly stifle another laugh.

“This,” you tell him. “Living indulgently.”

“You’re the one who was blowing on it,” you remind him.

Pointedly, he leans over and blows on it again.

Adrian’s studying you in profile, waiting for you to say something. He doesn’t last long before he cracks, asking you in a hushed voice, “Well? Do you like it, what do you think?”

“I love you more,” 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 don’t dignify him with an answer— because, of course, you believe you love him most, and he believes he loves you most, and both of you are right.

69 notes · View notes