Summary: Still trapped in another dimension with an obsessive, kidnapping, infuriating version of your boyfriend, you make a rather shocking discovery. Unfortunately, getting answers is a lot more difficult than you would like it to be - especially with Other Adrian’s determination to get you to admit a truth of your own.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Unintentional knife play, Blood, Other Adrian is a freak, Reader is also a freak and they match each other’s freak, Mentions of murder, Use of the word Nazi, Mentions of sex (no explicit smut but things get REAL steamy in this one), Other Adrian gets a little rough but it's very consensual (he is very aware reader is into it), This chapter is the spiciest thing I think I’ve ever written, ESPECIALLY for this one, please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author’s Note: The long-awaited Part 5 is here! For anyone wondering why it’s a little twisted from the canon reveal, I have a more detailed post explaining my thought process on that here. To summarize, I decided to try to change it just a little, while still trying to keep things somewhat canon-compliant, just for the sake of being able to keep this fic as inclusive as possible to all readers. I hope that makes sense, and I hope you guys enjoy it! Please let me know what you think! Your feedback fuels this fic and your comments inspire me to keep it going!
(This is part of the Not Quite Him series. If you haven't checked it out yet, I encourage you to do so!)
-
You can’t sleep.
Adrian left you alone. Let you sit on the couch and stew in your own self hatred and misery while he stayed in your- his bedroom.
You’re grateful for it. You’re too confused. Too angry. Too…too much. Just too much all over. It’s driving you insane. You miss your Adrian. You hate yourself for the way your body itches to go back into that bedroom. You hate that, despite everything, your instinct is to seek comfort from the same man who put you in this situation in the first place.
Because it’s still him. Kidnapping, infuriating, psychotic asshole or not, it’s still Adrian. He still has his eyes. His voice. His smile. He touches you and kisses you and holds you the same. He’s different, broken in more ways than one, but he’s yours.
I love you. Any version of you.
You tap your foot. Try to keep yourself seated on the couch. Try not to think about how his body felt against yours, so familiar and so different at the same time.
You’re about five minutes from taking a cold fucking shower.
You stand, and start to pace again.
-
“I just don’t get why you’re so mad about this!”
“Adrian, I woke up to a snake in our bed. How could I not be mad?!”
Three months ago, in your own dimension, you were pacing much like you are now in a messier version of this living room, bedheaded and furious as your very confused and frustrated boyfriend stood before you.
“Yeah. It was cute! I thought you would be happy!”
“Why would I be happy about a wild animal in our bed? Especially a snake?!”
“Uh, duh. A snake is the universal symbol of love!”
That’s enough to stop you in your tracks. You turn to him, raising your eyebrows. “What?” You may not know a lot about snakes, but that definitely isn’t true.
Adrian, however, looks at you like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “They’re the only animal in the whole world that can move their bodies into a real-life heart emoji.”
You forget, for a moment, to be angry. “What about worms?”
“They’re too wiggly. They can’t do it.”
“They’re not- huh?”
“Have you ever tried to move a worm into a heart? It doesn’t work. They’re way too small for that and-“
“Have you ever tried to move a snake into a heart?”
“I mean, yeah. I almost got there but then Reggie bit me and I didn’t want to piss him off anymore so-“
“You named the snake.” You deadpan, eyes still locked on him.
“I mean, it’s not like I can ask his real name. I can’t speak snake. That would be ridiculous. I can’t even roll my r’s, how am I supposed to pronounce all of that hissing- why are you laughing? I thought you were mad.”
You try to cover your face, because you really are trying to be mad, but the fit of giggles that breaks free is impossible to cover.
“You’re crazy.” You say, shaking your head with disbelief. The grin that splits his face makes your heart swell, and he rushes forward like he’s been waiting for this entire argument for an excuse to touch you. Even when you were pissed and pacing, you saw the way his fingers flexed at his sides. The way his gaze followed you so closely he seemed to be nearly vibrating with restraint.
“I’m your crazy.” He says proudly, repeating words he’s said to you a million times before as he moves your hand away from your face to press a kiss to your nose. “And you’re my crazy. And Reggie is gonna be our-“
“We’re not keeping the snake, Adrian.”
His smile falls, but his arms still wrap around you. He’s always touching you, always trying to get closer to you somehow. “Fine. But he’s gonna be pissed. Snakes are the most sensitive out of all of the amphibians.”
“Reptiles.”
“Huh?”
“Snakes are reptiles.”
“Preeetty sure I’m the snake expert here.” He pecks the side of your head, nuzzling into your hair so closely you worry if the rims of his glasses might get tangled in it again.
You snort, rest your cheek against his shoulder, press your own little kiss to the side of his neck, and forget to be mad.
-
Now, in a different world, you continue to pace in a mirror version of that living room, no incorrect snake facts or snuggly overeager boyfriend present this time to calm your nerves.
And, because you probably should, at this point, you snoop.
And you find…a lot. Paperwork. Symbols. Pictures.
You don’t remember much from the explosion. From the fight that earned you these injuries and got you here, in this almost-yours apartment with this almost-yours version of Adrian.
But you remember hearing them shout. You remember the name of the group. The name of the evil group that tried to blow up a fucking library, held a woman hostage, and tried their damndest to kill Chris. Chris, who is an asshole, but still one of your best friends. Still Adrian’s best friend.
Right?
Come to think of it, this Adrian hasn’t mentioned him. He didn’t stop you from punching him, like your Adrian would have. He only held you back to keep you from popping your stitches again. He let you go even when you said you would hit him again. You’d assumed he was, at the very least, just letting you get your anger out so you wouldn’t take it out on him, but…
“Better you than me, dude. Besides, it’s pretty fucking sexy.”
The words were just similar enough to something your Adrian might have said for you to brush them off. Your Adrian, who is the most turned on when you’re covered in blood and dirt and killing people alongside him. But now that you think about it, there was something there. Something in this Adrian’s tone. Something old and instinctive that sounded almost like hatred.
Sons of Liberty. Enemies of Christopher Smith. Allies of Vigilante.
Oh, you’re gonna need to get answers. Now.
-
He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping. So much like your Adrian. The lack of glasses doesn’t seem so strange when he’s in bed. The near-restless look on his handsome face is similar to the one you know. Your Adrian talks in his sleep. Has a tendency to pull you into a bear-hug and mumble nonsense into your hair. You wonder if this one does, too.
You won’t find out. Not tonight.
Because this Adrian wakes to the cool steel of a knife pressed against his throat. To you straddling his hips, eyes sharper than the blade in your hand.
Green eyes flutter open. Widen. Hands fly up to your thighs like he’s about to instinctively knock you off of him, to disable the threat before he’s even fully conscious.
And then he looks at you. Registers what’s happening. Those hands tighten on your thighs, and his breath stutters as his pupils blow wide.
“Holy shit.”
You ignore the breathless tone of his voice. Lean forward and dig the knife in a little more. He makes a choked noise, and you narrow your eyes.
“Morning, sunshine.” Your tone is steady. Dark and furious. “I have some questions.”
He stares up at you, and that’s when you notice it.
The wide eyes. The quickened breaths. The way the corner of his mouth is twitching upwards with something you thought was shock until now. Until you feel his hips shift beneath you and-
“Adrian.”
“Yeah?” He sounds like he’s just run a marathon.
“Are you fucking hard right now?”
“Yeah.”
Oh, God. Out of everything, all of the differences between them, this is how he’s apparently exactly like your version of him.
“You can do it harder.” He says, eyes sparking with unadulterated want as he leans back to bare his throat to you even more.
“I’m trying to fucking interrogate you.”
“And it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He grins, feral, and his hands move up from your thighs to your hips, pulling you down against him in a move so practiced that you wonder if the other version of you has done this with him before.
You choke a little, your grip on the knife stuttering, and you press it tighter against his neck as his smile widens.
“Can I talk to sane Adrian, for a second?”
He raises an eyebrow, and releases one hand’s grip on your hip to rest it casually beneath his head. Like you’re having a normal conversation and he isn’t incredibly noticeably turned on while you hold a knife to his jugular. He’s still not wearing a shirt. The new position flexes the muscles in his bicep. You want to lick it.
Fuck. Focus.
You suck in a breath through your teeth. Try to steel yourself.
“Who are the Sons of Liberty?”
That stops him, the cocky grin on his face faltering, his hand stilling where it was toying with the hem of your shorts. “Shit.”
“Oh, does that ring a bell?” You ask, and now it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “You know, the people who blew me up?”
His eyes close for a second, like he’s genuinely disappointed that this wasn’t just your odd and violent way of initiating kinky sex.
“Look, I can-“
“Explain. I know. You keep saying that kind of thing.” You dig the knife in a little harder, and his eyes snap open to meet yours. All dark hunger. No clarity. Great. This is gonna be one of those conversations. Last time, you snapped him into some form of sanity by nearly bleeding to death in front of him. You’d rather not do that again.
You’re fine. You can hold your own.
“Why do you work for them?”
“I work with them.”
“Did you get them to attack me?”
“No.” He says, and his eyes drop to your mouth now. One track mind, this guy. “They’ve got a good cause, but I would have killed them all if they hurt you.”
“They did.”
“I know, but I got to you in time. You weren’t supposed to be in that park. I was supposed to come find you. Talk to you and make you want to be here more than there.” He sits up, slowly, seeming completely oblivious to the way the movement makes a small trickle of red spill down his neck. Your eyes widen, and you lean back, pulling the knife with you to prevent any more damage. He grins again, hand squeezing your thigh like he’s just proved a point. Like he’s just won a truly fucked up little game of chicken.
This interrogation is going poorly.
“I saw your dimension, remember?” He murmurs, nose bumping yours as his eyes remain fixed on your mouth. You keep your breathing steady. You don’t move the knife. “I know how you think. You’re friends with Peacemaker over there, sure. But none of you are like them.”
“Not like who?” You don’t like how the words sound. Don’t like the breathy quality your voice has taken on.
Without warning, Adrian’s other hand comes back to your waist, and he tugs you a little more onto his lap. The rock of his hips against yours makes your breath hitch. You feel him bite back a groan, and he begins to lower you both until your back hits the mattress, knife still held firmly against his neck.
“Fuck, you’re exactly the same.” He says, as one hand catches the back of your knee and hikes it up against his hip. You force yourself to keep your eyes open. To keep your body tense. “You’re loving this. You want it just as bad as I do.” He leans even closer, until you can feel the blunt side of the knife against your own throat. “Give in, baby. It’ll feel so good. I promise.”
“You’re changing the subje-“
He kisses you, rough and hungry, and takes advantage of the distraction to catch your hand and pull the knife away from his neck, slamming it to the mattress beside you.
You make a muffled noise of protest, tugging at your arm, and he bites your lip as his body presses down atop yours.
Your own body betrays you, for a moment. You blame it on how similar he is to your own Adrian, so fucked up that he’s turned on by all of this. Very, very turned on. And shit, so are you. You’re trying so, so hard to ignore it but he’s biting at your lip so hard you wonder if you might bleed and soothing it with his tongue and when you arch into him he growls and holy shit it feels so good-
Focus. Focus.
You pull your leg up, and use the angle to flip him so you’re back on top, ripping his hand off of your wrist to press the knife back against his throat.
He groans, head falling back, and bucks his hips up in a way that pulls a strangled noise from your throat. You have to brace your other hand on the sheets to keep from accidentally cutting him again. The way he looks at you, you’re sure he wouldn’t complain.
“Fuck.” His voice sounds tortured, though the word is laced with something like ecstasy as he leans his head back again, exposing his throat to the blade. “So fucking hot. Seriously, baby. Just let me-“
“Shut the fuck up and explain.” Christ, you’re moments away from stomping out the door and trying this again in one of his more lucid moments. Actually, you’re moments away from something else entirely, electricity sparking through every nerve in your body at the sight of his parted lips, starved eyes, flushed bare chest. The way he’s still holding your hips like he’s the one in control despite your position.
The knife has lost its intimidating edge, pun intended. It’s basically just a tool for foreplay at this point. It’s certainly not threatening this Adrian.
You should put it down.
He looks incredible like this. He feels incredible like this.
His hands massage your hips, eyes locked on yours. “I know your Chris Smith is different. I know he killed this shitty version of himself.” You feel his fingers tighten, eyes darkening impossibly more. “Still, watching you punch him like that today?” And then he grinds his hips up against yours, smile sharp and starved when you make a choked noise and stutter your grip on the knife. “Fuck. Almost fucked you right there in that alley. You wouldn’tve let me, though.” That wicked gleam comes back, and this time he doesn’t even move, but rather moves you on top of him until pure molten fire shoots through your veins and you nearly start to shake.
“Or maybe you would have, right? You getting tired of pretending you don’t want me, baby? That why you brought out the knife?”
“Shut up.”
“Shut me up.”
You ignore the invitation. Ignore the way his fingers are sliding up under your shirt to brush along your waistband. It takes everything in your power to keep your lip from catching between your teeth.
“Who are the Sons of Liberty, and what the fuck is going on in this dimension?” You ask, voice as firm as you can make it.
He groans, this time out of frustration, and drops his head back against the sheets.
“Let me fuck you first.” And there’s that commanding tone again. The one that sets him apart from your Adrian. The one that pisses you off and makes you want to give in at the same time. “You’ll be less pissed after a few orgasms, I swear.”
“Sure. When you put it like that, how could I say no?”
His eyes light up like bonfires. “Really?”
“No.” You dislodge yourself from him. He makes a noise of protest, thunking his head miserably back against the sheets, but allows it. You sheathe the knife, and make sure to put a little bit of distance between you as you try to shake off the feeling of his hands against your skin. “Talk, Chase. I’m sick of all the secrets.”
And he does.
-
“It was so cute. He kept this little picture of her under his pillow-“
“Mom oh my god shut UP!”
“-and he would hold it and kiss it and carry it around with him all over the house-“
“Mom, I swear to God. Go away. Fuck off! Please fuck off!”
“He would spend hours in the mirror practicing all the ways he could flirt with her. She’s such a darling girl. I knew your special little butt dance would work.”
Adrian hides his face in his hands, making a noise more pained than when he had his toe cut off. “Mom, go away! Fuck off right now stop talking-“
“He would just practice and practice and put that little picture up on the wall so he could talk to it. I was worried about germs, of course, with how much he would be kissing it, but I didn’t want to get in the way of his little crush.”
“Shut up! Mom shut up!”
“Oh- Adrian, I have to go upstairs-“
“Oh my God yes you do-“
“Stay right here, I made her another potholder.”
“Mom you have got to stop giving her potholders! We have too many potholders!”
“But she loves my potholders!”
“No she doesn’t! I keep telling you she just keeps taking them because she’s nice!”
“Oh isn’t that just the sweetest thing? Have you asked her yet?”
“Why is this the longest conversation ever? Why won’t you fuck off!?”
“You know, he has been practicing a proposal from his DnD campaign for months now. Personally, I told him to just ask her. She’ll say yes. But oh no, he wanted it to be perfect! He writes pages and pages and goes on and on about the ring being the One Ring from the Ring Lord-“
“It’s Lord of the Rings stop talking mom you are hurting my BRAIN!“
“Alright, alright! I’ll be upstairs when you kids want to come up. I’ll make sammiches!”
Everyone stares. Adrian unlocks the door, face still pained and bright red.
“She has dementia.” He says, and clears his throat. “Like, none of that was true. But don’t uh…don’t like, tell her when we find her because she’ll worry about my mom losing her mind and shit-“
“Adrian, if she hasn’t left you by now, trust me, I don’t think she’s gonna.” Leota says, comforting, even as she hides her own cringe behind his back.
“We should probably get her checked for brain damage, though.” John mumbles. Adrian ignores him.
“You made out with a picture of her?” Emilia asks, and Adrian is still quiet as his face heats up even more.
“I’m hoping making out with it is the only thing he did.”
He finally whirls on them, then, keys still dangling from the lock. “I didn’t do any of that! Ever! I was super cool, and super chill, and she’s with me because I’m so cool and chill, okay? My mom is just a fucking psycho none of that happened!”
“Oh yeah, you’re reeaaal cool and chill.”
Luckily for him, when they finally do enter his super secret room and see the stash of drugs and money, the conversation is quick to change. They’re as weird about all of this stuff as you are. You’re always so worried about how he has ‘El Chapo’s stash in his basement’ and how ‘one corner of this room could send him to prison for the rest of his life’. Like anyone is ever going to find it. You worry so much. It’s adorable.
“Okay. You know what to do, right?” Adrian can barely hear Emilia’s voice over the excitement beginning to hum through him. Leota is going to set up the portal, and then he’s going to find you. He’s gonna see you again. He’s gonna get you back. “You go in, do not interact with anyone, get them, and come back. Got it?”
“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ on the word, rocking back and forth on his feet.
“You’ve got one day. One day. And then we come in to get you.”
“Shouldn’t we just go with him now?” Leota asks, frowning as she fiddles with the machine in the doorway. “No offense, Adrian, but you do have a tendency to get kinda…distracted.”
“One person isn’t going to cause as much damage or complications as all of us will.” Emilia says, though Adrian is pretty sure she looks anxious. That’s what anxious looks like, right? Furrowed brow and murderous expression? “Besides, he only ever gets distracted when it comes to her. For once, Adrian being fucking obsessed with his girlfriend might actually help us.”
“I still can’t stop thinking about that picture thing.” John says, face twisted with disgust. “Did you like, jerk off to it? Or just make out with it?”
“Ew! Why would you ask him that?” Leota steps back from the machine, looking like she’s about to reach up to cover her ears.
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to share a fact about one of the beanie babies that will calm everyone down and hopefully change the fucking subject, before Leota sets the portal off and the explosion knocks him backward.
-
“What the fuck, Adrian?” You’re pacing again, hands in your hair like you’re about to rip it out by the root.
“You’re mad.”
“Mad? I’m mad?!” You whirl on him, fingers twitching to pull the knife back out. From the look on his face, you have a feeling that doing so won’t lead anywhere productive. “You took me to a fucking Nazi dimension! And you keep saying it’s better than my dimension!”
“Woah, woah. First of all, not a ‘Nazi Dimension’. The Top Trio are white supremacist dickbags, but not everyone is.” He sits up, resting his elbows on his knees and frowning up at you. “They’ve just got a massive following of shitty people. That’s why we have the Sons of Liberty to keep them from turning this into a quote unquote ‘Nazi Dimension.’” You open your mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “Second, I didn’t say it was better here. I said you’d like it better here.”
“Why would I like the Nazi dimension better?!” You don’t think you’ve ever sounded more shrill in your life. You’re about two seconds from lunging at him and trying to wring his neck.
Again, he might like that. Fuck. Arguing with your Adrian was never this difficult. Then again, you never fought with your Adrian like this. The passion was there, yes. Almost too much of it - Economos still won’t let the ‘van incident’ go - but he never made you so furious you felt like your blood was on fire. In more ways than one. Fuck.
“Not a Nazi dimension.” He repeats, before exhaling and offering you an almost boyish shrug. “And it makes it a lot easier to kill people. You can’t exactly fuck up killing a Nazi.”
Well, he does have a point. Your Adrian is a lot more loosey goosey with his moral code than you are. A world where you have a clear and specific enemy? Fighting the followers of the Top Trio, who are not-too-secretly pieces of absolute shit? It would definitely help you sleep at night.
Still. What the Hell?
“Fuck. Fuck.” You run a hand over your face. Shake your head like you might be able to dislodge the shock and horror of all of this. “I really thought I couldn’t be more angry with you. I seriously thought the kidnapping and your infuriating fucking personality made me hit my limit.”
“The orgasms are still on the table.”
There’s a snow globe on the table beside you. You throw it at him. He catches it.
And then he smiles at you, like he’s winning. Like this is exactly the reaction he wants to pull from you.
“Fuck you.”
“You want to.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Your body is still humming from your interaction mere minutes ago. His face is still flushed. There’s a small cut on his neck, a bead of blood still dripping from it. He looks fucking beautiful.
And you can’t focus on being angry. You can’t think straight. You’re not exactly the most…put together person in the world. There’s a reason you’re so well suited for Adrian Chase. You take pleasure in killing, just like he does. Not quite as much, maybe, but violence isn’t something you tend to shy away from. In fact, you run toward it. You let anger and emotions fuel you, while Adrian tends to brush them aside or fail to even notice them at all. You may be there to cool him down when he gets worked up in his own way, but he does the same for you.
This version of you wasn’t too different, was she? Because this Adrian is looking at you like he knows damn well what he’s doing. Your Adrian would make a joke. Make you laugh. Try to share some kind of animal fact that is so silly or incorrect that it would distract you from your anger. If that doesn’t work, he’ll usually surge forward and kiss you, letting the fire burn through you in a different way. Becoming your outlet through passion and the connection he loves so much. By the time you’re both exhausted and he’s grinning like a madman and pressing sweet kisses to whatever part of your marked-up skin he can reach, you’ve forgotten what got you worked up in the first place, and you’re laughing with him again.
This Adrian is grinning, green eyes still dark and smile as sharp as the knife you were just holding to his throat. He’s goading you. Purposeful and calculated. He’s not trying to distract you. Not trying to help you burn through your anger. He’s trying to work you up even more. Trying to stoke the fire until he can get you so angry that you’ll finally have to face the other reason you’re so furious.
“Admit it.”
“Don’t change the damn subject.”
“Admit you want me.”
“No.”
“You’re pissed. I know.” He’s moving closer. You’re not backing down. “But I know you, and I know that underneath it all, you’re even more pissed because you know I’m getting to you.”
“You’re not.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
“And you’re pent up, aren’t you?” His eyes move over your face, to the way your breath is coming a little more rapidly. The way heat is rising to your cheeks. His grin is triumphant. Unhinged. “You don’t just want me because I look like him. You don’t just want me because I am him.” The small of your back hits the dresser behind you. His hands come to rest on the wood on either side of you as he leans in close. “You love him, but you like the ways I’m different, don’t you?”
You should push him off of you. You should slam your knee up between his legs. You should grab that knife and stab him with it.
His breath is warm against your ear. He smells like Adrian. He feels like Adrian. He is Adrian, and yet he isn’t. Your body and mind have never been so fucking confused. “This version of me gets a rise out of you, and you fucking love it.”
“I don’t.” The words sound choked. The heat pooling in your stomach is making your knees feel weak.
“You wanna lie to yourself, baby?” You barely notice his hand moving, nearly jump when you feel his fingers skate up beneath your shirt. “Go ahead.” His hand moves to the small of your back, the contact leaving sparks in its wake, and he tugs you closer to him.
“I hate you.” The lie is bitter on your tongue. He just smiles wider, and bites at the shell of your ear. You gasp, and his fingers curl against your skin.
“You wanna know what I think?”
“No.” You can’t remember how to breathe.
“I think,” his fingertips skate over your waistband, dipping below it just to slide back up, teasing and wrong and fucking torturous, “if I moved my hand down to where you really, really want me to, I could prove you wrong.”
Your hand flies up, catching his wrist before it can do exactly that. And yet, you still can’t make yourself pull away.
“You want me to stop?” He asks, the words spoken against your throat, now. “Say it.”
You open your mouth, and nothing comes out.
You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate how fucking badly you want him.
He hums, low and almost mocking in it’s cockiness. “You’re shaking.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re fucking desperate for me.”
You finally move to push him off of you. He catches your wrists without even pulling back from your neck.
“Say it. Say you want me to stop.”
You break his hold and shove him, instead. He moves back like he’s allowing it. Doesn’t even pretend to stumble. He’s still smiling.
You shove him again.
“I hate you.” You snarl again, and his smile widens. You want to fucking kill him. You want to slam his head against the wall. You want him to stop making you feel like this so everything is less fucking confusing.
“Say it again.”
“I hate you.” You shove him again, and this time he catches you around the waist. Throws you back onto the bed and moves atop of you in one smooth motion. You try to shove him off again, but his hands catch your wrists and pin them to the mattress on either side of your head.
He grinds his hips against yours hard enough to make your breath hitch. You squirm. You fight. You try to kick him. He slots his body against yours and holds you still. His mouth drops down to your own when he speaks again. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll let you go.”
You can’t pull air into your lungs. You can’t think enough to speak. He rolls his hips again, and you make a noise between a whimper and a gasp that you hate with every fiber of your being.
“I hate you.” You try, because you can’t say it. You can’t even lie. The words scramble in your brain before you can push them past your lips.
“I know, baby. I know.” He coos, the words almost condescending, and you fight again. You try to kick him. To dislodge his hands from your wrists.
He kisses you, and you hate him more.
You kiss back like a feral animal. You bite at his lips. He releases one of your hands, and you use it to claw at his back. You try to tell him that you hate him again, the words swallowed by his mouth, and he grinds against you so skillfully, so slow and deep, that it drags another desperate noise from your throat.
His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing but holding you still as his tongue slides hungrily into your mouth. You groan, arch your body into his, and the next movement of his hips has your brain short-circuiting.
“Say it again.” You haven’t heard his voice like this. Not yet. Not this low, this desperate, this deep in more ways than just his tone. Your body arches against his again, and his hand comes down to slam your hips back against the bed, keeping you still and completely at his mercy. That should not thrill you as much as it does. Should not pull a borderline pathetic noise from your throat like it does. “Tell me you hate me.”
He says it like he’s demanding a confession of love. Like hearing you say it will mean the same thing. At this point, it might.
You say it. His hand slides beneath your waistband again, blunt nails scraping against your skin so close to where you need him but not nearly close enough.
“Now tell me you want me. Admit it.” He’s panting, every breath labored and every touch rough and needy and incredible. You say nothing, and he grinds against you so roughly that you whine before he says it again. “Admit it.”
Clarity does not come back to you this time. Pulling back this time feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done.
Not Adrian. Not Adrian. Not your Adrian.
“No.” You’re breathless. Starved. Your body is shaking and you can’t think. Can’t breathe. Your next three words leave your lips with more effort than you think you’ve ever used in your life. “No. Get off.”
And he does. Immediately. He releases you, and sits back, putting distance between you so fast that you’re almost shocked by it. You really did just need to tell him to stop. Even in the state he’s in, he really will never hurt you.
And you both sit there, trying to catch your breath, the room too warm with the lingering heat and desperation. You can’t look at him. Can’t meet his starved gaze. You’ll cave if you do.
“I have to tell Chris.”
He tenses like you just dropped a bucket of ice water over his head.
“Alone.” You add, and he tenses even more.
“It’s not safe.”
“I know.”
He inhales. Slowly. Like he’s trying to anchor himself. “Let me go with you.”
“No.” You do the same. Inhale, exhale. Nice and slow. Nice and calm. Every part of you is still running molten. “Just me. I have to talk to him alone. I have to…I can’t. You can’t. He’s a dick, but he trusts me. He’ll listen if it’s just me.”
He frowns. Looks at you for a moment. Looks like he’s trying to pull himself back from the edge. His eyes are so dark that it barely looks like there’s any part of him left behind them.
You frown too, and then you test a theory.
When you reach up to skate your fingers over his cheek, he turns his face into your palm and closes his eyes. He doesn’t move towards you again. Doesn’t pin you down. Demands nothing. You told him to stop, and that’s all you needed to do.
But you can see the restraint in his body. You can feel the tension. He’s shaking. He’s trying to focus so hard that he’s barely breathing.
“Hey, Ade. Breathe.” You’re still a little breathless yourself, but you manage to keep your voice low and calm.
And he does. One slow inhale. One slow exhale.
“Okay, good. Again.”
He does it again.
And when he looks up at you, turning his face so his cheek is pressed against your hand and his gaze is back on yours, his eyes are a little more clear.
Huh. That’s something.
“Hi.” You say, like you’re greeting him for the first time.
He smiles a little, and there’s that sadness again. That silent apology. “Hi.”
You brush your thumb over his jaw, and decide that you’re definitely going to figure this out later. How he works. How to pull him back from that unpredictable edge of insanity.
You can find Chris in a bit. Soon, yes, but there’s no immediate rush. Not right now. For now, with the hint of something like confusion in Adrian’s gaze, you can’t help but pull him to you again. Lay him down beside you and comb your fingers through his hair.
He melts into your touch. He kisses your palm. Apologizes against your skin like it’s a secret.
“I love you.” He murmurs, and you wish you could stop yourself from smiling, just a little.
“I know.”
He smiles at you, and you smile back. Crazy motherfucker.
“Did you just Han Solo me?”
Your smile drops. Your fingers go still in his hair.
“You mean Han Solo?”
He frowns, too. Drops his hand against your waist and dares to pull you a little closer to him. You don’t fight him. You know he would let you go if you so much as tensed up. “Yeah. Why are you pronouncing it like that?”
“Why are you pronouncing it like Pan Solo? Like a pan in the kitchen? It’s Han Solo.”
“No. It’s not. It’s Han Solo.”
You groan, and allow him to pull you into his chest. Drop your head against his shoulder for a moment. “This dimension is so fucked up.”
-
You can’t go into the ARGUS building. With the other you being a wanted criminal, you’re pretty sure you won’t get past clearance.
You can’t go to Chris’s house. You can’t run into his dad or his brother. They won’t recognize you. Or worse, they will. Either way, there’s a solid chance they might shoot you on sight. You promised this Adrian that you wouldn’t even try it, and you’ll keep that promise.
You’ll think of something. You may be absolutely fucking furious with Chris Smith, and a part of you may even hate him right now, but he’s your friend. Unfortunately, you owe him an explanation. He deserves to know what this place is really like. What his family is really like.
Ugh.
You’re about to turn around. To make your way back to the apartment and try to devise some sort of more solid plan there - maybe even bring Adrian along with you this time, if not just because you find yourself craving his company more than you want to admit - when a car drives by.
You turn, casually, just enough to hide your face as they pass. Just in case. Wanted criminal and all.
And then you hear something rattle.
The car disappears around a corner, and your brow furrows as you look down the empty street. It’s quiet this time of night, and there aren’t many restaurants or businesses nearby in this area to draw too much foot traffic.
For a moment, there’s nothing. You even begin to wonder if you imagined the crashing noise, shoving your hands back in your pockets and beginning to walk again, when you see a head pop up from behind a couple of trash cans.
A mask, actually. Red visor and teal fabric.
Your first instinct is to bite back a groan as he gets up, brushing something off of himself. He said he wouldn’t follow you. He had that nice little moment of sanity. He must be impossibly more obsessive than your-
“Hello Mister Squirrel. Have you seen my girlfriend? About this tall, pretty eyes, probably around here kicking ass with my best friend? Definitely not dead. No way. She’s way too tough to-“
He hasn’t seen you yet. He’s still talking to that damn squirrel. Still babbling at it about you.
With shaking fingers, you pull your phone from your pocket. It’s basically just a useless brick, now. You can’t exactly call anyone across dimensions.
You scroll through your contacts, past Asshole Adrian and to the contact name your Adrian put in your phone himself, his name surrounded by a ridiculous amount of hearts and merman emojis.
You almost hesitate before you hit the call button. This isn’t really happening. It’s going to hurt when you’re proven wrong. But you…you have to try.
The tinny sound of Barbie Girl echoes from Vigilante’s pocket.
He fumbles for the device like he forgot he even had his phone on him, nearly dropping it as he pulls it out and gazes down at the screen.
And then he goes still.
That’s okay. You’re not moving either.
“Adrian.” And the word is barely more than a whisper on an empty street, but his head whips in your direction.
The world is quiet enough that you can hear his exhale. “Oh thank God.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
