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due-vigilance · 7 days ago

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The Law of distraction (part 2)

part 1 [ao3]

ohmygodwe'rebackagain! Part 2 of some unhinged, unbetaed writings... I don't know what's happening here, it's just all so dumb. Enjoy!

warnings: kidnapping, being drugged, tied up, foul language, mild sexual language, canon-typical violence, and mentions of torture.

fem-metahuman!reader (no/YN, no particular physical description)

tagging: @vlassk (thank you!!)

You’re tied to a chair, something heavy strapped over your head. When you crack an eye open, everything’s tinted red. Shitty office, fluorescent buzzing, empty.

“Hello?” you try.

You squirm against the ropes, wrists burning, but it’s useless.

“Too tight?” a familiar voice asks. Then he strolls into view—Vigilante. Great.

“It’s you.”

He nods, mask back on. Even though you saw his face at the restaurant, your brain still can’t reconcile the two. It’s shameful how his mask flattens his curls.

You can also feel the contraption covering your head. It wraps around your hair, ears, down to your nose. “What the hell is this?”

“Oh, that? Old mask of mine. Prototype. I tweaked it so you can’t take it off. Also stripped the prescription.”

“You built this?” you ask, half-impressed despite yourself—as if he hadn’t just designed your personal nightmare.

“Yes,” he beams, practically proud of himself. “As soon as you abandoned us, I made it. Just in case we bumped into you again.”

His choice of words makes you pause. Abandoned? That’s not what happened. You didn’t abandon them—you escaped. Bumping into you? “Were you even looking for me?” you ask.

“Not really. Adebayo said it wasn’t that important, they had other priorities.” Then he taps a finger against his temple, “But you were always in my mind.”

“That’s… nice?” Your voice jumps an octave, turning it into a question.

“Yeah, I hate when crime goes unpunished.”

“Oh.”

He grabs a chair and plants it in front of you, crossing his legs like he wants to start a lovely conversation with you. “We’re waiting for the others to figure out what to do with you.”

“Okay…” You hum, slumping back against the chair. For once, you’re too tired to fight—whether it’s the ropes digging into your wrists, or Vigilante’s sheer, immovable stubbornness.

There’s a few minutes of silence, just staring at each other, before you finally ask: “So… you’re a waiter?”

“Fuck, I knew my secret identity was blown.” He slaps his hands against his thighs with a dramatic sigh. “No. I’m a busboy.”

Somehow, that makes the whole situation worse.

“My coworker, Blake? She said you were a bitch—”

“Rude.”

“—and when I saw it was you, I agreed. You are a meanie. So I volunteered to handle it. I hid a tranquilizer in the breadsticks. You didn’t see it coming,” he repeats, proud of himself.

“You really got me,” you deadpan. “Do you always stash tranquilizers at your day job?”

You’re not even sure why you ask. Half the time it feels like you’re toying with him or maybe he’s the one playing you, and you’re just diving headfirst into it.

“Yeah,” he answers instantly, without hesitation.

Talking about the tranquilizer makes you realize how pasty your mouth is. “You could’ve waited until I ate something before drugging me. That would’ve been nice.”

“I’m usually not very nice with criminals.”

“I am not—” You bite back the anger, exhale hard. “Can I please have something to eat?”

“Oh. Sure. I brought the breadsticks. Want something to drink?” He asks it like it’s a rehearsed line.

“Do you have Dr. Pepper?” you humor him.

“Uh, no. Just coffee and water. Soda’s bad for you anyway. You’re kind of in bad shape.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, no— I mean you’ve got a nice figure. But you look… soft. Like you don’t work out much. It’s important to stay in shape. Especially in my line of work.”

“As a busboy?”

“No, as Vigilante.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Not because you’re mocking him—at least not entirely. There’s something weirdly charming in how earnest he is. Cute, even. Which is insane. He’s a serial killer, and here you are smiling at him.

“What?” he asks, head tilting, genuinely confused.

“Nothing. Can I have a breadstick, please?”

Vigilante hops up, disappears behind you, and comes back with a fistful. He stands so close you can smell butter and oregano clinging to his gloves.

You lift your bound wrists. “Hello? Hands?”

“Oh. Right, sorry.”

Instead of untying you, he brings the breadstick to your lips, adamant on feeding you. You lean forward, lips pursed, mouth parting. When the tip brushes your tongue, heat prickles your cheeks.

Why the hell are you blushing at this?

You snap off a bite, chew fast, and wrench your head away, trying to hide the flush. He doesn’t move, though. He’s still right there, one leg wedged between yours, patiently holding the rest of the breadstick like he’s doing you some great service.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid. And for some reason your pulse won’t calm the fuck down.

“You like that, huh?” he says, voice dipping almost suggestively.

Your cheeks burn hotter. “What?”

“They’re very good, right?” He holds up the half-eaten breadstick, utterly earnest, like he wasn’t implying anything at all.

You stare at him, half convinced he’s messing with you, half convinced he’s just that oblivious. Either way, your pulse is hammering.

Your gaze lingers on his chest. Back at the restaurant, you should’ve taken the time to read his nametag. It would be useful now, being able to call him by his real name. You don’t let yourself think too hard about why. It’s just because he’s antagonizing you. That has to be it.

“You know, I was in your place not so long ago. A butterfly tried to cut my pinky toe off. Haven’t been able to walk the same ever since. He fried my balls too, with electricity.”

He’s still holding the damn breadstick there like he’s feeding a zoo animal, but he keeps rambling. You can’t help being grateful, though—it distracts you from whatever dark, damp corner your mind was wandering into.

“I’m really sorry about your balls,” you say flatly before leaning forward for another bite. You chew, swallow, then tilt your head at him. “Are you going to cut my pinky toe off? I wear sandals in summer. I hope not.”

“No,” he scoffs. “If I were going to torture you, I’d go for your nose or ears. Statistically, facial disfigurement causes longer-lasting psychological trauma. More efficient that way.” He shrugs.

That’s dark. “If I don’t have ears or a nose, I wouldn’t be able to wear glasses.”

“You can keep the mask, don’t worry about it.”

That’s… oddly sweet? You narrow your eyes at him and bite into the breadstick again, trying to make sense of him. How can he say the darkest, most awful things you’ve ever heard, and then, right after, be compassionate?

“Can I have a glass of water, please?” you ask. It’s not like you’re trying to test your theory, but either he’s terrible at this whole kidnapping thing or he’s some kind of… nice serial killer. If that’s even a thing.

“You’re really demanding for a hostage,” he mutters, but still obliges.

“For someone who swears they’re not kind to criminals, you’re… well, not all the time, but sometimes nice to me,” you point out. “You could even untie me! Since I can’t take your mask off anyway.”

“Nice try, but I don’t trust you,” Vigilante says flatly. Then he tilts his head, voice going uncertain. “But it is important to be a good host to… hostage?”

He comes back with a flimsy paper cup filled with water. He clearly isn’t about to untie you, which makes the whole thing feel even more absurd.

“Don’t you have a straw? It’d be easier. Or, you know, you could just untie me.”

Vigilante lets out a sigh heavy enough that you see his shoulders slump. “You’re lucky I recently swapped the plastic straws for paper ones.”

“How thoughtful of you—not letting me murder all the turtles.”

“You’re welcome,” he shoots back. “I wouldn’t want your rap sheet getting even longer.”

“I love how you take care of me, Vigilante.”

The words slip out lighter than you intend, almost teasing. He stiffens at that, his head tilting just a little, but he masks whatever flickered across his face by quickly dropping a paper straw into the cup and raising it to your lips.

You hold his gaze anyway, right into the red visor of his mask—useless, but you do it. You picture his face from the restaurant instead, soft where this one is hard. He really doesn’t look like a merciless killer. The thought lingers a moment too long—until the door bursts open.

“What the fuck, Vig?” Peacemaker calls from the doorway, the blonde woman trailing behind him. “Why are you feeding her while she’s wearing your mask? Is that some weird kink of yours?”

“What? No!” Vigilante replies quickly.

“Are you the kind of guy who takes out some ribs just so you can… you know?”

“I really don’t,” he says, deadpan.

“Is that Lobotomy Girl?” the blonde woman asks, pointing right at you.

“I am not,” you snap—at the exact same time Vigilante blurts, “Yeah!”

“Adrian, what is she doing here? Tied up?” the blonde woman asks.

Vigilante’s head whips violently between you and her. Adrian.

“Fucking fuck, she knows my name now!” he yells, slamming the cup onto the table so hard water splashes everywhere.

You grin, sharp. “I saw your face and know where you work—we’re way past that.” You lean in, savoring it. “Adrian.”

“Well, thank you for that!” he says, slapping his palms together in exaggerated gratitude.

Then, with a suddenness that makes you blink, he rips off his mask and drops back into the chair across from you. He digs into a pocket of his costume and pulls out a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, slipping them on before crossing his arms like a sulky kid. It’s adorable.

Wait. No. What the fuck? Absolutely not.

“Okay, Vigilante,” she says, stressing every syllable. “What is she doing here?”

“It’s too late now,” Adrian mutters, shoulders hunching. He can’t quite look at her, or you. “I found her at Fennel Fields. Brought her back.”

“Why?”

“She left last time.”

“And we expressly said we didn’t care. If she was going to do anything, she’d already be back rotting in Belle Reve.”

“She is right here,” you say.

“It’s over, Adrian. This whole operation is done. We did what we had to do, and now we’re done.” Harcourt’s voice cracks like a whip before she storms out of the office, the door rattling in her wake.

“If you fuck, do it on Economos’ desk right there,” Chris points at the desk beside you before jogging after her.

Adrian blinks, tilts his head, and says, “Wait, why would he think we’d have sex on a desk? That’s so unhygienic.”

You refuse to take the bait, your gaze fixed anywhere but him. Feeding you breadsticks and blushing were already bad enough—you’re not adding this to the pile. “What’s up with her?” you ask instead.

From the corner of your eye you see Adrian fidget with his glasses, then shrug. “I think something happened between them, but I can’t tell for sure. He looks sad.”

He really did, you figure, but the costumed idiot across from you hardly looks better.

“Well then, if everything’s over, I guess you can let me go.”

Adrian falls back into his chair with a long huff, crossing his arms. His mouth twists into a pout, eyes darting away from you. And that’s when it hits you—he really believed this little stunt, kidnapping you and all, would pull the team back together. The thought is so sad it almost softens you.

“Well,” he says finally, tone eerily casual, “guess I’ll have to kill you now.”

So much for pity. “What? No. I really don’t think you have to.”

“You know my secret identity. Too risky.”

“I promise I won’t tell a soul,” you shoot back quickly.

“I can’t trust you. You’re a criminal.”

“Being in jail doesn’t automatically make you a criminal.”

He stares at you like you’ve sprouted a second head—then suddenly slaps his thigh and bursts out laughing. “You’ve said a lot of dumb shit, but that? That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Okay, okay, stop! I mean— technically the penitentiary system is fucked up, justice even—”

“Yeah, that’s why I do it!” Adrian cuts in, all proud. “It’s a lot of talk and no action,” he says, lifting his chin. “That’s why I kill the bad guys.”

“That’s not—what? No. That’s not what I meant.”

“You said jail doesn’t make someone a criminal. Which is dumb, because, hello! only criminals go to jail.”

“That’s literally not true.”

“Uh, yeah it is. I mean, unless you’re like… tax evasion guy. Or jaywalkers. But jaywalkers are criminals.”

You blink at him. “That’s… that’s not even close to nuanced.”

“Nuanced?” He tilts his head, grinning behind his glasses. “Big word for a criminal.”

“Stop calling me a criminal!”

“You were in Belle Reve. That makes you—drumroll—” he slaps his thighs for effect, “a criminal!”

“You didn’t kill Chris, even though he came out of Belle Reve,” you counter.

“Yeah,” he blurts, voice pitching higher. “But he’s my best friend, okay? And he only kills bad people. That’s different.”

“Does he really?” you slur out, disbelief dripping from every syllable. Before he can answer, you push further, “I only manipulate bad guys too! Like CEOs. Elon Musk. And I take their money. I even give some back. I’m basically Robin Hood.”

Adrian stares at you for a beat, then deadpans: “You’re not a fox.”

You blink. “What?”

“Robin Hood’s a fox. Green hat. Cute little tail. Steals from the rich. Fox.”

“I steal from the rich—”

“Still stealing,” Adrian cuts in.

You drop your head with a groan. God, you’d almost rather circle back to the whole ‘fucking on Economos’ desk’ conversation than this. The absurdity bubbles up, and before you can stop it, laughter bursts out of you.

“What?” Adrian asks, tilting his head.

“You’re insane,” you say between laughs. Then your smile falters into something sharper. “But, ok. Kill me. I’m sure that will bring them all back together.” You lift your shoulders in a shrug, casual as you can manage.

“You’re being sarcastic. I think.”

“Of course I am!” you snap, voice pitching higher than you’d like. “I don’t want to die! I just got out of Belle Reve. I wasted time there because I pissed off the wrong people, not because I’m some criminal mastermind.”

He stares at you, eyes wide and owlish behind the glasses. It’s not empathy— you know he doesn’t really do empathy— but the silence stretches, and something in his posture shifts, maybe he’s listening.

You keep going, words tumbling out fast and desperate. “I can beg, Adrian. Please.”

At his name, he jerks like you slapped him. His jaw works, hands twitching on his knees. “That’s cheating,” he blurts. “You’re not supposed to say my name when you beg. It feels wrong… manipulative. They never do it when I wear the mask.”

“Good,” you shoot back, your chest heaving. “Because I’m trying to manipulate you into not murdering me.” You try to catch his gaze, not even sure if he can see a damn thing through the red visor, but you do it anyway. “Please, Adrian.”

His fist curls tight, knuckles whitening, and you catch the muttered “Fuck” under his breath. He tips his head back with a theatrical groan, rolling it side to side like the world’s most put-upon martyr. Finally, he drags out, “Fiiine,” the vowel stretched long enough to sound like it physically pains him.

He slumps forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, glaring at the floor like he’s negotiating with himself more than with you. “But if you screw me over, I’ll make sure you regret it. Forever. Like… worse than losing a toe. Way worse.”

He moves behind you, fingers working expertly at the knots until the ropes finally give. You pull your hands free and immediately rub at your wrists, hissing when you notice the faint burn marks.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I won’t screw you over. Not because of your whole forever toe-doom speech, but because you just untied me and I’m not suicidal.”

Adrian straightens up, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He hesitates for all of three seconds, then blurts out, “Cool. So… can I have your number?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you know, just in case. Like, if I need to check that you’re not doing crimes. Or if I want to make sure you’re not dead. Or if I’m bored and wanna talk. All very practical reasons.”

You scoff a laugh—he was ready to kill you a minute ago, and now he wants your phone number. “I’ll give it to you if you first take off your mask from hell.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He digs into his pocket for a small key, then steps behind you to unlock the mask. The latches click, and when it finally comes free, you sigh in relief—only to immediately squeeze your eyes shut as he comes into view.

“My sunglasses, please, Adrian,” you say quickly. You want him to trust you, after all.

Instead of moving, he says, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I don’t know— uh, all of them?”

“Fuck, you can see? Am I under your spell? Hold on, let me do it again.”

“…Three fingers?”

“Ah! Got you, I wasn’t holding up any fingers. You’re really bad at this.”

You groan, pressing your palms to your eyes like that’ll make him vanish. “Adrian, this isn’t a game.”

“Fine, killjoy,” he mutters, and you feel the cool press of plastic as he slides your sunglasses onto your face, nudging them up your nose with surprising care. “There. Happy now?”

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth, the edge in your voice softening. “Very,” you admit, finally opening your eyes to look at him. “Did you bring my bag with you? My phone’s in there.”

Adrian hands you your bag, not before taking a quick peek inside. “You should really keep a gun with you, or at least some pepper spray.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t want to get kidnapped,” you answer, dripping with irony.

“Exactly.”

You dig through your bag and pull out your crappy burner phone. “Here. Put your number in.”

Adrian punches it in and hands it back, muttering something under his breath.

You tap call and hold the phone to your ear, watching him freeze as it rings— Barbie Girl?

He pats his pockets before taking his phone. “Hello?” he answers the call, his voice cautious.

You hang up with a snort. “Now you have my phone number,” you say, grinning.

“Good, good,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“I probably should go now, Jiminy Cricket,” you add, smirking and tugging your bag strap over your shoulder.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion.

“My conscience?” you tease, stepping closer to the door. “Don’t go doing anything… illegal,” you add, mimicking his tone.

He huffs, crossing his arms, clearly flustered. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you,” he mutters.

You smirk again. “See you around, Adrian,” you say, waving lightly as you head out. Then you pause. “Oh, wait. Which one is Economos’ desk?”

Adrian points toward a desk in the corner. You stroll over and rummage through the top, making a show of it. “Now I can go. Bye, Adrian,” you add, grinning as you finally leave.

#adrian chase x reader #vigilante x reader

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