tags: (no outbreak) soft!neighbor!joel, competency kink, hand kink, mutual yearning, flirting, use of alcohol, wingman tommy, fingering, oral (f rec), implied PiV
a/n: inspired by tears by sabrina carpenter
“Looks good,” It comes out rough. Joel’s chin tipping towards your nest of pillows, “You wanna test it out?”
His words register in your mind a split second before his. A little laugh slipping from you, just as his back straightens - a hint of pink blooming across his ears.
“Christ. I meant-”
“You offering, Joel?”
(or - your neighbor Joel helps you put together your new bed)
You don’t know how it happened that your neighbor, Joel Miller, has become a fixture in your house over the past three months, but honestly - you couldn’t be more grateful.
Maybe it’s the way you always wiggle your fingers at him in hello. The baked goods you’ve left for him and Sarah on their front porch twice, in the same amount of weeks.
How he’d linger - letting you lean on the fence between your yard and his. Picking his brain about different types of wood and stains for the renovations on your new fixer-upper.
Biting back a grin over his distain for particle board, as if you didn’t have an order from IKEA already on the way.
But more than likely, it’s the way he watched you spray-paint the corner of your lawn a pretty shade of pink, during your most recent planter upcycle.
You’ll take any of them. Anything that will steal you a couple minutes with the handsome man next door.
Not one of many words, but you’ve watched the way he stands on his porch each morning, waiting until his daughter turns at the end of the street, before he heads back inside.
Sweet, deep down. Something that makes you smile often. Letting the effect he has on you simmer beneath your skin. Butterflies, at the thought of running into him on your daily walk.
At the coffee shop, the next block over.
He’s someone you’d certainly like to know more.
And you spend your night - that space of time when you’re on the edge of sleep - hoping he feels the same.
Today the packages were barely on your porch, before he was hefting one over his shoulder - helping you bring them inside.
Waving off your protests as his eyes had swept over the logos on the side over-sized cardboard boxes.
“It’s a two-person job, anyways.”
You’re not so sure about that.
You’ve been watching him nearly the whole time. Eyes caught on the rolled-up flannel. The flex of forearm. Resisting the urge to bite into your knuckles, when the readers in his shirt pocket are slipped on - eyes scanning quickly through the instructions.
Hiding a smile at the way he grumbles over your purchases, strong hands testing the strength of the pressed boards.
Despite that - your new bed frame is built swiftly. Fingers working allen wrenches and an electric screwdriver, attaching the panels of wood. Fitting the slats of the headboard into place.
You’d budgeted the whole weekend for this, and the way he barely has to glance back at the instructions has a warmth spreading through you.
His focus. The attention on each little piece - it’s all you can do to distract yourself. Trying not to read into this. That he’s doing this for you, instead of just a neighborly favor.
Trying not to squirm, as you busy yourself with your closet and bedding. Tidying up the broken down boxes and brushing by him more than once in your trips out the garage.
But it’s all winding down, now.
The frame is finished, and moved into place. Joel gets your mattress fitted - lined up in the frame before you make it back with your pile of sheets.
Helps you stretch the edges into place. Intimate, in the way he helps you put things back together. Layering blankets and pillows, tucking everything in with careful precision.
You owe him dinner, at least.
If he won’t take anything more. What you’d like to give him - more than happy to sink onto your keeps and thank him, if he’d let you.
It’s no more than a fantasy, as you pull up the app. Snag two cold cans from the fridge on your way back, catching him lingering at the edge of your new bed.
“Pizza’ll be here in thirty.” You smile - letting your fingers brush his this time.
At the way his lips curve up at the corners.
“You’re an angel.”
It’s hard to pretend his words don’t do something to you. Something sizzling up your spine with the crack of the can as it opens.
The bob of his throat as he swallows, a hand closing around the footboard. Sturdy, under his grip, as you perch on the edge of the mattress.
“Looks good,” It comes out rough. Reluctant and low - his chin tipping towards your nest of pillows, “You wanna test it out?”
His words register in your mind a split second before his. A little laugh slipping from you, just as his back straightens - a hint of pink blooming across his ears.
“Christ. I meant-“
“You offering, Joel?”
It overlaps and then hangs, in the small space of your room.
A long beat of silence, those dark eyes locked on yours. Jaw working, before his head starts to shakes slowly.
“Sweetheart, I-“
It’s interrupted by the ring of his phone, but you can hear the rejection in his tone. A much different kind of warmth clawing at your chest, crawling up your neck.
Another ring - three more, before those eyes drag down.
Stepping away to answer it, and you know the path his feet with take before he moves. Hushed voices and a low curse, before he’s snapping the phone shut. A hand rubbing at the back of your neck, but he won’t meet your eyes anymore.
“Sorry. S’Tommy. Got a flat off 35.”
If there was a spell between you, it’s broken now. A frown tugs at your lips, as you follow him to the front door, swept up in the swift turn.
“Is he okay? You need help?”
“Nah, I got it.” His expression softens, those eyes finally lifting to yours, “Rain check on that pizza, alright?”
“Of course.” You linger by the door, as he tugs on his work boots. A breath, but then you’re adding, “And don’t worry, I was kidding earlier. You’re off the hook.”
“Off the hook?” It’s distracted, as he steps through the door you open for him. The setting sun outside backlighting his features as his head turns.
“Yeah. You know,” You head tips, back towards your bedroom, “Hit up some bars. Find someone else to help me out.”
The joke falls flat, with the way he stiffens. Brows knitting together, as his hand lingers on the latch to your front door.
“Right.” Joel says, after a beat too long. Lingering for another long moment, before his phone starts to ring again.
It’s a welcome interruption this time. Your hand lifts in a wave, as you suppress the full-body wave of embarrassment at your attempt at diffusing the tension.
“Bye, Joel. Say hey to Tommy for me.”
He grunts in reply - and he’s barely off the front porch, before you’re pulling out your own phone.
And desperately dialing a familiar number.
Your fingers play with the pink plastic straw, as you glance over your shoulder again.
Waiting for Maria to come back from the bar with a much-needed second round.
Drowning out the embarrassment that still lingers. That had only grew, as you had recounted the afternoon over pizza at her place - a palm pressed to your forehead. Her cringe, telling you yes - that was as bad as you thought it had been.
Readily agreeing to your plan to end the night at the new bar that just opened a block over. With another margarita, it might be enough to make you forget.
You finally spot her in the arms of a cowboy with his black stetson, caught up in a handsome detour. Her smile wide as she’s dipped low, before they’re drug back into the two-step with the rest of the crowd.
Your lips curve, as you watch for a moment.
Imagining tonight ending a different way. One where you’re not alone in the booth, nose wrinkling as you try hard not to think about a certain neighbor.
Letting your mind wander.
Not even wishing the afternoon had gone a different way, though you’d done enough daydreaming over the past few months.
No, it was just wishing you had kept your mouth shut.
Should have known better than to read into the way you swore he looked at you. Small smiles and brushing of fingers.
Friendly, and nothing more.
Thinking you must be imagining things, when the very man from your daydreams is plucked from them - sliding into the booth across from you, fingers curled around a bottle.
It takes you a moment to find your voice.
“Hey Joel,” There’s a heat already in your cheeks already, blooming to your ears, “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
An apology on the tip of your tongue, worried he’d told you that and you’d missed it. That he’d think you were followinghim-
“Here with Tommy,” His head tips towards the floor and you see him, now.
With the turn of the crowd, those dark curls peeking out from under his hat. His arms still around Maria, and seemingly unaware of anything else.
It makes your heart ache, low behind your ribs. Happiness melding with a deep yearning - wishing for something similar for yourself.
Missing something you’ve never had, that possibility something you certainly surely ruined. ”Listen.” It comes out low, and your eyes snap back to Joel, “Did you mean what you said earlier?”
You blink, eyebrows furrowing.
“Sorry?” His eyes drop. Tongue poking at his cheek, his gaze dark when it finally lifts back up.
“Were you serious about finding somebody else?”
His words hang. You’d laugh, if he wasn’t so solemn. Those dark eyes caught on yours, lips a flat line as his thumb digs into the damp label on the bottle.
Your answer comes slowly, with the tilt of your head.
“You think I should?”
Lilting up at the end. Melancholy swiftly turning into curiosity, especially when the muscles in his jaw clench. The mark that deepens between his eyebrows as he scowls.
“No.”
There’s an edge to his answer. A slow shake of his head.
“Can’t say I like that idea at all, sweetheart.”
And with it, the weight you’ve been carrying lifts. That boldness from before returning, as his words sink in.
Misreading reluctance for rejection, earlier. Something not unwelcome, just caught off-guard.
“Good,” You smile - teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Letting yourself lean across the table, as your voice drops.
“Because I’d want it to be you. You know that?”
“S’that right?” It comes out low, husky. His eyes burning, now. A leg stretching out beneath the table to bump against yours.
“Guess I oughta check out my work, huh?”
It has your breath hitching. He still hadn’t looked away from you, after that first question. Not once, even as a shadow falls across the table.
“Finally.” Tommy’s voice cuts in.
His arm slung around Maria’s shoulders, mischief sparkling in her eyes beneath the brim of a borrowed hat.
“You know he dragged me to three bars looking for you?”
Joel’s knuckles brush yours as he follows you onto your porch. A hand at the small of your back, fingers spanning wide.
Head dipping to meet yours, the second the front door locks behind you and your boots are kicked off. Lips brushing for just a moment, before you’re closing that last hair’s breadth of space.
There’s a low groan, when your mouth presses to his. Hands that fist in the fabric of your sweater, tugging you flush against him. Letting you feel every inch of earned muscle, carved out from years of hard labor and softened with age.
Hungry, with the way he claims your mouth. Heat rippling low in your belly as your lips part for his tongue. Deepening it, messy and wanting.
“Bedroom,” Is all you can manage. “Please.”
He must have been paying attention earlier with the way he guides you through the ranch, and the thought thrills you. Hands gripping your waist, urging your steps backward until you’re through the doorway of your room.
Tumbling back to land on your bed, breathless and already pushing up to catch at the hem of his worn flannel.
Tugging, until he’s at the edge with you, fitting between your legs. Letting you find his mouth again, as you work the buttons open.
“Thought I fucked up earlier,” You confess, when your lips drag down to his jaw, “Thought you didn’t want me.”
His hands are slower than yours. Taking their time to trace over your curves, though they pause at your words. Thumbs caught just under the swell of your breasts.
“I do. I have, fuck-“ He rasps - chin tilting up to give you access, when your mouth presses against his neck, “Just didn’t want to take advantage.”
“Take advantage?”
A laugh slips from you, the last button slipping free. Your fingers fisted in the opened edges as you lean back, and his knee presses into your mattress - following after you.
“Joel, I’ve been thinking about you and those hands all day.”
Longer than that, actually - but it’s hard to think about anything else, with him so close.
He hums, fingers flexing. Just brushing the underside of your breasts, and it still sends a jolt through you.
“My hands? What about them, sweetheart?”
Leaning further, until you’re braced on your elbows. Until the breadth of his shoulders is blocking out the rest of the room.
“What they could do to me,” You breathe, “You’re so good with them.”
Those wide palms and thick fingers. Dexterous and rough after years of carpentry - it had been hard to drag your eyes away earlier.
“Is that right?” Joel croons, “Then show me where you want them, baby.”
It’s easy to cover the back of his hand with your palm. To drag it up, until he’s cupping your chest. Your fingers splaying wide with his, his other hand tucking beneath your hips. Sliding up to your waist - pushing you back onto the bed so he can join you.
Your sweater rucked up until his hand can slide beneath. Warm and calloused and dragging over your skin. Tugging down the cups so he can pinch at the tight buds, the heat radiating out within you.
His mouth finds yours, and it’s been ages since you’ve kissed like this. The way he stretches out beside you and how you curl inward. Wiggling out of your sweater and his fingers finding the clasp at the back.
A rough curse as your bra is tugged free, as he kisses down and scrapes his teeth across the soft curves.
Your fingers threading through dark curls as a thigh works between yours. His tongue flicking against your nipple, a moan he can feel humming in your chest as you arch into him.
Teasing you until your hips are shifting. Rubbing yourself on his thigh, just barely taking the edge off the ache between them.
Kisses peppered against your skin. His hands slipping down until his thumb traces along the waistband of your leggings.
“Anywhere else?” It’s murmured out, warm against your skin.
“Hmm?” You hum, distracted.
“You want my hands anywhere else?” His tongue peeks out from between his lips, as his head lifts, “You can have whatever you want, baby. Whatever you’ll give me.”
It makes you bold.
“Want you to touch me.” You beg, and he groans as your hips lift.
Tugging down your leggings and the panties beneath, and he’s helping you shove them down. Working your legs free so his hand can fit between them.
A low curse when he cups you - his palm already growing slick with your need, the tips of his fingers dragging against your slit.
Teasing you, nudging against your entrance before circling your clit. Waiting until you’re guiding his palm again. Dragging him down, your fingers mapping his.
Lining up two fingers, then pressing them inside.
He groans your name like an oath, and you feel as if you could come from this already. Just the feeling of his fingers working you open. Giving you something to clench around. That deep urge to be filled, and he already fits you so perfectly.
“Been thinking about this,” His fingers press and curl, a low exhale of breath against your ear. Sounding filthy already, with the slick suck as slips knuckle-deep, “All the ways I wanna touch you.”
Your moan is soft, as you cling to him. Your own hands wandering. A rough inhale as they trace over chest, before he’s adding, “Couldn’t stand the thought of being next door while someone else helped you break this bed in.”
The admission has a spark igniting in your belly. Muscles squeezing around him, as he hovers over you.
As you loosen some of your own, tucked away feelings.
“Just wanted you.”
“Yeah?” He hums, the rumble low, “How long?
“J-July.” Your breath hitches.
Joel groans, something rough and low slipping out. Pushing himself up, shifting down on your bed as he fits himself between your thighs.
Eyes flicking up to watch the expression on your face, as his lips part. Tongue flattening, dragging from plunged-deep knuckles to the swollen bundle of nerves.
Your thighs fall open. His shoulder slipping beneath one, a hand against your thigh as you chase after his mouth. The soft “oh my god-“ that loops, as your hips buck into the swipe of his tongue.
You weren’t expecting this.
Thinking maybe you’d sink to your knees. Suck him off until he came down your throat, leave you with the memory as you took care of yourself.
Or maybe you’d get bent over the footboard. Hungry and impersonal, and even that would have been enough.
But not the low moan that is breathed out against your skin. The deep press of fingers again - the suck of teeth and those brown eyes lifting to yours.
Parted lips as his spit drops down to pool against your aching clit - the pad of his thumb following.
Before slipping down to press against you - tug you open. Seeing what a pretty mess you are for him already.
Clenching around his fingers and hungry for more. A needy gasp when the tips drag against the spongey inner wall, the jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine.
A whine, when he does it again.
Again, and again, as his head dips. Wet, open-mouth kisses pressed against your clit, sending you spiraling higher and higher.
“My hands all you’ve been wanting?” Those dark eyes flick up. Heat pooling in blown-wide pupils, above lips that shine with you.
His palm slipping from beneath your thigh, reaching down to adjust himself.
Your head shakes, hips rocking into the curl of his fingers. So close - it has your mind hazy and your filter non-existent.
“Want all of you,” You whine, and you see the flash of his smile.
His pace quickens with your answer, thumb skimming across your clit in time with the slap of the heel of his palm.
“You have me.” He rasps, “Need you to come first though, baby.”
His head dipping down again, thumb and tongue on either side of your sensitive bud. The words growled out and you swear that they rumble through you, leaving sparks of pleasure in their wake.
“Need to feel you around my fingers.”
You’re almost there - the tension winding between each panting, shortened breath and the muscles that pull as tight as a bowstring. His hips moving with yours, grinding himself into your mattress - the springs squeaking beneath him, but the bed frame still holding strong.
“Come for me so I can fuck you like you’ve wanted.”
His name comes in a rush, as you arch into his touch. The words and rough rasp of his voice an accelerant, your moan pitching up as he brings you to the edge.
Sending you over, with the open-mouthed kiss and suck of his mouth. That grin curls again, as your eyes flutter closed - lost in the soft, murmured out praise as he works you through it.
Thumb sweeping, pressing against the spot where you pulse in time with the throb around his fingers.
And when your eyes open again as he eases himself out, Joel looks as wrecked as you feel. Half pushed up, your eyes caught on the fingers he slips between his lips, sucking them clean.
The rumpled flannel, the t-shirt beneath riding up on his stomach. Tanned skin and a dark trail of leading hair below.
Boxers slung low, the fabric tented against the strain of his cock - the head working its way free from the waistband with the rut of his hips. Gleaming, and there’s a sharp exhale of breath as you push yourself up on an elbow. Hand slipping down to cup him - push the fabric free.
Barely able to fit your fingers around, warm and achingly hard in your hand.
Tasting like you, as his mouth angles down. Groaning into the clutch of your fist, before his hand curves around your wrist.
“You still want more?”
Your echo comes out breathless. Heat still pooling low, bliss still painting the corners of your mind in a soft haze. A gentle tug around him, that leaves your meaning unmistakable.
“Want anything you’ll give me, Joel.”
There’s a low rumble of approval. Those hands at your waist - flipping you over, before he’s shoving his layers the rest of the way down.
His cock hanging stiff and heavy as your knees spread wide, limbs still liquid. Back arched with the palm that follows along your spine.
Strong thighs mapping yours. His hands gripping at your waist - the filthy groan low in your ear as Joel arches over you, as you grind back against him. The brush of his fat head against your entrance, smearing against your release.
“Then you’d better hold on, sweetheart.”
You’re reaching without thought. Eagerly following his every word, fitting your fingers between the slats of the headboard.
Grip tightening, as he starts to sink inside. How you bloom around the tip, slick and warm as he inches further with each rock of his hips.
“That’s it,” Joel groans, as you clench around him. Making room - a stretch, even with his fingers.
“Atta girl.”
You’re boneless.
Stretched out across the mattress - time no more than a loose concept, kept by the steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath your ear.
“What do you think?” Joel’s voice rumbles, soft and low, ”Sturdy enough for you?”
You can still feel the ghost of his fingerprints at your hips. The warmth that smears against your inner thighs, with the dull ache of well-used muscle.
Another orgasm wrenched out of you. Full-bodied waves of pleasure washing over you, as you had come undone around his cock.
Unable to help the smile, buried in his shoulder. Still thinking that you must be dreaming, except for the way his fingers trace across your hip. The very tangible man, half-tucked beneath you.
One you’re not ready to let go of.
Not yet.
Not ever, if you’re lucky.
“Better give it one more go.” Your hand braces on his chest, and there’s already a hint of smile, as he helps you hike your thigh over his waist.
tags: mutual pining, dual POV, flirting, banter, slow burn, get to know eachother, meet-cute via dating app, insecurities, soft!Frankie, all the fluff (seriously it’s so cute it may give you cavities), emotional healing, singledad!Frankie, mention of drug usage (in the past), no physical description of reader apart from wavy hair and a fuller figure, some bad jokes, body image issues, awkward but cute Frankie 𓂃⋆.˚
summary: You swiped right on a man in a baseball cap and somehow found the kind of warmth you stopped believing in.
𓂃⋆.˚ author's note: I woke up with this idea earlier this week and got completely possessed by it ever since. I had such a blast writing these two, and I’m pretty sure this won’t be the last time we meet them. There’s still so much left to tell. Happy Frankie Friday, my loves! 🤍
word count: 9,4 k (don't ask me any questions)
𓂃⋆.˚ read on ao3 𓂃⋆.˚
fat - you ; italics - Frankie
Your best friend had insisted—borderline bullied—you into making a dating profile after almost two years of being single.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried. You went on dates; they just never led anywhere. If the guy even showed up, it usually ended the same way: ghosted, breadcrumbed, or fed the classic “It’s not you, it’s me” (when it was clearly them still tangled up with their ex). If things made it past a second date, they got physical too fast and faded even faster.
There was always one thing they had in common: they wanted the curves in the dark, not in daylight. And after your last breakup, you’d learned the lesson early, that some men loved the fantasy of softness but never the reality of it.
You’d spent years fighting your body, trying to shrink yourself into someone else’s comfort zone. Diet after diet. Skipping meals because thinness was trendy when you were a teen. You were always “the bigger friend,” even though, looking back, you never really were. People just made you feel like it, front row seat: your own grandmother, who once pinched your stomach when you sat down and said, “Careful it doesn’t get any more.”
And it stuck. Lodged somewhere deep, whispering through adolescence, through early adulthood: don’t take up too much space.
But now, finally, you were learning to make peace with yourself. You’d figured out what clothes made you feel good, learned how to accentuate the parts you actually liked. You didn’t give a damn about the number on the clothing tags anymore. You wouldn’t call it self-love, but you were neutral, calm even. You could stand in front of the mirror without tearing yourself apart, trace the curve of your waist with your eyes, see softness without punishment. For the first time in your life, your reflection didn’t feel like an enemy.
And maybe that was enough.
Well, until now apparently. Your best friend told you about this app where women have to usually take the first step. You were a little hesitant at first, but ultimately you’ve downloaded it. And now there you were—staring at a blank profile that asked you to describe yourself in 300 characters or less. How do you sum up years of learning to coexist with your own reflection into something flirty and clickable? You settled for honesty. A little humor. Something like “Too old for games, too soft for casual. But I make a mean chocolate cake.”
You picked three pictures of yourself.
The first was one of your favorites: taken at the beach, hair wild in the wind, no makeup, just you. Laughing, carefree, the sunset painting everything in soft orange light. You looked like someone who still believed good things could happen.
The second was from your high school friend’s wedding, a rare occasion where you actually wore a dress. Green and low enough to show a hint of cleavage, but still soft and elegant. You were smiling at your reflection in the mirror, curls pinned in a half up-do that somehow stayed perfect all night. You remembered how comfortable you’d felt that day.
The third was your favorite in a different way. You in the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous strawberry-print apron, flour dusting the counter, mid-stir with a wooden spoon. It wasn’t flattering or staged, but it was real. You, in your element. Doing something that made you feel at peace.
After finishing setting up your profile, you scrolled through the usual parade of gym selfies, truck poses, and men holding fish until you almost deleted the app altogether.
Until you saw him.
A Standard Oil baseball cap was the first thing you’ve noticed. A soft smile that didn’t look forced. A little scruff, brown eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and still managed to stay kind. You didn’t know what it was exactly, but something about him felt... safe. Like maybe you wouldn’t have to explain yourself too much to entertain a fantasy most men felt more comfortable with than the real you.
Francisco, 38
📍Within 10 km 🚁 Helicopter pilot | ☕ Coffee addict | 👧 Dad to the coolest 5-year-old
You stared at the screen a little too long before whispering under your breath, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
So you swiped right, not expecting much. You lingered a little longer on his profile, curious to see if your first impression actually matched the rest. To your surprise it did. Even though everything about it was simple, almost understated, something about him held your attention.
The first picture was him in that Standard Oil cap again, and you couldn’t help but wonder: did he own several of the same one, or was it the cap? The kind he wore everywhere, every day? (A little gross, honestly, if it was the latter.) He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a truck, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. Unmistakably handsome. Lethal even, if you looked too long.
Then a candid — his, you assumed, daughter perched on his shoulders at the park, her laughter frozen midair while he wore that small, quiet smile that somehow said more than words ever could. A real warmth radiating from the picture. One that shot you right in the heart. You wondered what happened to the mother of his child. Did they split, or was it something more tragic?
A blurry concert shot followed, probably taken by one of his friends. The lighting was awful, but it didn’t matter. He was laughing, beer in hand, and there was something so alive about it that you found yourself smiling too.
The last one was a hiking trail selfie. No grin this time, just those serious brown eyes and the beard that was starting to show more salt than pepper. He looked steady, solid and real. That wasn’t the profile of a man who tried too hard, and you liked that. Amid the endless parade of self-proclaimed alpha males, he was the kind of man you’d never have dared to hit on out in the wild. But behind a screen, you felt braver. So you waited, sat, queued an episode of your favorite show, and—
Ping.
The sound of the notification ringed in your ears. You told yourself you didn’t want to get your hopes up too high, that it would be the interesting pilot from earlier. But your heart jumped nonetheless and sure enough….
It’s a match! Looks like you and Francisco Morales are equally curious 👀
Oh fuck.
You opened the app with a little more excitement than was probably decent and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen.
It was your move.
Don’t be too eager, you told yourself.
Be funny, but not too much or you’ll sound goofy. How much flirting is too much flirting? Can I tell him how handsome I think he is in the first message? What if he swiped right accidentally? What if your first message is not catchy enough?
Okay, deep breath. Just type something. It’s gonna be fine. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a full minute before your brain finally threw you a line that wasn’t completely tragic.
Alright, serious question, you typed, do you actually own other hats, or is that Standard Oil cap your emotional support item?
You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately regretted it.
Oh God. That was too much, wasn’t it? You should’ve gone with something normal. Hey, nice to meet you. Or You have a really cute smile. Not… whatever that was.
You locked your phone, tossed it on the couch, and swore to yourself you wouldn’t check it for at least ten minutes. But then another ding came up and you reached for it faster than you’d realized. It was a message. From him.
Depends who’s asking. If it’s a hat critic, I’m pleading innocent. If it’s someone giving me a hard time on a dating app, I’ll allow it.
You smiled, surprised at how fast he replied.
Okay, not bad. A little funny, a little guarded, like he didn’t try too hard but cared enough to respond quickly.
So it is your emotional support hat, then?
Maybe. Would it be so bad if it was?
Nah, we all need something to hold onto. For some it’s a hat, others have some stuffed animals, others have rings.
Rings? Is that your thing?
Yeah, I play with them when I’m nervous. I mostly wear five. One of them is a moonstone on my right index finger. Always. If you see me without them something’s terribly wrong.
Same with my hat, mostly at least. Now I need to see a pic of the ring.
[Attached photo of your hand] I have ugly, chubby hands. No comment please.
I like your hands. They look soft, capable. And the ring is unique, looks vintage?
It is! You have a good eye, Francisco.
Oh God, no one calls me that. Frankie’s enough.
Okay Frankie :) But I like your name. It’s not an American name. Is it Spanish?
Sí. ¿Hablas español?
You caught yourself grinning at your phone, wide and unguarded. The conversation flowed so naturally and effortlessly, it made it feel like it was its own language between you. You hadn’t felt that in a long time, least of all with a man you’d just met online.
Sorry to inform you, but my Spanish is absolutely horrible. You’d probably lose me at Sí and Gracias.
Damn, and here I was about to switch the whole chat to Spanish.
Lo siento.
Está bien. At least you’d be polite while lost.
Exactly. I’d wander off with good manners.
Good to know. Guess I’ll stick to English then. Also, bonus, I could curse you and you wouldn’t even know ;)
Yeah, you could tell me how horrendous my hair is and it would still sound like a love ballad.
Probably. I wouldn’t do that tho, only speaking a language you understand too, promise :)
After that, you texted the whole evening. He told you about his job as a pilot—you learned quickly that he flew helicopters, mostly medevac flights now. You told him about your job at a small clothing store in the local mall. It wasn’t your dream job, but it paid the bills and came with its own kind of charm. You liked the regulars, the ones who stopped by just to chat and left without buying anything. By the end of the night, he sent his number, claiming the app’s notifications were driving him crazy. So you switched to iMessage instead.
The switch to iMessage made everything easier. Faster. More natural.
By the second day, it became a habit. A little ping during your lunch break, another when you got home, one before bed.
Frankie sent photos sometimes — a blurry sunset out of his cockpit window, Marisol’s new dinosaur sticker collection, a coffee cup with “Emergency fuel” scribbled on it in sharpie.
You teased him about his hat again one evening after work.
You: So, be honest. Are you balding under that cap? 👨🦲
Frankie: Wow. Straight for the jugular I see.
You: I mean… you do wear it a lot.
Frankie: I do not have a bald spot, thank you very much.
You: That sounds suspiciously like something a bald man would say 🧐
Frankie: Hold on. Evidence incoming.
A few seconds later, your phone buzzed again — Image attachment.
He was in what looked like his bathroom, fresh out of the shower. A mirror selfie, something you usually cringed a little about. His hair was dark, thick, and sticking out in every direction. It looked soft enough to run your hands through, and for a few seconds, you caught yourself daydreaming about how those strands might feel between your fingers. A few damp strands clung to his temple. He wore a faded grey t-shirt that barely survived over his biceps, the cotton stretched tight where he held his phone. He looked a little tired, maybe even shy about the photo, but it didn’t matter. He was beautiful.
You: Okay, you win 😳 No bald spot.
Frankie: Told you 😉
You: You look… uh, normal.
Frankie: Normal?
You: I mean, in a good way. Like, very… hairy.
Frankie: You’re really bad at this, you know that? But God help me, adorable too.
You: Shut up 😅
You spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at that photo after he stopped replying for the night. He was just so real. A little scruffy, a little imperfect and somehow that made him even hotter. Which only made the creeping thought worse: what would a man like him want with someone like you?
For the next few days, you tried to push it aside. It didn’t help that he kept texting. Random little messages over the day that made you smile at your phone like an idiot. You no longer felt the need to make yourself rare, the way you’d once been told would make you wanted. With him, it was enough to simply be.
Frankie: ¡Buenos días! Hope today’s nice to you 😚
You: So far, it’s tolerable.
Frankie: That’s the spirit. Want me to send coffee through the screen? ☕️
You: Please. Make it two actually.
Later that week, you found yourself staring at his name lighting up your screen again. It was late, and you were too tired to filter yourself this time.
You: Do you ever feel like you’re not someone people look at that way?
Frankie: That way?
You: Like… the kind of person someone actually wants. Not just “nice” or “funny” or “good to talk to.” The kind of person people want.
Frankie: Yeah, prob more times than I’d admit.
You stared at the typing dots for a moment, and then another message came through.
Frankie: But if it helps, I’ve been talking to someone lately who completely messes with that belief.
You: Oh yeah? Who’s the lucky one?
Frankie: She’s got a thing for rings. Pretends she’s mean but she’s actually just soft.
You: You’re ridiculous 🫣
Frankie: Maybe. But I mean it.
You didn’t know what to say after that. Your chest felt tight in the best possible way.
You: You’re… really good at this whole texting thing, you know.
Frankie: Trying my best.
You: You… saw my pic, right? And the one or two I’ve sent you. I’m not thin and I don’t… Let’s just say, I can’t believe you’re still texting me.
Frankie: Why wouldn’t I still text you?
You stared at the message longer than you meant to, your thumb hesitantly hovering above the keyboard. It would be easier to brush it off, throw in a joke, pretend you hadn’t meant it. But you were tired of pretending.
You: Because most guys don’t. Not after the “real” pictures. They like the right angles, the filters, the version that fits their fantasy. But when it comes down to all of me, they usually change their mind. Fast. Or worse, only use me in the bedroom. Lights out.
You hesitated, watching the typing dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Frankie: Then they’re idiots.
You waited. You didn’t know what else to expect. A polite you deserve better, maybe. Something generic and careful. But then another message came through and your breath caught.
Frankie: You’re beautiful. Not the kind that needs filters or a hundred takes to look right. Just… the kind that sticks in your head. And I’m gonna be honest, excuse me if that’s too much, but you’re fucking hot too.
You stared at the words, half smiling, half wanting to cry. No one had ever said that like it was a simple truth. No hesitation. No hidden “but.”
You: You don’t even know me.
Frankie: I know enough to see you. The way you talk. The way you look at things. The way you make me laugh when I don’t expect to. That’s not surface-level stuff. And the rest? I’ve seen every pic you’ve sent, looked at them multiple times too. You don’t have to hide any part of yourself from me.
A lump rose in your throat, uninvited tears stinging your eyes. You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping out through the ache. Who was this man?
You: You say that so easily.
Frankie: It’s not easy, but it’s honest.
He sent another message a few seconds later:
Frankie: Look, I don’t want to be another guy who makes you feel like you have to prove you’re worth wanting. You already are. In broad daylight too. I just hope I get the chance to show you that.
You sat there, phone lighting up your face in the dark, heart thudding like it was trying to tell you something you weren’t ready to believe. You’d been told nice things before, but never like this. Never with this kind of quiet certainty.
You typed back, hands trembling a little.
You: You’re kind of ruining all my trust issues right now, you know that?
Frankie: Good. About time someone did.
Frankie thought he knew what love was. He’d seen it in his parents, the way his mom tucked a hand into his dad’s back pocket like it belonged there. He’d seen it in the brotherhood of the army, in the unspoken loyalty that bound men together under fire. Hell, he’d even seen it in all the chick flicks his exes made him sit through, rolling his eyes but secretly studying.
But reality had been different for him. Love always felt like something he was chasing but could never quite catch. More like a myth, a creature you heard stories about but never really found.
He’d been in love once or twice. The first time was back in high school, with the girl who was too cool for him, the one always smoking by the bleachers. He’d been a lanky kid then, shy to the bone, too tongue-tied to ask her out—so he watched from the sidelines as his best friend ended up with her instead. It gutted him in ways he didn’t understand at the time. Even years later, he sometimes caught himself thinking about her, like a phantom bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
The second time was with his ex. You’d think, if he told the story, that he’d talk about her. About knowing she was “the one” he’d have kids with. But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was, the real love story of his life was his daughter Marisol. Nothing, no one, compared to the way the world shifted the moment he looked into a pair of dark brown eyes that mirrored his own. That was the new gravity he orbited around.
They’d met when they were both at their lowest—two people trying to stay afloat in the same storm. When she got pregnant, it was already too late for an abortion, and she’d made it clear she wasn’t ready to be a mom. They spent most of the pregnancy in rehab. Frankie was clawing his way toward clean, holding onto the idea of being there for his daughter, while she was still fighting her demons. With little success. Marisol was born early, small, and shaking—withdrawal already written into her first breaths. And when things between them inevitably fell apart, he mourned. Not her, not even the relationship, but the version of himself who believed he could fix it all. Still, he knew one thing wouldn’t ever change: his love for his child. That was permanent. Untouchable.
So he got custody of Marisol and tried everything in his power to stay afloat—to give her a good life, even without her mom in the picture. He moved back in with his parents for a while, swallowing his pride until he was steady on his feet again. He fought to get his flying license reinstated, found a job flexible enough to let him be part of Marisol’s life the way she deserved. None of it would’ve been possible without his parents’ help.
Things between him and his dad hadn’t always been easy. His father was the quiet, stern type—the kind of man who measured love in acts, not words. After Frankie’s discharge and the mess that followed, there’d been distance, disappointment that neither of them quite knew how to fix. But when Marisol was born, something shifted. His father had held her once and that was all it took. The old hardness in his expression cracked, replaced by a look Frankie had never seen before. It didn’t erase the years between them, but it built something new on top of them.
His mother, meanwhile, had always been his anchor. The way she cradled Marisol, humming the same Spanish lullabies she used to sing to him, made something deep in his chest ache in the best way.
He spent countless sleepless nights in the rocking chair with Marisol pressed against his chest, skin to skin because he’d read somewhere it helped with bonding. His mother always seemed to know what Marisol needed before he did—a kind of witchcraft that left him humbled and in awe. She never scolded, never made him feel like he was failing. Just guided him, patient and steady, with the kind of gentleness only a mother could muster.
Every time he tried to thank her—truly thank her—for holding them both together when he barely could, she just brushed him off. She’d press a kiss to his hair while Marisol slept in her arms and whisper, “That’s what mothers do, cariño mío.” And that was that.
When Marisol turned one, his parents insisted on throwing her a birthday party—cake, balloons, the whole Morales clan, even distant cousins Frankie barely remembered. His dad built a tiny swing in the backyard, his mom baked enough food to feed the neighborhood. Frankie watched her pass Marisol from one pair of arms to the next, everyone cooing and laughing, and for the first time in a long while, the air around him didn’t feel heavy.
His best friend and brother in everything but blood Santi became Marisol’s godfather and never once wavered. He’d show up with groceries, with toys, with bad jokes at two in the morning when the baby wouldn’t sleep. The other guys helped too—each in their own way—dropping by between their own families and struggles, making sure Frankie never felt completely alone in it.
By the time Marisol was three, he’d moved into a small house of his own, close to his parents. He learned to juggle work and kindergarten drop-offs, bedtime stories and flight schedules. It wasn’t easy, but it worked. And every night, no matter how late he came home, he’d still go into her room, press a kiss into her messy curls—lighter than his, but just as wild—and think that maybe, finally, he’d done something right.
Life got busy after that—joyfully, exhaustingly busy. Between work and raising a tiny human, there wasn’t much room left for anything else. Least of all dating. Frankie didn’t feel lonely, but his friends nudged him towards dating, most of all Benny, so he found himself downloading the app he met you on only a few weeks ago.
He stopped believing in fairytales for a long time already. Stopped chasing myths. He told himself love wasn’t real, not the way movies or songs painted it at least. And most importantly, no partner meant no one to be close enough to see the shadows he carried. No one asked him to set them down, because by God, he had a lot of those.
This all changed with your first message. You weren’t like the rest—he learned that quickly. You were witty, funny, attentive in a way that made it hard for him to keep his walls up. And for the first time in years, he just let it happen. He found himself smiling whenever your name lit up his screen, waiting for those little glimpses of your day in texts or random photos you sent. He even started listening to the songs you shared—pop songs he usually rolled his eyes at—and made a playlist with all of them, adding a few of his own so he could send it back.
Somewhere along the way, you became part of his routine without him meaning to. Between making Marisol’s breakfast, dropping her off at kindergarten, and flying, he spent every spare minute texting you.
When you opened up about your insecurities one evening, his blood boiled. How could anyone treat you like that? Because of what, your body? That was absurd to him. He adored your curves. Sometimes—if he was honest, more than sometimes—he caught himself daydreaming about how soft you must feel beneath his calloused hands. He imagined what it would be like to hold you, to pull you in, to feel you pressed against him. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand how anyone had ever failed to see how beautiful you were when he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
You: I was thinking 🤔
Frankie: Dangerous.
You: What if we had a call before meeting? Just to, you know, check the vibes first. Also, tbh. I’m really curious about what you sound like 👀
Frankie: Sounds like a good plan. Would tonight work, or is that too spontaneous for you?
You: Nah, it’s fine. (Only shitting my pants a little 😬)
Frankie: It’s just me.
You: “Just”? Did you take a look in the mirror recently, pilot boy? 😏
Frankie: Barely.
Frankie: Is it okay if I call you after I put my daughter to bed?
You: Yeah, no problem. I’ll be waiting ☺️
He stared at his phone for a full minute before hitting call, heart hammering like a war drum. Dios mío, it was just a fucking phone call. So why the hell was he this nervous? His thoughts started spiraling before he could stop them. Was it too early to already feel drawn to you? Maybe you’d changed your mind. Maybe this was stupid altogether.
Then the line clicked, and your soft voice came through, a little breathless, but somehow exactly how he’d imagined.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey,” he replied, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded. He cleared his throat, tried for casualness. “So… we’re really doing this, huh?”
You laughed, a small, nervous sound that eased something in his chest. “Guess we are.”
The first few minutes were harmless enough: talk about work, about your cat, he learned was named Merlin. About how the app kept glitching on you and that you didn’t open it in days. That actually made his pulse kick up a little — that quiet, impossible hope rising that maybe you enjoyed talking to him just as much as he did with you. He found himself smiling more than he had in days during your conversation, answering questions he didn’t usually bother with, letting you tease him for saying ma’am without realizing it.
And then you asked about Marisol. Not the quick, polite kind of question, you sounded genuinely curious. He hesitated, thumb running along the edge of his mug he balanced on his thigh, while he was sitting on his sofa. Most people got uncomfortable when he mentioned his kid, especially once they realized he was raising her alone. How many times did conversations die down because of him being a dad. There was always that flicker of oh, that quiet distance that followed. He didn’t want that with you, but he also didn’t wanna hide the most important part of his life.
“She’s five,” he said finally. “Kind of runs my life.”
“That’s a good thing, though, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Best thing, actually.”
He could’ve left it there. Should’ve, maybe. But something about the warmth in your voice made him want to say more.
“Her mom and I… we met when we weren’t in a good place,” he heard himself say. “Both trying to get clean, both screwing it up more often than not. Then she got pregnant. It was… complicated. Too late for an abortion, and she wasn’t ready to be a mom. We spent most of the pregnancy in rehab.”
He went quiet for a second, waiting for the usual awkward pause, the soft oh, but it didn’t come.
“You don’t have to tell me more,” you said gently. “Only if you want to.”
Frankie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “It’s okay. I just… sometimes it feels like too much for early small talk, you know?”
“I don’t think it’s too much,” you said. “It’s your story.”
That disarmed him more than anything else could’ve.
“Marisol was born early,” he continued, quieter now. “She had withdrawal symptoms. It was bad for a while. I got clean right before she came, but her mom couldn’t. I stayed. Took custody. Moved back in with my folks until I could figure it out.”
He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry, that’s not exactly light conversation.”
“It’s honest,” you said softly. “I’d rather have that than shallow small talk.”
Something about the way you said it — no pity, no discomfort — made his chest tighten.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”
After that, the conversation eased into lighter things: music, your favorite shows, the cat who apparently ran your apartment the same way Marisol ruled his place. He could still hear the smile in your voice, still feel that quiet calm that always seemed to settle over him when you spoke.
By the time you said goodnight, his cheeks ached from smiling, a feeling so unfamiliar it almost startled him. Long after the call ended, he just sat there staring at his phone, the house silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the ticking clock on the wall. It had felt easy with you, almost too easy, and that terrified him. Easy meant real. Easy meant he could lose it. For the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine what it would be like if he didn’t. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t ruin the first good thing that ever came his way since Marisol was born.
The next morning came faster than he would’ve liked. He overslept by only five minutes, but it was enough to throw the whole routine off. He moved through the motions with practiced precision — a remnant of his time in the Army — but without coffee, his patience ran thinner than usual.
Marisol was fussing in her car seat on the way to drop-off, and not even her favorite songs could settle her. Her little internal clock was as mussed as he felt. Usually, his little sun was a pro at goodbyes, but not today. Today she clung to him with tear-streaked cheeks and shaky hands, whispering don’t go, Daddy, and every word lodged like a stone in his chest while the clock kept ticking and a flight schedule waited for him.
He took a slow breath, reminding himself that snapping would only make it worse. So he crouched down, murmured softly until her cries quieted, and didn’t leave until her teacher managed to coax her away without more tears.
When he finally made it back to the car, he let out a long exhale and ran a hand through his hair before shoving it back under the cap without much thought. One glance in the rearview mirror caught the sight of his reflection. Tired eyes, scruffy beard, the old cap tilted a little too far forward and it made him chuckle quietly.
Your voice echoed in his head, teasing him about his “emotional support hat,” and for the first time that morning, a real smile tugged at his lips. Exhaustion and all, the thought of you managed to cut through it. That’s when it hit him: he was far more gone than he was ready to admit. And most importantly, he needed to finally meet you in person.
The whole drive to the hangar, he mulled over what to text you. Every idea sounded wrong. Either too eager, too casual, or too something. He didn’t want to come off desperate. Not pushy either. But he wanted you to know how much it mattered. How much you mattered, even if you didn’t know it yet.
By the time he parked, he still hadn’t typed a single word. His thumb hovered over the screen, the cursor blinking like it was mocking him. Finally, he sighed, muttered a quiet screw it, and started typing.
He hesitated, reread it twice, then hit send before he could change his mind.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, the screen still glowing for a second before it went dark. Too soon to stare at it. Too soon to care this much. But he did anyway.
By the time he reached the hangar, the morning rush had fully kicked in. The metallic scent of fuel, the hum of engines warming, the rhythmic clatter of tools. Usually it centered him, anchored him into something he was used to. Today, it only made his thoughts louder.
He ran through the pre-flight checks with mechanical precision, clipboard in one hand, coffee finally in the other. Every task was muscle memory: inspecting rotor blades, checking hydraulics, logging the flight plan but his brain wasn’t staying put. It was somewhere else entirely, replaying that blinking message screen over and over again.
He’d checked his phone twice before the engine even started. Just once to make sure he hadn’t missed the notification sound. And once more to see if he’d even really hit sent.
Jesus Morales, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He was a grown man, a pilot for God’s sake, not some teenager waiting for a crush to text back. Still, the anticipation sat heavy in his chest, tangled with something that felt uncomfortably close to hope.
He slipped the phone into the front pocket of his flight jacket before temptation could win again. The hum of the rotor blades picked up, wind cutting through the open hangar doors, and for a moment he let himself get lost in the sound — steady, familiar, safe.
You were nervous. More than you’d ever admit. Probably more than you’d ever been for a first date before.
You’d agreed to meet Frankie at a little Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town — a fair halfway point for both of you. He’d chosen the place, and when you’d teased him about whether he took all his dates there, he’d said, “I haven’t been on a first date in years.”
Your heart had sunk a little at that. How? You couldn’t wrap your head around it. In your book, this man was everything a woman could want. He listened. He remembered small details. He reassured you when you were spiraling.
Yes, you knew he was a single dad. You’d never dated someone who was a parent before, and you found yourself thinking about that a lot. Not because you were scared of his daughter — not even about being part of her life if things worked out — but because you respected it. You respected what it meant to be responsible for a whole human being besides yourself. It was terrifying and impressive in equal measure.
A man being a dad meant he put someone else’s needs first. It meant he was careful about who he let into his little bubble — rightfully so. You thought about your own mom after your dad died, how quickly she let new people into your home, how she never stopped to ask how you felt about it. Even as a teenager, it had been hard to see someone else sitting at the table where your dad used to be.
Frankie wasn’t like that. He was cautious about what he shared, but never secretive. Every small glimpse he offered into his life with Marisol felt like being trusted with something rare and precious. You liked every bit of it.
Maybe that’s why you’d been standing in front of your full-length mirror, changing outfits for the third time already. You didn’t want to overdo it — he said the place was laid back — but you wanted to feel good in your skin. Which was, as always, a balancing act.
A dress felt too much, too formal, almost like a costume. Maybe a skort. Yeah. With tights, your favorite ankle boots, and a soft shirt. Comfortable, no wardrobe malfunctions, still cute. You pulled on the black skort, smoothed the fabric, then reached for your green corset-style top that always made you feel a little more like yourself. You found it after rummaging through the closet that definitely needed a cleanout, and when you put it on, you smiled. It fit just right — showing off your curves without screaming for attention. You looked at your reflection, tilted your head. Not bad. Not perfect. But you.
You moved on to your hair. Luckily, wash day had been kind. Your waves fell just right, so you only had to touch up a few pieces with the curling iron.
Makeup, though was different these days. You didn’t do heavy makeup anymore. You didn’t feel like hiding. Just a little blush to bring color back to your cheeks, brushing your brows into shape, a swipe of concealer to soften the shadows under your eyes — the ones that came from too many late nights and too little sleep. A touch of brown mascara, and that was it. You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, yeah. that’s me.
You smiled, whispered under your breath, “You’ve got this.” Then you grabbed your bag, locked the door, and called an Uber.
The whole drive, your fingers couldn’t stay still. You fidgeted with the moonstone ring on your right index finger, the same one Frankie had pointed out weeks ago in one of your first conversations. Vintage, he’d said, and your heart had skipped a beat at how easily he noticed the small things.
You smiled to yourself at the memory, staring out the window as the city rolled by. Please let him be as charming as he is over text, you thought.
When you arrived, you were almost ten minutes early. Not a problem, you told yourself. Better early than late. The air had that soft, in-between chill of early evening, and the jean jacket you’d thrown on was just enough to keep you warm.
You paused by the menu posted outside the little Italian place, pretending to study it even though you weren’t really reading the words. The prices were decent, the choices solid. For a moment, that old, familiar thought flickered — maybe you should order something light, something that wouldn’t make you feel guilty later. But you pushed it away just as fast. You hadn’t eaten lunch, and you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t keep apologizing for having an appetite. You’d get whatever you wanted.
You checked your vintage Casio watch. 7:00 PM. Right on time.
You looked around the small parking lot — quiet except for the sound of cars passing by on the main road. No sign of him yet. You glanced down at your phone. No new messages.
Mhm. Weird.
You started pacing a little, more to burn off nerves than anything. The minutes stretched. 7:03. 7:07. You told yourself not to overthink it, but your brain didn’t listen. Maybe he’d gotten here, seen you from afar, and decided to leave. Maybe the photos you’d sent hadn’t prepared him for real-life you. The thought stung, even though you tried to shake it off.
No, that didn’t fit him. Frankie wasn’t that type. You knew that. You’d felt it in every conversation, every kind word, every late-night message. He wasn’t the kind of man who disappeared.
Still, as the minutes passed, your stomach started to sink. You opened your phone again, thumb hovering over his chat, debating whether to text him first, when it suddenly lit up.
Incoming call.
Your breath hitched.
“Frankie?” you said, trying to sound calm.
He sounded out of breath, his voice a mix of nerves and warmth. “Hey, hey… I’m so sorry. I’m on my way, I swear. The babysitter cancelled on me last minute, and I had to drive Marisol to my parents’ place. Which, uh, is exactly the opposite direction of the restaurant.”
You could hear the faint hum of the car engine, the turn signal clicking in the background. He really was driving.
“Frankie, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your heart easing at the sound of him.
“I feel terrible,” he rushed out. “I didn’t even have time to text you before I got her packed up. She didn’t wanna let go tonight, and then my dad started asking questions, and—” he let out a shaky laugh. “Anyway, I’m trying to hurry. I promise I’ll be there soon.”
You smiled despite yourself. He sounded exactly like he had the night of your call — flustered, genuine, that kind of nervousness that wasn’t careless but caring.
“Don’t rush,” you said softly. “I’ll wait.”
“You sure? I can understand if—”
“Frankie.” You cut him off gently. “It’s fine. Drive safe.”
He exhaled, the sound rough but relieved. “You’re kind of the best, you know that?”
You laughed under your breath. “You haven’t even seen me in person yet.”
“I already know,” he said quietly.
The call ended, leaving you smiling down at your screen like an idiot in the fading light.
You decided to wait inside. The little restaurant smelled like baked bread and roasted garlic, all warmth and quiet chatter. You picked a small table near the window, ordered a glass of water you barely touched, and tried to look casual while checking your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.
When the bell above the door finally chimed, you glanced up out of habit—and froze.
He stepped inside, ushered in by a gust of cool evening air, and your brain short-circuited for half a second. No hat. No hat! His dark hair was slightly mussed from the drive, curling at the ends, and somehow that made him even more handsome.
Your grin spread before you could stop it. The closer he got, the harder it was to hide.
He scanned the room once, eyes landing on you—and you watched the tension in his shoulders ease, his mouth curving into that soft, familiar smile you’d seen a hundred times in photos but never in person.
By the time he reached your table, you could barely breathe. He was breathtaking. The salt-and-pepper scruff framing his jaw, the little laugh lines near his eyes, the warmth that radiated off him even in the low restaurant light.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, a little nervous.
“Hey,” you echoed, smiling so wide it almost hurt.
For a moment, you just looked at each other—two people who’d already shared a hundred tiny moments, suddenly face-to-face.
“Uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, that shy little gesture you already adored. “Is it okay if I—can I hug you?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He stepped closer, arms slipping around you in a way that felt effortless, like it was something he’d done a thousand times before. His body was warm against yours, solid but gentle, holding you firm without crushing you. You felt his breath near your ear, steadying himself just as your heart started hammering against your ribs.
He smelled faintly of soap and some aftershave, maybe a hint of coffee still lingering, and for a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.
When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, and his hand lingered for a heartbeat longer at your arm before he dropped it, smiling a little sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to make that awkward.”
“It wasn’t,” you said, laughing under your breath. “You’re a really good hugger.”
That earned you his real smile, the one that reached his eyes and made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He chuckled, finally relaxing a little. “Good start then.”
You both sat down, still grinning in that awkward, I-can’t-believe-you’re-actually-real way. The menus were already on the table, though neither of you looked at them for more than a second. Frankie kept glancing up at you, then back down at his hands, like he wasn’t sure where to rest his gaze. You couldn’t blame him—you were doing the exact same thing.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence first, “no hat, huh?”
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, figured I’d, uh, let my hair breathe tonight.”
“Good call,” you teased. “I was starting to think it was permanently attached to your head.”
“That’s fair,” he said, smiling down at the table. “I did almost bring it. Old habits die hard.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” you admitted, smiling at him over the rim of your glass. “Would’ve been a shame to hide that hair after the iconic after shower selfie reveal.”
He groaned, head tipping back. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
That earned you another quiet but genuine laugh, and it felt like the room lightened with it. The waitress came over, giving you both a chance to regroup. You ordered your food, trying not to second-guess every choice, and once she walked away, the silence settled again. Not uncomfortable, but tender in its own way.
Frankie leaned his elbows on the table, his hands loosely folded. “You look really nice,” he said suddenly, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you said softly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He chuckled, glancing down. “Tried my best. Marisol picked my shirt.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“Yeah. Said the blue one made me look less tired.” His smile softened as he said it, a little proud, a little shy. “Can’t argue with a five-year-old fashion expert.”
“That’s adorable,” you said, smiling without meaning to. “She sounds like a handful.”
“Oh, she is,” he said with a laugh. “But she’s… she’s everything. Smart, funny. Knows how to manipulate me already, which is honestly a little terrifying.”
You giggled, resting your chin on your hand. “You sound like a good dad.”
He looked at you for a second, caught off guard by the sincerity in your tone. “I’m trying,” he said finally. “Most days, I think she’s the one raising me.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then, softly, you said, “You really love her, huh?”
He nodded, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “More than anything.”
Something about the way he said it—calm, without hesitation—made your chest tighten. You could see it, the softness in his eyes when he talked about her. It wasn’t performative. It was just real.
“So,” he said after a moment, trying to lighten the air again. “Does this pass your vibe check so far?”
You smiled, tilting your head. “Hmm… food hasn’t arrived yet. Jury’s still out.”
He feigned a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to his chest. “Tough crowd.”
“You’ll survive,” you teased.
And when he laughed again—low, warm, genuine—you realized the nervousness had started to fade. It wasn’t gone completely, but it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It felt like you were both slowly remembering how to breathe around each other.
The food arrived just as the conversation started to flow. Two steaming plates, the smell of garlic and herbs curling up between you. He’d ordered pasta with seafood; you went for something cheesy and comforting, the kind of meal you wouldn’t have let yourself enjoy a few years ago.
“God, that smells amazing,” he said, leaning forward a little.
“It does,” you agreed. “If I end up finishing all of it, please don’t judge me.”
He looked up, eyes soft. “Only if you judge me back.”
You grinned. “Deal.”
The first few bites were quiet, not awkward quiet, just that easy kind of silence that happens when food’s too good to interrupt. Every now and then, your knees brushed under the table. Each time it happened, both of you froze for a second, smiled shyly, and kept talking like nothing happened.
“So,” you said, swirling your fork, “be honest, are all pilots secretly adrenaline junkies, or are you the chill exception?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Used to be. Not anymore. These days I prefer things that don’t require me to risk my neck or any other parts of my body.”
You tilted your head. “Like?”
He smiled. “Coffee. Naps. Trying to keep my kid from drawing on the walls. I’m basically an eighty-year-old man trapped in a helicopter pilot’s body.”
You snorted. “Oh no, you’re one of those guys who calls nine p.m. ‘late,’ aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he said, laughing. “Unless you count being up at three because Marisol had a nightmare. Then I’m technically nocturnal.”
“That’s different. Parenting doesn’t count.”
“Still feels like it should be mentioned,” he said with a mock sigh, twirling his fork. “I’ve got more gray hairs than my dad now.”
“Maybe it’s the hat,” you teased, and he grinned at the callback.
“Probably is. Hides my suffering.”
You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt again. You hadn’t expected it to be this easy. To feel this natural and it was almost too good to be true.
After dinner, you both lingered, neither of you quite ready to move. He told you about his favorite spots to fly over, how sunsets looked different from the cockpit. You told him about your dream of maybe opening your own little size inclusive boutique one day, something cozy and personal. He listened, chin propped in one hand, eyes steady on you like he was filing every word away for later.
When the waitress came to ask about dessert, he looked at you first. “You want to share something?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “Tiramisu?”
He smiled. “Perfect choice.”
You both laughed when you realized you were using the same spoon, shoulders brushing lightly across the small table. At one point, you made the mistake of glancing up and meeting his eyes mid-laugh and the air between you changed. Softer. Slower. Like something finally settling into place.
“Frankie,” you said, half-whisper, half-laugh, trying to break the tension.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got coffee on your lip.”
He wiped it quickly with the pad of his thumb, a little flustered. “Better?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
His breath caught for a second, and the way he looked at you made your stomach flip. You both went quiet again after that. Not because there was nothing to say, but because it felt like saying anything might break whatever was hanging between you.
He cleared his throat, glanced at his watch, and then back at you. “You, uh… want me to walk you out?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
As you stepped outside, the air had cooled, that faint edge of autumn lingering between breaths. The smell of petrichor still clung to the night — you must’ve missed a rain shower while you were inside. Your boots pattered softly against the damp concrete as you followed him toward his truck.
“Can I drive you home?” he asked, tentative but hopeful.
You blinked, surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for you. No one had ever done that before, and it caught you so off guard you couldn’t help teasing him.
“An old-school gentleman, huh? Maybe you really are eighty.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes as he closed your door before circling around to his side.
Inside, the truck smelled like him — coffee, something faintly sweet you couldn’t quite place. It was unmistakably a dad’s car: a few toys scattered on the floor, crumbs in the cup holder, a jacket half-folded in the backseat. You shifted, and the seat gave a sudden squeak. Looking down, your eyes widened in horror.
“Oh no,” you gasped, reaching under you to pull out a pink, sparkly pony with wings. “I think I just sat on—”
“—Glittersparkle,” he said solemnly. “Marisol would’ve cried for three days straight.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
He turned toward you, dead serious for two whole seconds before the grin cracked through. “I’m kidding. You’re fine. Pretty sure these things are immortal anyway.”
You laughed, handing him the toy, which looked comically small in his calloused hand. He tossed it casually into the backseat, still grinning.
“You don’t like Glittersparkle, do you?” you teased.
“I’m convinced she cursed my bloodline first,” he said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, please.”
“Ay, sir,” you replied with mock seriousness.
He glanced your way, cheeks coloring just the tiniest bit but he was smiling again, that quiet, shy kind of smile that made your chest ache.
The drive started in a soft kind of silence. Not uncomfortable, more like both of you were still processing that you’d actually done it. That the person who’d been living in your phone for weeks was sitting less than two feet away.
Rain tapped gently on the windshield now as he pulled out of the parking lot, wipers swaying lazily back and forth. The city lights slipped across his face in fleeting stripes of gold and shadow. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. The pictures hadn’t done him justice, not even close. You didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard not to when a man like him was sitting right beside you. Because of you. Talking, smiling, laughing like he wanted to be there. And that was the part that floored you most. Someone this marvelous was still looking at you like you belonged in the same frame.
He glanced your way when a familiar song played through the speakers, one you’d sent him days ago, you recognized quickly.
“You’re still listening to it,” you said, your voice light but touched with surprise.
He shrugged, one hand steady on the wheel before he upped the volume with the other. “Kinda grew on me.”
You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Guess I’m corrupting your playlists now.”
“Could be worse things,” he said softly.
Every so often, your eyes met — just quick little glances when the traffic lights painted the cabin in amber. You caught him looking once, and he didn’t even pretend to look away and your heart did somersaults.
When he pulled up in front of your building, he put the truck in park but didn’t move right away. The engine hummed low between you, clicking into cool.
“This was…” he started, then let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what to call it. Nice doesn’t feel like enough.”
You turned to face him fully. “It really doesn’t.”
His hand rested on the steering wheel for a moment longer before he turned toward you, hesitating. There was that nervous flicker in his eyes again, like he was trying to find the right words.
“Can I—” he stopped, cleared his throat, tried again, quieter this time. “Can I kiss you, would that be okay?”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t even trust your voice, so you just nodded to give him permission.
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His palm found your cheek, warm and steady, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw before he tilted forward. When your lips met, it felt like tiny fireworks — soft, unexpected, impossible to ignore. You laughed quietly into it when your teeth bumped, and he did too, the sound low and breathless between you.
When he finally drew back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, breath mingling in the quiet. His thumb slid gently up, brushing behind your ear in a touch so tender it made your heart ache.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Definitely worth it.”
He helped you out of the truck after that, waited until you were safely at the door before giving a small wave. You stood there for a moment, watching his taillights fade down the street, the ghost of his hand still warm on your cheek, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your lips.
When you slipped inside your apartment, your reflection in the hallway mirror was flushed, eyes brighter than they’d been in a long while. Lovesick, almost. You laughed softly at yourself in the mirror, shaking your head. Who would’ve thought that the insecure little girl you used to be would one day meet a man whose intentions were clear from the start? That for once, you didn’t need to smaller yourself to fit somewhere.
You were exactly where you deserved to be. Not hidden, not shrinking. Just beside him, in the soft safety of the light.
— summary: adrian is not in love with you. you are not in love with adrian. so why is he always waiting for you? and why do you always keep coming back to him?
— pairing: adrian chase x female!metahuman!reader
— word count: 3.5k
— warnings: based on episode 5!!! some angst (with fluff), adrian having an emotional breakdown, hurt and comfort, lovesick!adrian, jealous!adrian, reader is very very cool, unresolved feelings, emotions poorly communicated because both of them are a hot mess, friends to lovers-ish?, no use of y/n. it will probably turn into a mini-series because i would love to continue to develop their relationship!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
ᯓ♡ part one ── part two (coming soon)
Chris is gone. He has fucking walked out of this world. He has abandoned you. All of you. As if you were a bunch of disposable little toys.
The motherfucker had left a fucking letter and just vanished. A letter. Where were you? In the 1500s?
He hadn't even mentioned Adrian. Not once.
That's what had pissed you off the most. The drop that spilled the cup.
The fucking ungrateful bastard.
Adrian is the one who had truly been there for him, through thick and thin. He loves him, adores him. Long before he even revealed his identity, when they were just crime-fighting partners. Since then, Adrian has idolized Chris, possibly even much earlier.
And he had brushed him off as if his friendship, his loyalty, were not worth anything.
You were not worth anything.
You sigh as you fill the two coffee cups, counting to ten in your head so you don't just go to that other dimension and kick Chris's ass back here.
As you make your way to Adrian's room, you try to compose yourself. The last thing you want is for him to notice how much this situation is really affecting you.
He seems to be the most affected of all the team, at least by sight.
You can see it in his sunken eyes, in the way his shoulders slump, his gloomy face, his lips twisted into a small pout, sitting on the edge of his bed.
You hesitate a little before knocking on the door, which is wide open, as best you can, still holding both mugs.
You had been away from Evergreen for a couple of months on a mission you had been assigned: to hunt down a trace of alleged extraterrestrial origin. You don't really like being bossed around, but the payment was good, and you didn't have many other options. Besides, working with Luca, your dog, was way better than working with any other human being.
You were quite famous; you had carved out a good place for yourself among the nation's heroes.
Your skill was special and most definitely useful.
So, you were needed in Metropolis most of the time. You had a duty to the people, to goodness, even if you didn't particularly like it.
Your dog lunged at Adrian when you arrived at the house, after Leota called you in urgency, exclaiming that a code red situation had occurred.
Emilia, John, and Adrian were already reunited when you walked in.
“There must be something you can do,” Leota was saying to you, just after she had read aloud the letter Chris had left.
Everyone was looking at you, attentive and silent. As if somehow you held the answers they were searching for. As if with a snap of your fingers, Chris would appear at their side and everything would be solved.
“I'm sorry, Leo,” you apologized, and sitting next to you, Luca whined, rubbing his snout affectionately against the palm of your hand. “This is beyond what I know. I've never seen shit like this before.”
You were referring to what looked like a metallic purse that was closed on the small table in the center. Luca was now sniffing it curiously.
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking somewhat unconvinced. “But you see shit like this all the time, you specialize in extraterrestrial stuff, tracking down and solving shit, right?”
You nodded your head, sighing as you swipe a hand across your forehead, in defeat, “Yeah, but shit on this world, not on another planet, much less another dimension.”
Emilia looked at you with a countenance of frustration, squinting her eyes slightly. “Can't you just hunt him down and follow his tracks?”
“He's in another dimension, Em,” you replied, in a tone of voice exuding obviousness. “I can't just hop between parallel dimensions, that shit is big. Like, big big. Even for me.” Now everyone looked at you with disappointment, and even though you didn't want to say what was coming, you said it anyway. “Look, I know a guy. He could help us.”
“You're not going to drag one of your cape buddies into this,” Emilia cut you off immediately, already knowing where you were going with this.
You gaped, partly offended and partly irritated by the passive-aggressive tone of her voice.
“I could just text him, send him a photo of the alien purse,” you gestured to the bright metallic object on the coffee table. “Maybe he knows what to do. It's worth a shot.”
Leota flicked her gaze from you to Emilia and back again, finally catching on to who you were referring to. “Are you seriously considering texting Superman about this?”
Drag Superman into this? Seriously? Luca glared at you, tilting his head.
“Superman?” Adrian and John asked in unison.
Confronted with so many questions, you became overwhelmed and puffed out a sigh.
“No Superman, no Bird-Girl or fucking Green Lantern, no one else is getting involved in this. Or you're out too,” Emilia snapped back, ending the discussion. “We can't take the risk. It's already too dangerous with those pricks from A.R.G.U.S. sniffing up our asses.”
She was right and you knew it, that's why you shut your mouth and remained silent, giving yourself a moment to consider another option, which with each passing second became increasingly fewer.
“You know Superman?” Adrian asked you bluntly, and when you turned to look at him, his hand was gently caressing Luca's head, very opposite to the way his eyes held an uncharacteristic darkness. “Have you been with him all this time? Is that why you weren't coming back here?”
His brow is furrowed and his face is hard as stone. He's jealous.
After everything that's going on, he's jealous?
“What?” you stammered, incredulous that he was actually asking that, and thinking he was joking, but no, he remained serious, waiting for your answer. “No, he's just—”
“While we were here dealing with all this shit, you were fucking around with Superman?” Adrian interrupted you, accusingly. “Is that it?”
Luca stepped away from him and turned to look at you. Uh oh.
The others also fell silent, watching the little argument as if they were your fucking kids, holding their breath.
“Adrian,” you said slowly, “I'm not... I didn't—” You stopped, because the truth is messy and you don't want to hand it to him on a plate. “I had to complete a couple of missions with him, nothing more. He owes me a favor. That's it.”
Adrian's jaw worked. For a beat the hurt in his eyes flickers with something that could be betrayal, or fear, or both.
“You always say that,” he spat, then softer, “A couple of missions. You're always busy with a couple of missions.”
It's an accusation and a confession all rolled into one. You wanted to say you're sorry for leaving—the missions, the months—but that would be a different kind of truth, and it would taste like guilt, and you are not ready to be eaten by that tonight.
Leota, who has been folding and unfolding herself like a paper crane, snapped her fingers. “We're getting absolutely nowhere. Can we—please—focus? Chris left in a literal dimension-hopping Houdini move and you two are performing old married couple's argument. Not helpful.”
And after that, Adrian just stood up and stormed out of the room.
And now, there you are, standing there, waiting for him. For a sign.
Adrian hears the soft knock of your knuckles on the door and he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, even though he's not really there with you. He's far away. Lost in his own head, deep in his thoughts, negative thoughts, and negative emotions.
“Hey...” you say in a soft tone, still not stepping inside the room, not seeking to intrude on his space too much, not wanting to trespass on his space too much.
“Hey,” he says back, his voice hoarse y cortante, distante.
You raise both hands, showing him the two steaming cups of coffee. “I brought you coffee. With a little milk and three sugar cubes, just the way you like it.” You offer him a little smile, which looks more like a crooked and sad grimace. “Can I come in?”
Adrian nods his head, sniffing softly.
He can see that you are angry, upset, and sad. Your emotions are visible to him, but to others you carry that expressionless mask on your face. He is not very perceptive, but he has learned to read you over time, since his attention is usually on you. He knows when your face changes from calm to angry to sad. He knows you.
“Close the door,” he asks you in a soft whisper.
And you obey him, gently pushing the door shut behind you with your butt. For a moment, you think he left the door open just so you would see him, so you would come in, but you push the thought away.
“Here,” you say as you place the two cups on the nightstand next to the bed.
“I thought you'd go home,” he blurts out, just as you turn toward him.
Your brow furrows slightly as you take a seat beside him. From up close, you notice how heartbroken Adrian actually is. His eyes are teary, dull, and dark, his hands are in his lap, fingers fiddling with each other, in an effort to distract himself, probably.
“I'm not going anywhere, Adrian,” you answer, reassuring him, because you understand exactly what he's referring to. He doesn't want you to leave, he doesn't want you to abandon him.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers anyway, loudly, pleadingly. His eyes look at you and they beg. “I didn't mean to say all those things to you, I didn't mean to accuse you of anything. I'm s–so sorry—”
And without hesitation, he hugs you. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close to him, and he buries his face in your chest, closing his eyes tightly as he sobs silently.
He is sobbing.
You remain there in a moment of utter stillness, sitting next to him on the bed, stunned.
It's the first time you've seen him cry like that, so heartbreakingly.
Of course, Adrian has cried in your presence before. When he saw Coco for the first time. When the pet tarantula you had given him died—because it fell from a very high place. Or when he saw a bird that had been run over on the side of the road on his way to work and made a video call to you at that moment, you accompanied him throughout the little funeral he held for the bird.
But he's not usually an emotional guy. He's a fucking psychopath, for all you know.
He is different with you, though.
In your closeness, he is different. He gives you warm smiles, he gives you little drawings of birds that he thinks you will like, he personally makes you playlists, and he gets so happy every time you come back to Evergreen.
He gets along very well with Luca, too.
He's weird, has a strange smile, and is emotionally unavailable. His pettings are nice, though. He told you that once, wagging his tail contentedly as Adrian scratched his neck.
Adrian shows his emotional side because he trusts you.
You are special to him.
Your relationship is special. You connected with each other the moment you met a couple of years ago. When Chris introduced you.
Not only you are emotionally compatible, but you are also very good fighting-crime duo. You work perfectly together, even though you are two clear cosmic catastrophes. Somehow, you connect on a spiritual level. Like yin and yang.
It's clear that you like each other, hell, you're in love with each other. But neither of you dares to admit it.
“Adrian...” you whisper sadly, hugging him back. One of your hands rests on the back of his neck, soothingly stroking his hair.
“He didn't even...” His voice is cut off by a sob.
You rest your chin on his hair, hugging him tighter.
He appears... broken. As if he is releasing all the tears he has held back for years.
“I know,” you try to comfort him as best you can, speaking as softly as possible. “Chris always felt out of place, he made a lot of mistakes, a lot of bad things.” You cradle his face in both hands, gently wiping away the tears falling down his flushed cheeks beneath the fogged lenses of his glasses. He looks at you earnestly. “But that's no excuse for being a bad friend and leaving you here. He's not being himself. He believes what he's doing is right.”
Adrian just sits there for a couple of minutes, processing what you 're saying and merely looking at you in silence, with raw attention and love.
“Why wouldn't he tell me?” he asks, more to the universe than to you. “Why would he run away from us like this? Are we so irrelevant? Am I so disposable?”
“There's nothing wrong with you,” you are convinced of that, running your fingers over his cheeks, drying the tears that soak his skin. “He's the one acting like an asshole.” You sigh softly, and he closes his eyes as he feels your warm breath brush against his face. One of your hands then seeks his, and he squeezes it, not quite letting go or even willing to let you pull away. “I should have known. When Chris called me the other night, he sounded... lost and so weird.”
Adrian sniffles, his gaze fixed on your clasped hands. “Did he talk to you?”
“Just a little. He asked me when I would be back in Evergreen.” You snort a humorless laugh. “He knew that if I saw him, I would blow his dumb escape plan. Eagly would have told me everything.”
Adrian doesn't say anything for a while. He just sits there, staring vacantly at the floor, holding your hand as if he were clinging to the last part of himself that hasn't collapsed yet.
His thumb slowly caresses your knuckles, feeling the sensation of your skin against the pad of his fingertip. Before, he had been harshly rubbing his hands together, but now that he had your hand in his, he caressed it tenderly.
“Do y–you like him?” he asks after a silence, as if he needed to gather his courage to dare to do so, to formulate one of the many things that are going through his head, so fast that he doesn't have time to process even half of them.
And being that vulnerable, you can read absolutely every emotion that passes across his face. He's jealous, he's sad, he's insecure.
For a ridiculous second you think about answering with one of your characteristic remarks—something sarcastic and deflecting—but there's no room for that. Not now. Not with him pressed into you like this, palms cold and trembling, eyes searching your face like he can read the answer right through you if you don't bother saying it aloud.
You shift, so you're facing him more directly. “No. I don't like him that way. Not even close.”
He lifts his eyes, uncertain, red-rimmed, searching your face for any crack in your voice, any lie hiding between the syllables. But he finds no sign of untruth in your eyes, in your body, in your voice.
“I care about Chris, sure. He's been through a lot and I wanted him to see that he wasn't alone. But—” you let out a heavy sigh, your thumb brushing circles over the back of his hand, “—He's just my friend.”
You can see how he is hesitating again, doubting, discussing with himself whether to dare to ask you something else.
But if not now, when would it be?
“And Superman?”
The question hangs in the air.
You freeze for a second, because of course the question is sharp and precise, as if it had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He has been waiting to ask you.
“No,” you speak slowly, with a tiny smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. “Just missions. Work. Nothing else. Superman isn't my type, and besides, it would be ridiculous. He has a girlfriend and he's too prudish for my taste. Plus, I don't really have time for any of that.”
Adrian looks at you as if he wants to believe it and at the same time fears not doing so. There is that mixture of skepticism and hope in his expression that is so characteristic of him; he clings to your every word as if it were a lifeline.
“Then why do you always have someone else?” he mumbles, not accusingly, but brokenly, genuinely interested in knowing. “You seem to have a lot of super cool friends out there. I read about it in the news, everything you were doing there. But, you never have time for us... for me.”
You are motionless, unsure of what to say. There is a truth in his words that hits you with the force of a wave.
You have been busy, yes. You have been distant, yes.
And, while you were dealing with cosmic threats, extraterrestrial issues, and the burden of your own doom, Adrian Chase was right here in Evergreen, dealing with his own heartache and waiting for you. Always waiting for you.
The hand that isn't holding his rises and cradles his cheek, forcing him to look at you. His eyes, red and swollen, meet yours. And in his gaze, you can see a love so deep and so pure that it burns you.
“I'm sorry about that, Adrian,” you apologize honestly, your fingers caressing his cheek soothingly. “I may have been away, but that doesn't mean I didn't miss you or the others. It's my job, after all.”
Adrian blinks rapidly, like he's trying to process your words but they sting too much to land. His throat bobs, his lips part, and for once, he doesn't have a quick comeback.
“It's always your job,” he says finally, voice breaking at the edges. “And I get it, I do. You're amazing at what you do. You save the world while I...” His jaw tenses, “...while I stay here, behind.”
“Adrian—”
“No, let me finish.” His grip on your hand tightens as if to anchor himself. “Chris didn't even say goodbye to me, The others look at me as if I am some kind of freak, and you—” his eyes flick up to yours, raw and glimmering. “—you leave. And I wait. I wait every time. For everyone.”
He is trembling, trembling under the weight of words he's never dared to let out before.
You lean in closer, forehead nearly brushing his. “Adrian... I—” your voice breaks, overcome with emotion, “I came back, didn't I?”
“Until the next mission. Until Superman or one of your superhero friends calls you because they need you or whatever.” His laugh is humorless. “What if I need you too? How am I supposed to compete against that?”
That cuts deep because it's true. You don't even try to deny it this time. Instead, you slide your hand down his jaw, his neck, to his shoulder and pull him gently against you again, forcing him to feel the solidity of you, the warmth, the proof that you are here now.
“I can't promise you I won't leave again, because it is my duty,” you admit, voice low but steady. “But I can promise you one thing.”
Your words have an immediate effect on him, and hope glows within his eyes.
He breathes out softly, “W–what?”
“That no matter where I go... you're the one I come back to.” you speak from the heart. “Not Chris, or Leota, or whoever the fuck. It's you. You don't have to compete with anyone, because you have no competition. I only look at you, Adrian.”
For a second, he doesn't breathe. Like your words have short-circuited every thought he had spinning inside his head.
“You... look at me?” he asks carefully, like he's trying not to break the moment with his own disbelief.
You can't help but smile sadly at him. “Of course I do. You're impossible not to look at. You're loud, you're messy, you make me want to pull my hair out half the time—”
“Okay, rude,” he grumbles, pouting just enough that it almost makes you laugh.
“—and yet,” you continue, leaning just a little bit closer to him, “you're also the bravest, most loyal, most caring person I've ever met. You're the one I came back for. You're the one.”
Adrian swallows hard, his glasses slipping a little as his eyes blur again. He doesn't say anything this time, just lets out a shaky breath and leans into you, forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping yours like it's the only thing anchoring him.
Then he hugs you again, burying his face in your neck and leaning on you with all his weight and baggage and pain and love.
“Can you—” he stutters against the skin of your neck, “can you stay with me tonight? I don't want to be alone.”
“Of course, Ade,” you answer back without thinking too much about it, and the decision comes out smooth and natural, as if it had always been the only possible answer.
His body relaxes as soon as he hears it, as if all the tense strings he was carrying were suddenly released.
You hold him with the same devotion with which you calm a wounded animal; he feels fragile and real against you. You stroke his back slowly, carefully, as his breathing slows and his sobs turn into muffled whispers that gradually fade away.
He's quietly saying things against your skin, and you don't need to hear him to understand, no, because the words are spoken on your flesh.
Adrian speaks your name, mentions bringing Luca into the room, and is also overwhelmingly grateful to have you right there, for him. All for him. Not for the world, not for the people, not for some superheroes he will never meet.
“I'm right here,” you whisper, sealing the promise with a tender kiss on the top of his head. “I won't even complain about the sleepy babbling you do.”
Adrian purrs a low laugh that reaches your ears with relief; you can't imagine never hearing that sound again.
“I've been dreaming about you lately,” he says, and you can feel his lips tremble as he confesses the truth.
You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. You mentally pray that he won't hear it.
“If you moan my name just once, I'll kick you out of bed.”
He smirks against your shoulder, for the first time this whole evening. “I'll moan louder if you do that.”
Summary: Adrian Chase considers himself to be the luckiest guy in the world. After all, against all odds, he got you. And you’re amazing.
Unfortunately, this is something that is also noticed by many other people. Too many other people.
So he’s gonna have to make sure to keep you. To make sure you know that he is the only one for you. Even if his methods of doing so are a little…well, intense.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Smut (not too explicit but it’s there), Public sex, Possessive!Adrian, Our boy is an absolute freak, Obsessive!Adrian, Chris is kind of a tool but we know he means well, Mentions of violence, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: I am experiencing some kind of nightmare writers block, so let’s hope this drabble will break me out of it (or at the very least, knock some cobwebs loose and shake my brain back into place). This has been in my drafts forever, so I figured I’d polish it up and post it in honor of tonight’s episode! Also, every Adrian fic is just getting me closer and closer to writing smut. This freak is makin me freaky, what can I say. As always, please let me know what you think!!
-
Adrian Chase has been called many things. Psycho, weirdo, freak, crazy unhinged murderer, you name it. It doesn’t bother him. Never has. They’re all pretty much true, anyway.
He hasn’t ever considered himself to be…insecure, though.
And then he met you. And by some miracle, he got you. Out of anyone in the world, you chose him. No one ever really chooses him. He’s gotten used to it. He doesn’t really mind it. He doesn’t have emotions like other people do, so why would he?
But you. Fuck, you. You’re beautiful and deadly and you see every part of him and you fucking like it. You like him. He doesn’t mind when people get annoyed when he talks - he never really even notices it - but he does notice when you laugh at what he says, in the unfamiliar way of someone laughing with him rather than at him. You ask him questions, and you genuinely listen when he answers them. You don't tell him to shut up, or tell him to leave you alone. You just…like him. If that wasn’t amazing enough, you love him. You love him so much that you don’t even seem bothered or put off by how he’s absolutely fucking obsessed with you.
He’s not really a self-conscious person. He doesn’t think lowly of himself, or even that he doesn’t deserve you. It’s just that…well, you’re you. You’re too perfect to be fucking real, and he can’t help the niggling anxiety that something might go wrong and take you away from him. It isn’t insecurity as much as it is an overwhelming, burning possessiveness. He got you. You’re his. The idea of anything separating you from his life makes him want to be sick and kill someone at the same time.
“Dude, I still don’t know how you did it.” Chris is beside him at the bar, drink in hand, and Adrian’s eyes are on you. Where you’re playing darts with Economos in the corner, the thirty or so feet between you and him feeling like a thousand miles. You laugh at something the other man says, and Adrian just wants the bartender to bring over the next round of drinks so he can get back to you and drown in the sound of it.
“Huh?” He doesn’t stop looking at you. Tries to listen to Chris.
“I mean, she’s a fuckin’ ten, man. No offense, but I’m still pretty sure you must have found a genie or some shit to get her to go for you.”
That…gets to him, a little. He’s never been too bothered by Chris’s bluntness. And he knows that you’re beautiful. That you’re amazing in every way. But…he’s right. Why did you go for Adrian, of all people? Was it really some cosmic miracle? Some kind of mistake in the universe that might be righted at any moment?
He’s about to open his mouth to respond, eyes still locked on you so intensely that it might look creepy to anyone watching, when a stranger saunters up to you and his entire brain short-circuits.
It’s not the first time. It’s actually probably the millionth time, especially now that he’s so much more aware of it. The guy is in a button-down shirt, hair slicked back, and he looks a lot more put-together than Adrian does in his jeans and sneakers. He has a good jawline. Adrian should really work on his face exercises.
You smile politely at him, turn back to Economos, and the guy touches your shoulder and tries to talk to you again.
He’s pretty sure this guy must have committed some kind of crime in the past, right? Killed a guy or hit someone’s car or jaywalked or-
You brush the man off, gesture in Adrian’s direction, and he feels something flutter in his chest when he sees you mouth the word ‘boyfriend’.
The guy turns around. Looks at Adrian, who just looks at you and waves. You smile and wave back at him.
Slicked Back Hair Guy raises his eyebrows, and whatever he says when he turns to you has your smile sharpening like a knife, eyes going hard. You say something else, something that seems biting, and dismissively turn back to Economos.
And shit, this guy is totally in love with you already, isn’t he? How could anyone not be when they see you smile? Especially when it’s that dangerous one you gave him a second ago? The one with the promise of violence glinting in your eyes?
Adrian makes his way back over to you, sets both of your drinks down on a nearby table, and leans in to speak casually in your ear over the music and chatter in the bar.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”
And that’s how he gets you in the bathroom, on the counter by the sink, panting against your neck between sharp bites to your skin that he hopes leave marks for people like Slicked Back Hair Guy to see.
“Mine.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his own voice like this before. So low and hungry and demanding.
People have knocked. They’re complaining outside. He doesn’t care, and he’s busy making it his mission to ensure that you don’t care, either.
“Mine.” He says again, and your fingers are curled against the back of his jacket and your thighs are wrapped so tightly around his waist and this is what Nirvana must be like, isn’t it? You moaning his name in this tiny bar bathroom with his mouth on your skin and his hands on whatever part of your body he can reach and-
You try to cover your mouth with your hand, and his own whips out to catch it and press it against the mirror behind you, tangling his fingers with yours and swallowing the noises you make with his mouth instead. He wants to hear it. He wants everyone to hear you. To know that he’s the one making you feel like this.
When he finally gets you to scream his name, voice muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder and entire body trembling in that way he absolutely fucking loves, he grins against your throat, biting down one last time and whispering that word over and over like a prayer.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.”
-
“Oh, come on guys! You’re gonna get us banned from the bar.” Leota groans, as you try to fix your hair and Adrian smiles behind you like he just won a gold medal, arms around your waist as he shamelessly presses kisses to the side of your now-bruised neck.
“Sorry.” You don’t sound like you mean it, and he wonders if he might get away with taking you back to the bathroom for round two. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate, but when has he ever cared about anything like that? You’re still flushed. Your body is melting back against his. He thinks your legs might be shaking. He’ll make them shake more when he gets you back to your apartment, but he’s fighting the urge to do it now. He’s not exactly a patient man, especially when it comes to you. He doesn’t think he has it in him to wait.
He nuzzles into your neck. He can feel you smile as you press a kiss to the side of his head. That one word echoes through his mind again, nestling into his heart and solidifying itself as the absolute truth.
Mine.
-
It becomes a bit of a routine, after that.
You all go out to the bar again. Some guy in a very tight t-shirt tries to buy you a drink. Five minutes later, Adrian has you pressed up against the brick wall of the alley, your hands in his hair as he digs his nails and teeth into you like he can tattoo his name onto your skin if he just presses hard enough. Like he can get you to forget every other name you’ve ever heard if he can just make you scream his loud enough.
You go mini golfing. The employee offers to show you how to hit the ball with a flirtatious smile, and Adrian manages to get you beneath the windmill. This time, he does cover your mouth. Public sex is a crime, after all, even if his moral code when it comes to that particular law has become a little more loosey goosey over these past few months. Besides, if no one but him hears you, it’s not illegal. He’s pretty sure he read that somewhere.
He stops for gas, the guy behind the counter smiles at you for a few seconds too long, and Adrian pulls over in an abandoned parking lot and nearly drags you over the center console, lips crashing against yours hard and desperate enough for your teeth to knock together.
He’s never really been into sex, so to speak. He never sought out hookups, never really felt the overwhelming need for that kind of release. Sure, he’s been in threesomes with Chris, and he’s slept with a handful of people, but he’s never really been into it.
But with you, it’s different. He wants you all the fucking time. Even when he isn’t feeling insecure or nervous about other people trying to take you away from him. There have been days where he’ll barely let you leave the bed. Nights when you come home and he can’t even make it to the bedroom before he’s pressing you against the wall and ripping your clothes off with reckless abandon. To him, sex is a connection, and he craves that connection with you like it’s the only way to keep himself breathing.
So his libido, with you, is high. Yours is too. There’s no problem there.
But you do catch on to this new pattern pretty quickly.
You call him out on a Saturday night, when the team is out at a bar again and one too many other guys ignored Adrian’s existence to shoot their shot with you. You dismissed them all, sure, but each attempt made that possessive fire in his stomach burn a little hotter until he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. He pulled you into the hall leading to the kitchen, and he wasted no time lifting you off of your feet and kissing you hard enough to pull a noise of surprise from your throat, blunt nails digging into the backs of your thighs as he tried to press as close to you as humanly possible.
“Okay, okay.” You say, breaking the kiss, but your voice is breathless and he made it that way and maybe if he just bites at that part of your neck that makes you-
“Adrian. Stop.”
He pulls back immediately, glasses askew on his face, and you reach up to fix them like it’s instinct.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Is he holding you too hard? Should he put you down? Did he accidentally stab you with the knife in his pocket? Or his boner? Is that possible? He doesn’t-
“I’m okay. Breathe.” You kiss his cheek, and he leans helplessly back towards you, planning to kiss you again and finish what he started, but you raise your hand and cover his mouth with your palm.
“Dude, keep it in your pants.”
“Mmph.” He grunts against your hand, licking your palm until you remove it with a startled laugh.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, wiping your hand on his jacket sleeve with an affectionate, if not somewhat concerned, smile.
He frowns, genuinely confused by the question. “I wanna have sex, and you stopped me?”
You laugh again, shaking your head and wiggling a little until he sets you down. “Adrian, you’re trying to fuck me in a hallway. I can see people walking by like twenty feet away.”
“Do you wanna fuck in the bathroom?” He ducks his head back to your neck, kissing the spot below your ear that always makes you shiver. He would fuck you on the bar if you’d let him, but he’s pretty sure that would get you kicked out. Plus, it’s definitely illegal. He can’t exactly maneuver that law into a gray area.
“Adrian.”
“Mhm?”
“Is this because that guy hit on me a minute ago?”
That stops him. He finally pulls back, frowning. “No.”
“You suck at lying.”
“I’m not lying. I didn’t even notice that guy. If I had noticed him, I would say his shirt was stupid. But I didn’t notice him.”
“Adrian.”
“I mean, it’s not like you’d ever wanna be with anyone like that, right? Not someone with a shirt that dumb. Even though he had a better jawline than me and he definitely didn’t skip arm day. I think that’s why his shirt was so stupid. Cause the sleeves were too short. He doesn’t need to show off his muscles like that.”
“Babe.”
“I mean, I have muscles too. I just can’t show them off because if I did people might realize my secret identity. But-“
“Adrian.”
“Yeah?” He blinks at you, distracted.
“I don’t want that guy. Or any of the other guys. I want you.”
“Yeah, because we had sex right after they hit on you. I rewired your brain with my dick.”
You laugh. God, he loves that sound. But if he’s gonna keep you, he’s gotta get you to make the other sounds he loves. He leans down to kiss you again, and you lean back. “Have you been taking advice from Chris again?”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Do you think those guys would still want me if they knew I killed a guy with a broom handle last week?”
Oh man, why would you say that? Now he’s twice as turned on and three times as nervous about losing you. “Yes.”
“Okay, they wouldn’t.” You’re smiling. Why are you smiling? He can’t possibly be being ridiculous, here. In his mind, his fear is completely fucking rational. “And even if they did, I want you.”
He knows that. Of course he knows that. You’re with him. You chose him. You don’t lie to him. You never have. Still, he feels that knot of possessive need curl in his gut again, making his grip tighten a little on your waist like he can hold you there forever. “Promise?”
“I promise.” You lean up, kiss his nose. “And by the way, you’re way hotter than those guys. By a mile.”
“Even the-“
“Yeah. Even him.”
“You didn’t even let me say which one.”
“Don’t need to.”
He smiles, and this time you don’t stop him when he kisses you. This time, you melt into it until his hands are wandering again and his tongue is sweeping into your mouth.
“You wanna go home?” He asks after a moment, unable to take his gaze off the way your lips are swollen from his kiss and your eyes are clouded over with want.
You nod, and he grins from ear to ear as he reaches down to hoist you up over his shoulder, delighting in the noise of surprise that melts into laughter as you wiggle against his back.
He doesn’t even say goodbye to the rest of the group, but he thinks he might feel you offer an embarrassed wave in their direction as he makes his way through the bar and out the door. They’re all staring. Lots of people are staring. He couldn’t give less of a shit. In fact, he wants them to stare more. To know without a doubt that you’re leaving with him.
“You’re fucking crazy.” You laugh as he steps out onto the street, voice no longer drowned out by the noise of the bar.
“Crazy for you.”
“Nope, pretty sure you’re just crazy.”
His smile widens, and he jostles you a little as he adjusts his grip, squeezing the backs of your thighs and making you laugh again.
And when he takes you home, he repeats that word into your skin over and over and over again.
—summary: everyone wants you, and you're way out of his league. adrian is fully aware of that. so, once again, he has to stand up for himself and compete (in his own mind) against superman and mr. terrific just because he thinks they're your work-husbands.
—pairing: adrian chase x female!metahuman!reader
—word count: 5k (wow)
—content: pure fluff, smitten!adrian, slightly ooc!adrian, sunshine!reader, adrian is jealous of superman and mr terrific😌, a lot (lot) of yearning, friends to lovers, love confessions, rage baiting adrian into confessing to you, you are adrian's person, justice gang mentions!, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that, bad language, sexual references but nothing explicit.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
You were someone important. Very important. And very special. Extremely so.
Adrian knew it. From the moment he first saw you. You were the only one of the big guys who showed up on time and actually helped them with the whole Butterfly mess.
Months had passed since then.
You lived in the great Metropolis, there, you stuck close to the Justice Gang— a name you absolutely disliked, in fact. Guy had practically begged you to join them (secretly, since he had told everyone else that you had been the one to beg him), exclaiming that you would be the perfect addition to the team.
People already loved you, and you had earned a good place among the world's protectors. It was only logical that you would encounter them.
And yet, through all that, you still kept in touch with the 11th Street Kids.
John would send you selfies sometimes from his tiny office at A.R.G.U.S.. Leota would send you voice messages every other day, updating you on her life and asking for love advice—as if you were the bearer of truth. Emilia would text you as well, recounting how many men she had beaten up recently. Chris would send you photos of Eagly from time to time.
And Adrian... Adrian talked to you every day, constantly. He would also call you, videocall you, chattering about some bird he spotted on his way to work, storytelling about some criminal gang he had crushed, occasionally asking you to lend him some money, and invariably expressing how much he missed you.
You had seen each other exactly eight times, not counting the first time you met. Sometimes you'd traveled to Evergreen to see him, and other times he'd traveled to Metropolis (in your private jet, all in your courtesy, of course).
He is very special to you.
And just like him, your relationship is special. You don't have any sort of label, nor any set boundaries, but there's always that heavy tension hanging in the air when you're alone with him, that... complicity.
You two would be chatting for hours and hours about manta rays or owls or spiders.
And you would listen. You would just sit there all pretty, gazing at him with soft eyes and a gentle smile, asking him with sincere interest about his favorite spider.
“You're my favorite person in the world, by the way,” he would blurt out, gazing at you with big, sparkly eyes and a all soft smile on his lips. His fingers caress yours with the utmost tenderness.
“In the whole world?” you would raise an eyebrow, using a tone of voice that borders on teasing. “What about Peacemaker?”
“Pff,” Adrian puffs out his lips, gesturing dismissively with his other hand. “Peacemaker is super cool, but you're like— incomparable, leagues way above him. You're way out of my league, even.”
His face swoons with sheer love when he earns a sweet kiss on the cheek from you.
Everyone believes that, very firmly. That you're all out of his league. You're a baddie— very self-confident, outrageously gorgeous, a fucking badass. And then there's Adrian. With his silly self, his nerdy glasses, his weird behavior, and his psychopathic tendencies.
You like him, though. More than you would like to admit, even.
Because he understands you, he understands that you're more than just beautiful and confident, more than a hero. You're a true one, though. One of the good ones. The kind of who's been written about in newspapers, whose name trends online whenever you make an appearance, whose face is printed on posters that kids pin on their bedroom walls. People stop in their tracks when they see you, fans scream your name, and strangers dream about you with a kind of hungry devotion.
To the world, you're untouchable, a fucking sun, something they crave but can never have. Adrian empathize with them in that case. Because he's just another planet orbiting around you.
To the people, you're a legend. To Adrian, you're heaven, his favorite girl.
“Now, I need to know if you and that Green Lantern guy have hooked up.” Economos asks after taking a long swig from his beer bottle, pointing at you accusingly.
You had invited them to your penthouse, and luckily you all had that one weekend off, so you suggested they come visit you in Metropolis. Which they did—traveling on your own jet, by the way.
Everyone had brought small gifts for you, though. Adrian had brought homemade cookies, those ones you loved so much.
You're munching on one of them while chatting with the guys, all of whom are very comfortable and well settled in your penthouse.
Leota wrinkles her nose, grimacing in disgust as she pops open another beer bottle, “Ew, dude. You don't ask that.”
Economos raises both hands to wave for peace, “What? That's what I read he said in a Twitter thread.”
“He said that?” You raise an eyebrow, wondering in disbelief. You were definitely going to scold Guy for that.
“He's a fucking arrogant jackass for all I know,” Chris adds before taking another sip of his beer. “Like, genuinely dumb.”
“Honestly, I thought you were fucking Superman. I mean, if I were you, I totally would.” Economos shrugs, nodding his head in an approval with himself.
Adrian, who until now seemed to be entertaining himself by looking at you as if you were his favorite thing in the whole world, turns toward him with narrowed eyes.
“Dude,” Leota reprimands him once more, her voice disapproving.
“His eyes and hair are dreamy,” he blurts out in his defense.
Emilia rolls her eyes. “Sure, because his eyes and hair are all you look at, you pervert.”
You snort, shaking your head, a little bit confused by the chosen topic and his choice of words. “You're spending too much time on the Internet, John.”
Leota is reflective, letting out a sluggish chuckle, “No, actually, you two would look cute together.”
Now Adrian is pouting, looking at her with a dejected expression with a mixture of emotions that you can't quite identify.
“He's a dickhead.” Chris denies with his head, in deseagreement with the topic discussed.
“Yeah.” Adrian agrees with him, because of course he agrees with Peacemaker.
“You both represent the same thing, I suppose,” Emilia reflects, perhaps too drunk to just ignore the stupidity everyone is talking about. “You bring hope and serve humanity.”
“Okay, that oversimplifies what I do,” you retort, rolling your eyes, totally offended. “I'm not fucking him. I'm not fucking anyone.”
“Yeah, right.” John snorts incredulously, “So it's the cyborg that controls those creepy circles, then.”
“They're not circles, they're spheres,” you correct him with full seriousness, slightly aggravated. “And he's not a cyborg.”
Adrian definitely doesn't like the way you talk about the man. In fact, he doesn't like you to talk about any man.
“Sure, because you know him so well.” John tries to fucking ragebait you once again, smiling like an idiot.
“I'm going to the bathroom— I think I'm gonna throw up,” Adrian mutters unenthusiasticallyinterrupting the stupid conversation.
Then, he promptly turns around and walks away, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.
You stare after him in total silence, until Leota gives you a little nudge, making a silly face and gesturing towards the hallway, encouraging you to follow him.
And you do.
“He actually got jealous, holy shit, I can't believe it worked,” you catch John's words as you are walking across the hallway.
Then you hear Leota whisper-exclaim “shh!”, followed by a small thump and an “ow!” from John.
“She can hear you, you idiot,” Chris scolds him in an obvious tone.
All of that makes you roll your eyes.
They were truly ragebaiting not you, but Adrian.
When you eventually reach the end of the hallway, the music and chatter of the others sound like a distant echo. You knock on the door softly, and just as you are about to knock for the third time, it swings open abruptly, revealing an Adrian with fogged-up glasses and a flushed, sheepish face.
“Hey,” you greet him in a soft whisper, looking up at him with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Hey...” he greets you back in the same tone, as if everything were a big secret. It is, in a way. “Y-yeah, I just felt a little dizzy— the beers.” He shakes his head dismissively, his curls swaying with the movement. His smile twists for just a moment into an awkward grimace. “I think I had too much.”
He opens the bathroom door for you, wiping his sweaty forehead as he closes it behind you. You notice how sweaty he really is in that moment.
And so, you reach for a hand towel from one of the cabinets, and he instantly understands what you want to do. And he allows you to do it, leaning back against the sink vanity, placing his hands on the edge of it at each side of his body to support his weight—and to squeeze it, since your scent and warmth and closeness are so overwhelming.
“Yeah, you stink of beer,” you murmur with amusement as you carefully run the hand towel over his cheeks, wiping away the traces of sweat.
“I think I had too much to drink,” he repeats as he raises his eyebrows, and with the movement, his glasses slip slightly down the bridge of his nose. You're quicker than him to adjust them, and that makes him smile and blush like a teenager in love.
He's drunk, yes, but there's no clumsiness or uncertainty in his eyes: there's desire, there's devotion. There's love.
“Your hands are so warm and soft...” his voice breaks a little; the alcohol has loosened his tongue. Although love has softened him all over. You have softened him all over. And now he is cracking down for you. “Feels nice...”
Touch.
You know that's important to him. You know this is important to him. He doesn't let anyone else touch him, hug him, hold him. Only you. And that basically tells you everything about how he feels about you. It's real.
Adrian hates it when other humans touch him. And even fiercer, he hates skin-to-skin contact.
But Adrian adores you. More than anything else in the world.
And against who he is essentially, contrary to his soul's nature, he absolutely adores being touched by you, and he loves touching you. He cherishes your skin, every inch of your body. Oh, believe it, if he could merge his skin with yours, he certainly would.
He couldn't possibly envision a world where he's not there, right by your side, holding your hand, fiddling with your fingers, caressing your hair, your face, all of you.
Adrian had always thought that his purpose in life was to be a vigilante, to put an end to evil, to bad people—most of them, anyway. But no, he had been wrong all along, because his purpose was truly you. To be there for you. To love you. To be yours.
“Yeah?” you hum and smile, biting your lower lip.
“Mhm,” he hums contentedly, although that joy doesn't quite reach his eyes. Something is bothering him, a quiet voice rustling in the back of his head.
“Are you okay?” you ask again, taking your eyes off the side of his face where you're running the towel so you can look at him directly. His eyes are already on you, of course. In awe. “Your heart is beating really fast, Adrian.”
You can hear it. Beating at a wild, racing pace.
You graze the edge of his glasses with your fingertips before carefully removing them. Adrian blinks, somewhat vulnerable without them, but there is no trace of doubt in the intense sparkle of his eyes: there is only you.
“Why does everyone have to want you?” he asks in a whiny, quiet voice, seemingly struggling to hold your gaze. “Everyone wants you. Everyone talks about you. All the time. I read what they say about you.”
You hold back a little smile that threatens to tug at the corners of your lips as you look at his pouty face. “What do they say?”
He shifts his gaze to the floor for a moment, clenching his jaw, perhaps remembering the comments he read online from people talking about you.
“Things... very inappropriate,” he finally responds, looking back at you. “Very off limits.”
“Well, I'm a public figure, Adrian, very public.” You sigh softly, raising your hand to gently wipe his forehead with the towel, drying the remaining drops of sweat. “I knew what I was getting into when I started all this.”
“That's doesn't make it right,” he mutters, frowning slightly. “You save them, every day. You risk your life for them. For all of us.” His thumb brushes against your thigh as he reaches out to you once more, longingly. “And this is how they repay you? By turning you into some kind of sex symbol?”
You raise your eyebrows, pulling your hand and the towel away from his face, looking at him, unimpressed, “Sex symbol?”
He is nodding with his head, huffing lightly, very sarcastically, “I'm sure you discuss this with Superman or Mr. Terrific.” Oh, he is jealous. “They talk about you with them all the fucking time. How great of a duo you are when you're with one of them. They are good partners for you.”
He pronounces the names with suspicion and disgust, and that makes you chuckle softly. He looks at you as if you were committing a crime.
You're making fun of him. You never make fun of him. You're one of the few people who doesn't—the only one who never does.
You snort, shaking your head, both confused and slightly offended, “What is that supposed to mean?”
You know exactly what he means, though.
“Well, you spend more time with them, after all. They're like your–your work-husbands,” he cringes, unleashing his tongue and just going with what he feels in the moment, which is an tsunami of emotions that has been building up for months. “And I... I'm Adrian, and I live miles away from you, in a small shitty town where the most scandalous thing that happens is some stupid fucking guy spray-painting graffiti on a wall that doesn't belong to him.”
His drunken confession—but a confession nonetheless—sinks into you like a deeper heartbeat.
Your heart skips a beat and your lips part, not really knowing what to say for a few long seconds.
He is staring at you, vulnerability blazing in his eyes, his fingers tapping eagerly against the ceramic of the sink vanity.
“I'm here,” you tell him, you assure him. “I'm with you. Just you.”
Something breaks in his face then— not in a bad way, but in a way that softens him completely. His voice comes out smaller, almost like a child's.
“I know... I know you do. It's just— sometimes I feel like a raccoon who found the most beautiful shiny thing in the world, and the whole forest wants to take it away from him.”
You can't help a little laugh at the analogy, even though your heart squeezes at his honesty.
“I think you're drunk, Adrian,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.
Adrian smiles sheepishly too, with that mixture of tenderness and awkwardness that melts your heart. But when he feels your hands on his skin, his eyelids close slightly, as if each caress were a luxury reserved only for him, and he leans closer to your touch.
“I'm drunk, y–yeah,” he admits softly, brushing your palm with his cheek, like a cat purring and demanding affection. “But I'm also... very, very aware of what I want right now.”
The heat emanating from his body envelops yours. You feel his fingers slide down the curve of your waist, so slowly that you have time to notice how your skin ripples along every inch.
He continues to slide one hand down your side, brushing against the fabric of your shirt, stopping just before the edge, playing with the boundary. His breathing quickens a little more.
There's no rush. The silence in the bathroom is intimate, heavy with complicity. The distance between his lips and yours is almost non-existent; you can feel his warm breath, mixed with beer and something sweeter that is uniquely him.
Adrian slides a hand up to your neck, caressing the line of your jaw with his thumb, slowly, reverently. His lips finally brush against yours, just a touch, an electric brush that lingers long enough to make you tremble.
“Can I kiss you?” he gently inquires in a whisper that his tongue slurs. His eyes, filled with affection, disconnect from yours to gaze at your lips, darkened by love and desire. “Please...”
Your hands, which until now had only been holding the towel, remain still for a second on his chest. Under your palms, you feel the irregular beating of his heart, fast and intense, like a drum that draws you in.
You smile against his mouth, responding in a voice that trembles with anticipation, “Yes, please, Adrian—”
His mouth breathes in his own name.
The kiss that follows is neither clumsy nor rushed; it is slow, deep, charged with everything that needs no words. One of his hands attaches itself to your face and the other comes to rest on yours on his chest, pressing it gently against his heart, making you feel his rapid beat, making you feel the effect you have on him. That you still hold. After all this time.
When he finally pulls away, just a few inches, his breath hits yours.
Adrian chuckles sheepishly after the kiss, burying his face in your neck like he's trying to hide how much you affect him and also how he's blushing. His warm breath tickles your skin, and you can't help but smile too, running one of your hands up his back, scraping your nails across his shoulder blades.
His body visually and physically reacts to your touch, trembling slightly under your hands, like jelly.
His voice drags out in a hoarse whisper, pressed against your neck, his words slurring into your skin. “I think you're my soulmate. Like, in the swan-soulmate way.”
The towel slips from your hands, forgotten, as Adrian tilts his head to seek your mouth again. The kiss is different now: hungrier, more needy. His lower lip trembles slightly against yours before gently capturing it, then with firmer pressure that draws a sigh from you.
You tilt his chin up with your fingers, forcing his hazy eyes to meet yours. Even drunk, even flushed and trembling, Adrian's gaze is a mirror of devotion.
“You're so weird,” you breath out, giggling softly. You don't say it in a negative way, no, but rather in a way that speaks of admiration and love.
At that, he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent, and averts his gaze from yours.
“Hey...” you murmur, your voice low and steady, almost a lullaby. “Look at me, Adrian.”
He hesitates, then lifts his head slowly. His eyes are glassy—not just from the alcohol—but from the storm of emotion swirling behind them. His mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but he just swallows hard instead.
“No one has me but you,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. “You're not 'just' Adrian,” you keep talking, very softly and sweetly. “I'm here because I choose you. I really like you, not because of your suit or your glasses or the type of guns you use, but because it's you. Because you're Adrian. My Adrian.”
His breath hitches. The blush on his cheeks deepens, and something vulnerable flickers across his face.
And then, he tilts forward and kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.
When you detach yourselves from each other's mouths, you carefully put his glasses back on, and he blinks leisurely, taking in the gorgeous scene in front of him, which is you.
“I get so fucking jealous every fucking time I see you with them—with anyone who isn't me...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. You don’t let him.
Your lips press against his once more, quieting every insecurity, every tremor of doubt still lingering in his chest. And this time, he melts. Completely. His hands find your waist, grounding himself in your warmth, your reality.
He pulls you close to him, impossibly close, so close that you can actually feel his flesh pressing against yours, his muscles, the beating of his heart, becoming one with yours.
When you part, his forehead rests against yours.
The bathroom light flickers softly, reflecting on the edges of his glasses. Perhaps it's an effect of your power, twinkling in your veins, in each of your breaths, in each beat of your heart. But no, it's the effect he has on you.
“You don’t have to be jealous,” you whisper, fingertips brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “You already have me, Adrian.”
He laughs quietly, that broken, boyish kind of laugh that sounds like relief. “You say that like you don’t know how impossible that sounds.”
You smile at him, that smile that ruins him in all the best ways. “Maybe. But it’s true.”
He studies your face like it’s something sacred, like he’s afraid to blink and lose the memory of it.
“You know what’s crazy?” he murmurs, voice quiet, like he’s afraid of scaring the moment off. “I don't think I could be with anyone else. It's only you. It's always been you. So, I think I’d still find you. In another life. If there’s a hundred worlds out there, I’ll find you in all of them.”
Your laughter softens into something quieter, more tender. “You already did.” You lean in to kiss his cheek affectionately, but he turns his face just in time, kissing your lips instead. “Come on, the others will be wondering why we're taking so long.”
“They'll think I fucked you, something I'm totally fine with, by the way,” he jokes, puffing out a giggle.
And then, he follows you— because of course he does. Still holding your hand, his arm sneaks around your waist as you both head toward the door. His thumb rubs slow circles on your hip, like he can’t quite bring himself to stop touching you.
And then you open the door.
The hallaway falls completely silent.
Leota, John, Emilia, and Chris are all there — waiting, frozen mid-conversation, all holding drinks or snacks like they’ve been standing there for a while.
The silence stretches for one glorious, painful second.
Then Chris raises an eyebrow. “Well. Took you long enough.”
Emilia crosses her arms, smirking. “Told you they’d make out before midnight.”
John turns to her, groaning, before giving you both a mean look. “Ugh, seriously? You horndogs couldn’t wait five more minutes?”
Leota bites her lip, trying so hard not to laugh, and then looks at Economos. “Pay up.”
John groans, digging into his pocket. “You said next week! That doesn’t count!”
“Dude,” Chris says, pointing at Adrian basically hugging you from behind, at both of your very obvious post-make-out faces — “that definitely counts.”
Adrian just blinks, confused and still a little tipsy as he interrupts them. “Wait— were you guys betting on us?”
“Obviously,” Emilia deadpans, sipping her drink. “It was painfully obvious, Vig.”
Adrian gasps, genuinely offended. “Obvious?! I was so subtle!”
Chris snorts, nearly choking on his beer. “Yeah, man, nothing says subtle like calling her your soulmate after two beers.”
Emilia shrugs, already walking back toward the living room. “Please. You two have been making heart eyes since John's christmas party.”
Leota winks at you as she follows. “We’re just glad you finally admitted it.”
Economos mutters something about being “robbed” while he hands Leota a crumpled ten.
Adrian is blushing so much.
And he blushes even more when you kiss him once again.
summary: a boring day at work takes an unexpected turn after chris is calling you for help (and to buy him a door). evidently, you knew exactly who to call to join you on the task
pairing: adrian chase x fem!reader
word count: 7.3k
tags: no smut but the whole series is intended for 18+ folks only!!!, fluff (they're more established now yay), anxious!reader, kissing, this was very experimental to sort of include the plot of the show, not proofread
note: part four people!!! omg i seriously can't thank you guys enough for all the love this series is receiving, it means so so much to me <3
part one | part two | part three
a comment and/or reblog is always appreciated!
main masterlist | dc masterlist
You hate working. Actually, no, that’s only partially true. You loved working at A.R.G.U.S. before getting blacklisted. Not only were you good at what you did, but you absolutely loved it. Every single aspect of it. You really couldn’t picture yourself doing anything else.
Ten whole years. That’s the amount of time you were working there. It became your entire personality at one point, and there was a time where you really thought that you could become the next Amanda Waller in the future (although waaaaay less insufferable). And it’s not like it was so far fetched– many of your superiors thought you had what it takes to achieve that. Discipline, skills, ambition. It wasn’t such an unreachable goal.
But now you’ll never know what could’ve been. All because your former boss is a crazy bitch that holds a grudge against you.
So now, you have jobs that you absolutely despise. Like having to explain to a lady at the register that no, she can’t order a thing that doesn’t exist on the menu. Or having to wait for that same lady to make up her fucking mind on what coffee order she wants before you have to remind her again that the only choices she has are the ones on the screens hanging right behind you.
Maybe once your manager decides to spare you from the register duties to finally let you venture in the arts of coffee-prep, you’d be a lot more happy with the decision of applying for this job. In the meantime, it’s hell on Earth. With so many insufferable customers and only half an hour to eat your lunch, you can’t help but miss being punched in the face by dudes twice your size before you get your chance to stab them to death.
At least you were lucky enough to land yourself only a part-time job.
By the time you return home from the nightmare of interacting with customers for six hours, you barely have any time to relax in your apartment before having to go back downstairs to your neighbour’s apartment– a painfully nice old lady that occasionally contacts you to look after her two dogs when she has to go out.
Now this job you don’t hate that much. The two little dogs are actually adorable and very easy to take care of. All you have to do is put food on their plate, make sure they have enough water, and leave the balcony door open for them if they need to go to the bathroom. The rest of the time, they’re cuddling next to you on the couch while you scroll through your phone.
It's then that Chris calls you. Like many times before, you think this has to do with your therapy sessions, so you immediately pick up. “Hey, what's–”
“I need your help! This is important!”
“What?” Evidently confused and worried, you sit up on the couch, making the two sleepy dogs shift slightly before drifting off immediately. “What happened? Where are you?”
“Fucking A.R.G.U.S. showed up at my house! They wanted the portal.”
“Holy shit. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah...I guess. I was able to escape before they got to me.”
“So…does that mean you didn't give them the portal?”
“Why would I give them the portal? No way. I’m moving it somewhere else where they can't find it. I’m with Ads driving there right now.”
“Hiiiii,” you faintly hear Adebayo’s voice on the other line.
“Chris, I'm being completely honest with you. I think you need to hand that shit over and avoid any more trouble,” you insist, hearing him sigh on the other line. “You are aware that Flag Sr. is the head of A.R.G.U.S., right? I doubt he's exclusively interested in the portal.”
“I know, I know. But they still technically don't have any proof that I have an interdimensional portal, so I’m all clear.”
“I don't think that's the case if they're ready to storm into your house like that. I think–”
“I can't have you lecturing me right now! I barely made it out of there and that– that fucking karate-freak piece of shit was following me! I really need a break, okay?”
You sigh, mindlessly petting one of the dog’s heads in search of immediate comfort after finding out the critical situation your friend is in right now– which obviously means that you are in a critical situation, because there’s no way you’re not going to try to help him. “What do you need?”
“I need you to buy me a door.”
“A door?”
“Yes, a door. Just a regular door. And some hinges.”
“Why would– okay. Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks! I gotta go but I’ll see you soon, okay? I'll send you my location.”
“Wait. You want me to be there now?”
“No, just get here whenever,” he replies, just as you hear him stepping out of the car before he starts running. “I’ll explain everything better when you get here! Bye!”
And then he just hangs up. Staring at your phone in confusion, you wonder just how much trouble you’ll get in thanks to Chris’ stupid portal. At least it's somewhat comforting to know that you’re not potentially putting your job at risk now that you're permanently blocked from every Intelligence Service in the world.
Fuck Amanda Waller.
The dog you were petting suddenly jumps off the couch, stretching just a little before walking towards the window. You stand up as soon as you hear her scratching the glass, realizing just then that the balcony window is closed.
“Shit! Not again,” you hurriedly whisper, opening the door for her to go out. Last time that happened, one of them peed about two gallons of liquid all over the floor, immediately having to clean it before it could reach the rug.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Your neighbour got back after about an hour since your phone call with Chris, and although you would’ve loved to accept her invitation to stay over to try some of the pastries she bought on her way back, you really should get going to take care of the little task that was assigned to you earlier.
The two dogs wag their tails at you as you’re saying your goodbyes to them, eagerly wanting you to keep petting them until you’re standing at the front door of the apartment and their owner is trying to grab them so you could leave without risking either of them escaping.
As soon as you’re in the hallway, you put your phone out of your pocket to make a quick call, heading towards the staircase to get to your floor.
“Hey, beautiful!” Adrian greets you as soon as he picks up. “What's up?”
“Hey, handsome,” you greet him back with a soft grin on your lips. “Are you busy right now?”
“For you, never. Well, unless maybe when I’m working, because I’m pretty sure I’ll get fired if I try to leave before my shift ends. But even then, I mean…you're still the top priority."
“Does that mean you’re busy or available?”
“Extremely available. Why, you want to hang out?”
“Chris needs our help. A.R.G.U.S. knows about his stupid portal and they’re going after him.”
“What? Where is he now? Is he okay? What happened? How many weapons do we need?”
“Alright, slow down. Those are way too many questions.” Standing in front of your apartment door, you get your keys out of the pocket of your jacket to unlock it. “I have no idea where he is, but he was supposed to send me his location, so maybe he’ll text me when I tell him we’re on our way. And he’s okay. No weapons needed as far as I’m aware.”
“Okay, and you’re at your place now?” you could hear how rushed his voice is, like he’s getting ready to get out of his house as soon as this phone call ends.
“Yeah.”
“I can pick you up in like five minutes.”
“Alright. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Walking inside your apartment, you leave the tupperware your neighbor insisted on giving you with one of the pastries inside the fridge and grab your phone charger to use it in the car, not wanting to end up with zero battery after hours of scrolling through your phone.
You only have to wait like a minute on the sidewalk outside your apartment before you see Adrian’s car approaching. “Helloooo!” he greets you as soon as he pulls up in front of you, the usual grin on his face that you like so much adorning his lips.
As soon as you get inside the car, he's leaning over to the passenger seat and your brain barely registers the way you immediately lean in to give him a peck on the lips. “You know, I'm absolutely obsessed with your kisses,” he mutters, almost in awe of you. “Can I have another one, please?”
The request makes your stomach flutter, pressing your lips against his again. This time it lasts a little longer, but you force yourself to pull away before getting too carried away.
Seemingly satisfied, he rests back against the driver's seat. “How was your day?”
You look out the window as he drives away from your building. “Not that great. How was yours?”
“What do you mean ‘not that great’?” He doesn't even bother to answer your question, much more interested in that other part of your sentence.
“Well, I absolutely hate my job. I don’t really like attending customers. About ninety percent of them are either stupid or rude.”
“Ugh, tell me about it,” he empathizes with the sentiment. “Although I don’t care much about the customers. My coworkers are a lot worse. There’s this one guy, Dave– biggest asshole ever! He thinks he’s so cool after getting a promotion.”
“Luckily my coworkers are nice enough.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure a coffee shop smells a lot nicer than a grill covered in burnt grease. And the bathrooms are probably a lot cleaner too.”
You can’t help but scrunch your nose in disgust at the thought of that. “Yeah, probably.”
“Well, either way, I’m sorry you had such a shitty day. But at least you're with me now, which means I’ll make sure what's left of your day only gets better and better!”
His words bring an instant smile to your face. “I kinda feel a lot better already.”
It's actually scary just how truthful that statement is. Your mood changed almost as soon as you locked eyes with him when you were walking towards the car. Like his presence alone was enough to make you feel better.
How did this even happen? He used to be Christopher Smith’s weird friend that liked to randomly show up to annoy the living shit out of everyone. Then, you slowly started to address him as Vigilante (or Adrian, because everyone already knew who he was at that point despite he still tried to act like his identity was top secret information), until he eventually became ‘just your weird friend Adrian’.
Back then, you would've never been able to predict you'd be here– in his car, kissing him, feeling so incredibly at peace in his presence. If your past self were to hear everything that's been going on, she'd probably think it's some kind of joke.
But no. It's actually real. You really are somewhat dating Christopher Smith’s weird friend, and he's become the first person you want to run to when you need to forget about your shitty day.
The idea of you being oddly attached to him in a weird way you can't quite explain repeats over and over in your head, even after he parked outside the hardware store and you get out of his car.
“You didn't tell me how your day was,” you casually remember as the two of you are walking towards the building.
“Oh, it was okay. I had cereal for breakfast. Then I took my mom grocery shopping because she doesn't know how to drive and I don't like her walking back by herself carrying all those bags.”
You figured that was the beginning of him explaining in detail what he did throughout the entire day. Hearing him talk and talk, never knowing when to shut up, might actually be one of your favorite things ever, so you listen to the whole thing attentively.
“After lunch I was just doing whatever. You know, V-i-g-i-l-a-n-t-e stuff,” he continues, offering you a conspiratorial wink after spelling that out. As if the word was somehow undecipherable to anyone but the two of you. “I helped a kitten that was stuck in a tree and then I took the poor guy to a shelter because he didn't have a collar.”
You're already inside the hardware store, the place looking incredibly empty as most hardware stores do. Still listening to the story, your attention only partially drifts as you look around, scanning the place in search of what Chris asked you to buy. It really should be that difficult to find the aisle where they keep the freaking doors, right?
Meanwhile, Adrian trails behind you, simply following your lead as he keeps talking. “Oh, I also beat the shit out of these guys doing the most ugly graffiti you could imagine!” Somehow, that's the part that seems to entertain him the most out of all the story, letting out a heartfelt laugh at the memory of it. “I would've shot them, but the fucking cops showed up,” he adds not too long after, a mixture of annoyance and disgust in his voice.
“You've gotta stop killing people for things like that,” you offer him casually. The fact that you're already used to these sorts of conversations is actually a bit concerning.
“Things like that?” he repeats, clearly offended that you think it’s so meaningless. “Uh, I think trying to keep the buildings of our city clean is a very important thing.”
“It is, but is it important enough to kill someone?”
“Yes! No one’s forcing you to do a fucking grafitti of a word that's not even a word because it's impossible to read it! And if you can choose to do that, I can choose not to like it.”
Stopping in your tracks, you turn to look at him curiously. “I don't know if you're just too righteous or a complete maniac.”
He offers you a smile, as if somehow that's a compliment. “Maybe I’m both.”
For some reason, you return the smile. “Yeah, maybe.”
Finally spotting large structures of wood at the very end of an aisle, you immediately walk in that direction with him quickly following after you. “What is it that we need to buy again?”
“Uh…a door and some hinges. Maybe a few other tools as well. I just hope he’s paying me back.”
The two of you stand in front of an insane amount of doors hanging from a metal structure, similar to clothes hanging from a rack. From simple interior doors to some a lot bigger ones for commercial storefronts.
“I’ll pay, don’t worry about it,” he brushes it off immediately, also looking at the various doors on display. “Hey, why didn’t Peacemaker tell me any of this?”
The question is so random and unexpected that you have to turn to look at him, almost trying to decipher if he really just asked you that or if you somehow imagined it. Judging by the look on his face, you immediately realize he did ask that just now. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how come you found out before I did?”
At first you don’t know what to say. It’s painfully obvious that the thought of him not being the person Chris immediately runs to for help is affecting him a lot more than you would’ve ever imagined. He looks genuinely crushed by it.
“Maybe he didn’t have time to alert everyone, you know? I mean, he was running away from armed agents that randomly showed up to his house, so…I can imagine he was in a bit of a rush.”
“He had time to let you know,” he insists, somehow looking even more sad than before.
“Well…maybe he figured I’d tell you and fill you in on what’s been going on.”
Adrian doesn’t look so convinced, but eventually shrugs it off. “I guess,” he offers, although still looking very much miserable. Like this is personal somehow.
You don’t know what else to say to make him feel better, looking back at him with obvious frustration. “Hey, I’m sure I was just the last person he called or something so he clicked the first contact he saw.”
He stays quiet for a second, considering what you just said. “I mean, that would make sense. Because, like, no offense but you have to be his fourth best friend at best.”
“Of course,” you immediately agree with him, noticing the imaginary ranking of Chris’ best friends is somehow helping to make him feel better. Hoping all of that is finally out of the way, you focus on the various doors on display. “So, should we get just one of maybe a few of them in case they don't fit the doorframe?”
When you don’t hear any answer back, you turn to look at Adrian with a questioning look, leaving you even more confused because he has this goofy grin on his face, but you have absolutely no idea what has caused it.
Until it finally clicks. The way you just casually reached for his hand while you were way too focused on trying to analyze the overwhelming amount of tags with different prizes, leaning just a little closer and resting your other hand gently on his bicep. Too focused on other things to notice the way you reached out for him almost like it was instinctive.
You’re a bit stunned at first, because it’s not really your thing to be touchy and clingy– wait, are you being clingy right now? You probably are. The tiny spark of doubt and self-consciousness ignites a chaotic fire inside you that’s so intense you almost want to let him go almost immediately. Holy shit, you’re being too much right now.
But then, he’s leaning down to kiss your forehead, and it’s one of the most adorable things ever– so adorable, in fact, that you actually start focusing more on the warmth spreading through your body than the thought of being annoyingly clingy.
“I think we should buy more than one.”
That simple statement solidified the end of that brief interaction. Something that took so much of your energy away, forgotten in an instant. And now it’s just there. You’re holding hands and you’re leaning a little into his body and it’s just…hapening. Normal, simple, not nearly as catastrophic as you were picturing it just a few seconds ago.
Is it enjoyable? Yes, absolutely, because you like having him close. But it’s not scary, threatening or dangerous. It’s quite the opposite, really, but the initial panic prevented you from seeing it for what it is– just a small gesture of affection. There’s not a gun pointed at your head and there’s no imminent world-ending event that should make your adrenaline kick in like that.
It’s just him. With his gorgeous smile and annoyingly cute face. There's absolutely nothing threatening about that.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It was an absolute pain in the ass to secure the doors you bought to the roof of Adrian’s car, but eventually you managed to do it.
Would it be completely insane to admit it was actually kinda hot seeing him being all handy and shit? It’s like you can’t control yourself. After all your years of life, you finally understand the sentiment of being unable to keep your hands to yourself. If Chris wasn’t in desperate need of help, you probably would’ve fucked Adrian in his car in that very same parking lot because yes, it is that serious.
You fear someone might’ve done something to you. Like there’s a chip in your brain that makes it shut down whenever he’s around. All you can focus on is him. Him, him, him. The way he pushes his glasses up when they’re sliding off the bridge of his nose. How he mindlessly taps the steering wheel to the rhythm of the songs on the radio. And when he begins talking about a new comic he’s reading, you’re inevitable wondering just how fucked you really are if the story of a mad scientist creating humanoid creatures to take over the world is somehow making you feel even more attracted to him, just because you enjoy the sound of his voice that much.
It really shouldn’t be this the moment you’re starting to realize the depth of your feelings, but there’s something about his side profile barely illuminated in the darkened highway with The Police playing in the background that makes every piece of the puzzle fit somehow.
You’re falling for him. Hard. And you’re falling so incredibly fast and unexpectedly that you didn’t even have time to realize when you slipped from the edge of the precipice.
Evidently, this is something you’re going to keep entirely to yourself. At least for now.
The only thing that gets you to snap out of your constant thoughts about him is the sight of an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods. You notice the faintest of lights coming from the inside as the car is parking in front of it.
“This is it, right?”
The two of you take a look at your phone, confirming you are indeed in the right place because the little blue dot indicating your whereabouts is only a few feet away from the red dot that’s marking Chris’ location. You’d get why he would bring the portal here, considering it’s quite literally in the middle of nowhere and it might take A.R.G.U.S. a little longer to locate it.
“Yeah, I think so.” Then, a brilliant joke pops in your head as you turn to look at him with a little smirk. “Unless you want to double check, since you like stalking us so much.”
“Ha! Listen, if something were to happen to you one day, you’ll be glad that I can track your phone! But if you keep making fun of my security measures–”
“Are you really about to say that you won’t save me?” you quickly cut him off, offering him a little pout, pretending to be genuinely upset by his statement.
His eyes open wide almost immediately. “N–No, of course not! I mean, I was going to say it but it was supposed to be a joke…you know I would never– I’d go full killer mode if something were to happen to you!”
The initial panic on his face is replaced with pure curiosity when you unexpectedly kiss him. “I know, Adrian. I was just messing with you.”
“That was so not funny,” he mutters, watching as you’re getting out of the car before he decides to do the same.
“I don’t know. It was pretty funny in my opinion.”
“Well, your opinion is wrong.”
“And your opinion about my opinion is wrong.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. It just makes the back-and-forth ten times more entertaining. “Okay. Smartass.”
“If you didn’t look so cute when you get snappy with me I would’ve punched you for calling me that– oh, wait, my bad. I forgot you’re into that.”
“Oh! Okay, then maybe I should've put on my suit so you wouldn’t be cracking that many jokes because you’d be more worried about trying to have sex with me.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m not worried about trying to have sex with you when you’re not wearing the suit.”
He clearly wasn’t expecting that as a comeback, visibly stunned. “Wait, what?” There’s a brief pause before he decides to ask yet another question. “Like…right now? Cause we can make it work.”
“Not after you called me a smartass.” With that, you offer him one last smile before starting to walk towards the cabin.
You hear him hurrying his steps to catch up to you. “Evil woman.”
“Yeah, keep it up. See how that works out for you.”
“Okay, wait. No. I didn’t mean– come on!” He panics yet again, and you can’t help but giggle at his reaction. “This is just playful bickering, right? Is that what we’re doing? Because I’m not trying to be an asshole on purpose.”
You stop walking, standing at the very edge of the small stairs that lead up to the front door of the cabin, offering him a reassuring smile. “Of course it’s just playful.”
“Holy shit. Okay. Thank God!” he says almost immediately, looking a lot more relaxed now that he has actual confirmation that everything you two are saying isn’t meant to be taken seriously in the slightest. “You’re too good at this. I thought you were actually getting upset with me for a second.”
“You need to do a lot more than calling me a smartass for me to get upset. And when I do get upset for real, I’ll let you know, alright?”
“Alright, cool– hey, could you give me a kiss, though? Just to be extra sure you’re not upset.”
Playfully rolling your eyes, you take a step closer to him, knowing you wouldn’t dare to miss out on an opportunity to kiss him. Wrapping an arm around his neck, you pull him down to your height and crash your lips against his. You can practically feel how surprised he is by the intensity in which you kiss him, pulling you closer to his body almost instantly.
“Oh, so you’re not upset at all,” he mutters in absolute awe when you pull away, looking like he would definitely lean in again for another kiss if you didn’t have more important things to take care of at the moment.
You move away from him shortly after, watching him walk up the stairs towards the front door of the cabin while you trail behind him. “P-P-P-Peacemaker!” he exclaims excitedly as he opens the door, smile dropping as soon as he notices Adebayo. “Oh, you’re here too.”
She frowns at that, but she doesn’t look offended in the slightest. “Hello to you too.” Then, she looks at you, smiling instantly. “Hey, gorgeous!”
“Hey, baby. How are you?” you greet her back, noticing the way Adrian turns to look at you almost horrified. Evidently, all of you ignore his reaction as you focus on Chris now, looking at him up and down. “Why are you dressed like a rich douchebag with terrible fashion-sense?”
“It’s my other self’s clothes,” he explains, sighing tiredly as he notices the way you and Adrian look at him up and down.
“I think you look great!” Adrian offers with a smile.
You turn to look at him almost immediately. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Did you bring the door?” Chris decides to ask, not wanting to hear anything else regarding his horrible outfit.
“Oh, right! Yes, we got everything! And don’t worry, P, she already filled me in on everything. I mean, not like I haven’t heard about the Quantum Unfolding Chamber before– duh! I’ve been there a bunch of times already– hey, there’s gotta be another me in there, right?”
You realize he’s fully turning to look at you now, his excited smile so contagious you have to smile back at him. “Sure. Why not?”
“And there has to be another you somewhere too– Oh! Maybe we’re together in every universe! Wouldn’t that be sick?”
Adebayo and Chris immediately exchange a knowing look at that, and your eyes widen in surprise because you weren’t expecting him to drop that so casually in front of them. And also, technically, you’re not official or anything, so it’s twice as shocking that he says it so confidently. Not like you don’t like the sound of it but– holy shit, it’s like the holding hands thing all over again.
No gun pointed at you. Not a single catastrophe is about to happen. It’s fine. Him hinting at the two of you being a thing in front of your friends is not the death sentence you think it is.
Breathe.
“Let’s see if we can fit one of those doors in here,” Chris finally speaks up, preventing the silence from prolonging longer than necessary.
You step aside from the doorway to leave space for him to walk out of the cabin, your mind already a lot calmer from the initial anxiety that once again tried to take over your senses. It doesn’t take too long before Adrian is also walking out of the cabin, seemingly going to help Chris figure out how they’re going to install one of the doors.
“Hey, can we talk for a minute?” Adebayo calls out for you, gesturing for you to get away from the door and further inside the room.
You comply with her request, taking a look behind you to watch Chris and Adrian heading back to his car before walking further inside the cabin. It’s absolutely covered in dust and cobwebs, and the wooden floor creaks beneath your shoes– exactly what you would expect from an abandoned cabin, really.
“What’s up?” you ask, taking a seat next to her on the wooden bench that stands right in front of the portal. It’s your first time seeing that thing, so you allow yourself to stare at it for a few seconds in complete disbelief. You didn’t know exactly what to expect when Chris told you about the existence of this thing, but you’re pretty sure you would’ve never guessed it looks like this.
“I think we need to talk some sense into Chris. Like, right now. And us two are the only ones reasonable enough to get him to understand just how fucked this whole thing is,” she starts, her voice as quiet as possible just in case the two guys outside might be able to hear her somehow. “Did you know he killed his other self in there? And he’s trying to get with the alternate version of our Emilia?”
You stay quiet for a second, feeling like you’re about to get yourself in trouble because she looks absolutely horrified after finding out that information and you…well, you really didn't do much when you found out. “Yeah, I sort of already knew about that.”
Adebayo looks at you like you just lost your fucking head. “And what? You just encouraged him?!”
“No…I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily say that I encouraged him, I just…look, we have this thing–”
“You know what I said like two seconds ago about you being reasonable? I take it back.”
“Hey, it’s not like I don’t think the whole thing is absolutely insane, okay? But…you know, Chris and I like to do this thing where we just talk shit and it’s a completely judgement-free zone! How am I going to say to him that he’s fucking nuts if I’m not supposed to judge him?!”
“He wants to go in there!” she insists, and you stay quiet after that when you realize the sheer panic in her voice. “Like, permanently. He thinks he’s much better off in that seemingly perfect dimension because apparently he hates this one a little too much.”
Your entire demeanour changes almost immediately, feeling a knot at the very pit of your stomach. It’s almost impossible not to feel like the biggest fucking idiot in the entire world, because you’re just now realizing how fucked this whole thing is. Maybe this is how you should’ve seen the situation from the very beginning.
“I…I didn’t think he would actually want to leave…forever.”
Of course you wouldn't. Why would you think he'd genuinely want to leave for good and live in some alternate fairytale? Perhaps you were giving him way too much credit thinking there was some sense of rational thinking left in him when it came to this? After all, he did kill his other self and it's refusing to let go of this portal, so maybe you should've seen this coming.
But maybe a part of you wanted to think that he wouldn't be so drastic about it. That he wouldn't actually want to leave for good. Sure, his family is alive in there, but…is he really just going to leave? Who are you going to vent with while drinking piña coladas if he's gone? Not to mention you still have like two more seasons of Love Island to watch together. It’s so boring watching that show without him.
“Well, he does. And listen, I don’t entirely blame him because if his dead brother and a much nicer version of his dad is out there– not to mention the girl he has a crush on is apparently in love with him…I get why he would want to leave. But I also know that it’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard and we can’t let him do that.”
A sigh escapes you, trying to take everything in as you once again stare at the seemingly endless room before you. It’s absolutely horrifying to look at it now. If you knew how to close it for good, you’d probably do it right now in an instant.
“Yeah, I– I understand. Don’t worry. I won’t let him leave.”
Adebayo offers you a smile, understanding your worries because she’s feeling the exact same way at the moment. “You know, maybe you are reasonable after all.”
The comment makes you laugh, lightly shaking your head. You’ve always admired your friend’s ability to light up the mood even in the most dire of situations. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it! You just needed a little encouragement.” She joins in on your laughter, lightly shaking her head. “Maybe spending too much time with Adrian lately is starting to affect you.”
You keep looking at the portal to avoid seeing the look on her face. It's practically impossible not to picture her playful grin right now. “Yeah, maybe,” is all you say regarding that.
“Could we…like…maybe…talk about it?” she tries yet again, offering you an innocent smile when you finally do turn your head to look at her. “I’m just curious to know what you've been up to, that's all!”
A brief pause follows while you consider what to say. “We're just trying to see if things could work out between us.” As soon as Adebayo starts to visibly freak out by your admission, you immediately speak again. “We're not officially dating or anything like that.”
“Okay, but you could end up dating if everything works out, right?”
Another pause. “I guess.”
“And you want to date him officially?”
Absolutely. “I mean, so far everything seems to be working out so…yeah, I think I do.”
“You guys!” she says, standing up from the wooden bench as she tries to contain her excitement. “This is so adorable!”
The conversation starts to feel a little too personal for your liking, feeling your face burning due to embarrassment. “Okay, okay, that's enough.”
“Alright, I won't push it.” She immediately raises both hands up in the air, the playful grin on her face remaining. “But all jokes aside, I’m very happy for you. Adrian is…well, Adrian, but deep down he's a great guy and he's evidently obsessed with you– which is the only energy I’ll allow when it comes to you by the way, because you deserve nothing less.”
Her last statement makes you chuckle, lightly shaking your head. “Thank you. I really– I don't know, I really like him, so it's…yeah. I just really like him.”
“Oh, trust me, I can tell. I know you like to act all tough and emotionless, but it was painfully clear just by how you were looking at him.”
You can't help but cover your face with your hands, feeling absolutely mortified as she lets out a heartfelt laugh at your reaction. “That's so fucking embarrassing.”
“No, it's not! It’s actually a good thing that you're able to put your walls down like that with him. And it's just so cute to see it!”
“Okay! I said it was enough!” you snap back at her, unable to cover your smile as you stand up from the bench too. “I don't get why we're still talking about this, actually.”
“Fine, okay, we can move on now.” She seemingly agrees with you, but judging by the look on her face, you can tell that she still has more to say. “Just, you know, I'm already petitioning to be your bridesmaid before anyone else in the group beats me to it.”
You can't help but lightly punch her arm, making her laugh as she tries to dodge it. “Shut up!”
The conversation is interrupted by Chris and Adrian trying to get the door inside the cabin, struggling a bit at first, but eventually managing to carry it all the way to where the portal is, still fully on display for pretty much anyone that stumbles upon the cabin and decides to take a look inside from one of the windows.
They take care of installing the door while Adebayo starts talking to you about her new ad in this weird magazine that you’ve never even heard of in the first place– oh, and while she's talking, you try your best to ignore how hot Adrian looks while holding a drill.
Despite Chris saying the whole concept of that magazine is a complete scam, you still tried to show your support for your friend’s business, which is something Adebayo greatly appreciates. “I’ll make sure to include you in my future missions as soon as the clients start to pour in,” she says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
“Imaginary clients,” Chris corrects almost immediately.
“Shut up, party pooper!” you snap back at him. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous he doesn’t have an ad.”
“Hey, don’t call me a party pooper,” he snaps back almost immediately. “You’re a party pooper.”
Adrian laughs a little too hard at that, lightly shaking his head. “Party pooper. Hilarious.”
By the time they’re done installing the door, you and Adebayo have already talked about pretty much every single topic of conversation you could come up with, occasionally helping them when they needed an extra pair of hands. You got to witness Adrian in his handiness prime, so it’s actually a bit disappointing that they didn’t take longer.
“Hey, nice job, you guys,” Adebayo congratulates them, walking closer towards the fully installed door. “I thought it’d take you two a much longer time to figure this out.”
“Well, it’s really not as difficult as it looks.”
Adebayo and Adrian stay by the door. You hear him yet again talk about the possibility of an alternate version of himself existing out there, but you don’t really pay much attention to their conversation, because you’re far more interested in the way Chris hurriedly walks out of the cabin.
It’s painfully obvious that he’s up to something. You debate whether or not you should follow.him, unsure if there’s something you should worry about or if you’re just being paranoid. After a few seconds of consideration, you decide to make your way to the front door of the cabin but, before you’re able to go outside, Chris immediately storms back inside.
“Hey, Vij, can I take your ride?”
The three of you look at him with obvious curiosity. “Why?”
Chris turns to look at you now after your question, and he can just tell that you're suspecting something’s off by the way you're looking at him, hands resting at your hips as you await an explanation.
He shrugs. “I need to see Harcourt.”
You tilt your head to the side, but before you can even open your mouth to say something, Adrian beats you to it. “Is it safe?”
Chris shrugs yet again. “I just need to talk to her before knowing what to do.”
“But is it really a good idea?” Adebayo tries this time.
You chime in almost immediately. “I think it’s a terrible idea.”
Without looking at either of you, Chris just keeps his eyes glued on Adrian. “Please?” he asks. You’re pretty sure he’s not only asking for the car keys. He’s also hoping Adrian wouldn’t hear what you and Adebayo just said and chose to take his side on this one.
And, of course, Adrian hands him the car keys without thinking twice.
You just know that’s not going to end well in the slightest.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Since Chris took Adrian’s car, the three of you got in Adebayo’s car to drive back to the city. You could feel the exhausting creeping in after such a long day, but somehow that whatever-long nap that you took while they were installing the door somehow managed to give you enough energy to survive a car ride back without passing out in the passenger seat.
“Hey, I have an idea!” Adrian randomly speaks, leaning forward.
Adebayo sighs, already expecting the worst. “What is it, Adrian?”
“We should totally have a sleepover tonight! I mean, since we’re heading back to the cabin tomorrow anyway.” You and Adebayo exchange a look before she focuses back on the road. Looking at Adrian now, you immediately notice the excited grin on his face. “It’d be fun, right? We haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“The only time we’ve ever had any sort of sleepover was at Em’s house, and it wasn’t even that long ago.”
“Yeah, but it feels like that was ages ago,” he insists after Adebayo’s comment, sounding a bit bummed that neither of you are immediately agreeing.
A brief silence follows. Adebayo once again gives you a quick side look. Adrian keeps expecting an answer. “Well, I have a sick ass sofa bed at my place…”
“Is this how it’s going to be now?” she asks, trying to sound annoyed, when in reality the playful tone in her voice is evident. “You’re just going to agree with him on everything?”
“That’s because I’m her best friend,” he snaps back, saying that way too proudly.
“You can’t be everyone’s best friend,” she argues back almost immediately. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh, so you make the rules of best friends now?”
“I’m just saying. It doesn’t work like that. Besides, you two are way past the ‘best friend’ status at this point.”
Adrian lets out a dry laugh as he leans back on his seat. “That’s so stupid. Just because I like her romantically, doesn't mean we stopped being best friends!”
You turn to look at him, slightly surprised by his answer. It brings an instant smile to your lips. “That was very sweet.”
“Really?” Adrian asks, grinning like he wasn't expecting that reaction. He wasn't really trying to sound sweet, or even expecting it to come off as anything other than a simple fact.
“Yeah, it was, actually,” Adebayo points out, a soft smile on her lips after the first glimpse of this whole new dynamic between the two of you.
There’s a brief pause before Adrian continues. “So, about the sleepover…”
You can’t help but laugh, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of this whole interaction. “I already said yes. There’s someone here that hasn’t agreed to it yet.”
Adebayo tries to pretend like she’s not aware of the fact that the two of you are looking at her as you both await an answer. Eventually she gives up, letting out another sigh.
“Fine. I guess a sleepover could be fun…”
“SLEEPOVER!” Adrian exclaims, way too excited, slightly startling the two of you.
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
warnings: explicit smut | oral (m recieving) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | BDSM themes | degradation | choking | rough sex | light bondage | control and obedience | power imbalance | no outbreak
word count - 6.3k
summary - You left one of your romance books out, and Joel read it like homework, determined to understand every page - and every part of you it came from.
You came home to find Joel on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, a worn paperback hanging loosely from one hand. For a second, the sight didn’t register: just him, half-slouched in the dim light, the hum of the TV filling the quiet behind him. Then your eyes caught the silver title stamped across the cover: Fifty Shades of Grey. You’d only picked it up because everyone talked about it like some sort of cultural phenomenon and you’d wanted to see if it was overhyped. You hadn’t even made it halfway through before shoving it aside last night and forgetting all about it.
Joel didn’t look up right away. His thumb rested against the page he’d stopped on, tapping in a slow, absent rhythm. “Found this on the counter,” he said finally. “Didn’t know you were into this kinda thing.”
You were still frozen in the doorway, your pulse climbing quickly. The book looked small in his hands, delicate in a way that felt humiliating, like every page had been pried open and examined. “It’s just a book,” you said, not to be defensive, but just honest.
Joel looked up then with an expression that you couldn’t quite name yet. He closed the book slowly, his palm pressing over the cover before he set it down beside him. “Yeah,” he said, leaning back a little. “That’s what I figured. Just a book.” His tone shifted, not unkind but sterner somehow. “Still-” He paused, running his thumb along his jaw. “I read it. Or some of it.”
He exhaled, slowly. “Looked into this kinda stuff a bit, too. Just outta curiosity.” He just stared at you, waiting, trying to gauge your reaction. “Was wonderin’ if that’s what you’re really into, or if it’s just somethin’ you like readin’ about.”
It wasn’t a question, not really, more like a statement wearing a question’s clothes. You just stood there, brain empty, lungs stuck somewhere between an inhale and an apology. He kept looking at you until something shifted behind his eyes, and the book left his hand. The soft thump of it on the table shouldn’t have sounded like much, but you still jumped at the sound.
“Alright,” he said as he stood. His movements were slower than normal, as if he didn’t want to spook you. “Guess there’s only one way to find out, huh?”
Your stomach twisted. “Joel-”
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows, and the quiet intent behind his eyes. “Ain’t sayin’ we gotta do everythin’ that book talks about,” he murmured. “But I figured… maybe we could give it a try.”
The space seemed to tilt around you, full of possibility. You told yourself you should laugh it off, make a joke, or... something. But curiosity rooted you in place. Whatever this was, you wanted to see how far he’d take it. So, you just stood there with your heart hammering in your chest while your fingers curled around the strap of your bag. Meanwhile, he was still looking at you like he’d already started something and was waiting to see if you’d finish it.
You shifted your weight, licked your lips, and finally met his eyes. “What would that even look like?” you asked, sounding uncertain in a way that made your face flush. “You… giving it a try?”
Joel’s mouth twitched at that, a flicker of understanding. He stepped in closer, slowly enough to keep your eyes locked on his, then brought one hand up, brushing your bag from your shoulder with an easy slide of his fingers. “Startin’ real simple,” he said, his voice just above a whisper now. “First thing you do is listen.”
Your bag thudded softly to the floor at your feet and you still didn’t move.
Joel’s hand dropped to his side again, but his gaze didn’t. “Now,” he said, like the words had been waiting in his mouth all along. “Strip.”
You blinked at him, completely frozen in place. “What-”
His head tilted slightly. “Clothes off. All of ‘em.” He said it with no hint of hesitation, no edge in his tone, just a quiet authority that made your legs feel a little less stable under you.
“Not gonna touch you,” he added after a moment. “Not yet. I just wanna see.”
Joel didn’t move either; he just stood there, arms still loose at his sides, like he was perfectly fine waiting all night if that’s what it took. The patience in his posture didn’t soften the weight of his words, though. It was still a command. Your fingers hovered at the hem of your shirt. You hesitated once more, searching his face for something: permission, reassurance, maybe a reason not to listen. But he just looked back at you, so you finally moved. Your shirt came off first, then your jeans, tugged down with clumsy fingers that didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. You stepped out of them and stood there, bare except for the soft stretch of your underwear, skin prickling from the sudden shift in temperature, or maybe from the weight of his gaze.
Joel’s eyes flicked over you once, and then back to your face. He spoke firmly and without delay. “‘Cept those,” he said, nodding slightly toward your underwear. “Leave ’em.”
You froze mid-motion, fingers grazing the waistband. He didn’t explain; the look on his face told you everything: that he had total control. Your fingers slipped away from the fabric, breath shallow as you straightened again. Joel didn’t speak right away; he just looked at you standing there in nothing but your underwear, skin flushed, arms hovering slightly like you weren’t sure what to do with them. The silence stretched long enough to make your stomach twist. Your nervousness was beginning to turn into something else entirely.
“Sit,” came next, followed by a gentle nod to the rug in front of him. The little tilt of his chin set your knees folding; the fabric rasped your skin and made you suddenly aware of everything that was touching you. Joel came down into the same plane as you, one knee catching the floorboards, his eyes trained with a craftsman’s attention on the damp line where thin cotton met your arousal.
Your body hesitated, even as your mind spun, even as the air between you thickened with the question that had been building since the moment you saw the book in his hands - what does he see when he looks at you like this? What is he thinking now?
“Good,” he said, interrupting your thoughts. “That’s better.”
The rug scratched faintly at the backs of your thighs as you sat there, waiting. He hadn’t moved yet, and the stillness became its own kind of touch - your pulse thudding against your skin, every instinct fighting the urge to shift or speak before he told you to.
“Before anything happens,” he said, “we need a safe word.”
He looked past you for a second, eyes skimming the room like he was considering something, head tipping just enough to catch the light. Then his gaze landed on something behind you: whatever was sitting out on the counter, maybe something leftover from this morning. And when he looked back, the decision was already made. “Papaya.”
“That’s the word,” he said, and the floor seemed to notice before you did, his weight tilting the space your way. “You say it, we stop.”
That caught you off guard. You blinked up at him. A safe word? He must’ve seen the flicker of surprise on your face, because something shifted in his expression.
“Like I said, been doin’ my homework,” he said simply. “If we’re gonna try this, we do it right.”
You felt heat continue to rise under your skin. He really did his research, you thought. Though it's no surprise that he did - if Joel’s gonna do something, he’s gonna do it right. You opened your mouth to respond, but you didn’t get the chance. Joel reached down, hooked his fingers in the waistband of your underwear, and -
Rip.
The sound was obnoxiously loud compared to the silence. The fabric tore like paper, falling open in his hand.
You barely had time to react before he stepped back slightly, motioning with a tilt of his chin. “Spread your legs.”
You obeyed before you could think, thighs parting slowly as the cool air kissed your exposed skin. You were already wet, embarrassingly so - and still, the position, the pace, the way he looked at you made you ache more.
“Spit,” he said, tapping just in front of where he worked.
You blinked up at him, unsure you’d heard right. His gaze dropped, intent enough that the meaning registered in your head before he had to clarify.
You stared up at him, startled. “I-I’m nervous. My mouth is dry, I can’t.”
Something in his expression shifted; still intense, still teasing, but edged with focus you hadn’t seen before. Joel had always been blunt, a little rough around the edges, but this… this was different. It’s almost as if he’d been thinking about this for longer than you realized, and was only now letting you see it.
Joel crouched, his hand catching your chin between his fingers. “Is that so?” he purred, watching you. “That’s strange.”
Then, slowly, he slipped two fingers into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue. “Pretty sure your body gets wet no matter where I shove myself in,” he said, voice roughening slightly.
He pulled his fingers out with a wet sound and dragged them between your legs, rubbing the slick mess against your folds. “Now you’re soakin’ wet.”
You said his name like there might be a question at the end of it, and he answered by sliding those fingers into you - one, then another, then, God, a third with a twist of his wrist that made your mouth fall open, a stretch that burned sweet and made the center of you feel both too full and not full enough. You arched under him, half from surprise, half from the way the tension broke and rebuilt with each subtle movement. He stayed quiet, just observing you, and somehow that made it worse. You could feel the weight of his attention tracing over every flinch, every uneven breath you gave him. By the time he finally spoke, your pulse was pounding hard enough to make you dizzy.
Joel leaned in, his voice warm against your ear. “You pussy’s beggin’ me to be inside,” he said. “Listen to how it sounds.”
His fingers moved deeper. You gasped, hips twitching under his hand.
“Oh,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to watch you. “Maybe a finger won’t be enough for you.”
He withdrew before you could chase him, and you watched his hands go to his belt, the metal catch and the leather sigh, and the zipper’s brief rasp. When he bared himself, you felt ridiculous and hungry. He was thick and heavy in his palm, the head flushed dark, the kind of sight that rearranges the furniture in your head, and he caught the way your thighs pressed in even as you parted them.
“Usually I’d loosen you up more,” he went on, matter-of-fact. “But this is better for you, right?”
“You like pain,” he said, more of a statement than a question. “And I know you love this dick. You’re playin’ the whole thing in your head, ain’t you? All the ways I’d use it to fuck you. How I’d make you feel when I do.”
You swallowed hard. Your eyes dropped down to his cock, and your body responded before your mind could catch up: a slow, involuntary gush of arousal.
“Look at that,” he muttered. “All it took was you lookin’ at it to get you this wet. Isn’t that right?”
Your head dropped slightly, but Joel reached out, grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling until your gaze met his again. He held his cock in one hand, rubbing it lightly against your lips.
“Tell me,” he said. “You wanna stop?”
You shook your head. “No,” you whispered, eyes wide, breathing fast. “Please keep going. Don’t stop.”
Joel stared at you like he was carving your face into memory. “Good,” he said, his tone dipping lower. “Now quit playin’ coy.”
Somehow, the approval felt like permission, like a door opening, which is why when he brought your jaw forward with that steady hand and pushed himself into your mouth. You went with it, surprised by the weight and the suddenness and the way your lips made a seal around him like they’d been practicing for this specific shape.
“You should’ve told me you were into this shit sooner,” he growled, his grip tightening in your hair.
You sucked eagerly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he fucked your mouth with controlled thrusts, letting you feel the weight of his cock, the power in every motion. Then - “Get up.”
He pulled you off with a gasp, then yanked you to your feet, spun you toward the table, and pressed you forward until your palms hit the surface. “Hands on the table. Bend over.”
You did, wood warm under your palms, head tipped, hips a clean line he could set his hands to. Then, with that crooked humor of his, “Just puttin’ it in would be too boring,” he said. “Why don’t we play a game?”
“Startin’ now,” he continued, dragging the head of his cock between your folds, making you whimper, “every time I pound into you, you count. Get to nineteen, I’ll reward you. You can do that, right?”
“Joel, wait-”
And whatever you would have said was stolen by the first long, unbroken stroke of him seated inside you. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t careless either; it was full, slow only in the way something unstoppable can be, a burn that sharpened into ache. Your fingers were scrabbling for the table’s edge, and the sound that left you wasn’t a protest so much as the body’s startled answer to being split open.
“What are you doin’? Count,” he said, punctuating the command with a sharp smack to your ass.
“One,” you gasped. He pulled out and slammed back in, stealing the next number from your lips. “Two.”
“That’s a good girl,” Joel murmured, his voice threaded with approval.
You could hardly breathe, the rhythm suffocating, each thrust dragging you deeper into that hazy edge where thought blurred, where your body kept tally even as your mind began to slip.
“Spread your legs more for me,” he said, and you obeyed before the command fully settled, thighs trembling from the pace.
Your thighs burned, your ass burned, your insides clenched around him, full in a way that felt like sweet torture. You couldn’t tell if it hurt or if it was just too much - maybe both. But Joel, he knew exactly how to angle his hips, how to find that spot inside you that made your legs twitch and your vision spark white at the edges, that swollen, aching place he never missed, not even once. Each thrust knocked loose another piece of you until counting became more instinct than thought, and somehow you’d made it to eight.
“Eight,” you whispered. “S’good-”
“You like that?” he grunted, thrusts growing harsher. “Such a fuckin’ slut.”
You couldn't form a reply, even if you wanted to; your body was answering for you instead, arching to meet every brutal snap of his hips, chasing the friction like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the present.
“What, you gonna be this easy if another man touches you?” he asked. “Do you not care who it is as long as they’re fuckin’ you?”
“No-!” you gasped. “Just you-”
But he didn’t give you room to explain, or the breath to plead. “You’re forgettin’ to count.”
You tried, honestly you did, but the numbers tangled behind your teeth, lost in the haze of the stretch of him and the way he kept hitting the same devastating spot inside of you over and over until it felt like your brain turned to mush. Still, he didn’t slow down.
“You just won’t get it together, will you?”
Joel grabbed both your arms, yanked them behind your back, and pinned them there with one hand, holding you open and helpless. “Start over,” he growled. “From one.”
Then he fucked into you again - deeper this time, impossibly so, his hips slamming into yours with a punishing rhythm that left no space to breathe. Your body gave out before your voice could even find a number. Suddenly, your orgasm hit you like a wave collapsing over itself, stealing the sound from your lungs and the strength from your knees. You came so hard you couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, your legs buckling beneath you until the only thing keeping you upright was the grip of his hand at your wrists and the table edge digging into your hips. When he finally let go, you collapsed forward with a choked gasp, body still trembling from the force of it.
“Can’t count,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice full of mock disappointment as he pulled out, the absence of him as startling as the fullness had been. “Can’t even wait to finish ‘til I do. You can’t do a single thing right.”
Before you could register the loss, he’d hauled you up like you weighed nothing, arms scooping you clean off the table. Your vision swam, head tipping against his shoulder as he carried you, his chest solid and warm beneath your cheek. You clung to him instinctively, dazed, every limb jelly-soft, legs dangling uselessly as the hallway lights passed in streaks above.
“A bad girl like you…” he muttered into the crook of your neck.
You looked up, still shaking. “What-”
He threw you down on the bed.
“…ought to be punished.”
Joel grabbed his belt, the leather worn and warm from where it was on his jeans, wrapping it tight around your wrists, pinning them above your head. You writhed instinctively, but it was no use - he’s cinched it just right, the pressure biting into your skin. His thigh pressed between yours, shoving them apart again, the rough fabric of his jeans grinding against your already-sensitive skin as he forced you open with nothing more than the weight of him.
He looked you over, his gaze drinking in everything. “Goddamn,” he said. “What a sight…”
He leaned down and kissed between your breasts, then took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to bruise. His stubble scraped against your skin as he dragged his mouth lower.
“Now’s my chance to mark you up so good no one else’ll dare look at you the same,” he murmured, biting beneath your ribs. “From your head to your toes, even the deepest parts of you, you’re mine.”
You moaned, hips bucking up against nothing, searching for any kind of friction, too far gone to care about how desperate you looked. Joel pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hand still splayed across your stomach, holding you still.
“Even though you’re a mess, you’re still enjoyin’ this?”
You nodded, dizzy and breathless. He smiled at that, seemingly pleased, his thumb coming up to brush the corner of your mouth like he could already feel you whimper. “You’re a real fuckin’ whore, aren’t you,” he said, as if it were something to be proud of.
You whimpered, but you gave up trying to deny it.
“I guess we still got a long way to go,” he said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “You don’t even seem close to wantin’ to say the safe word.”
He paused, giving you a second to say something if you wanted to, but you didn’t.
“Alright…” he muttered, more to himself than you, and finished undoing his shirt, the fabric falling open to reveal skin tight with tension. “Should we try somethin’ different?”
His hand slid to your throat, fingers curling with a firm, claiming pressure - not too much, just enough to make your pulse flutter wildly. Your chin tilted up from the pressure, eyes locking with his because there was nowhere else to look.
“When you look at me with those eyes,” he muttered, gaze locked on yours, “it makes me wanna ruin you completely.”
You squirmed beneath him, wide-eyed and trembling, breath catching in your chest as his fingers tightened firmly around your throat. The burn didn’t matter; what mattered that it was enough to remind you he was there, holding everything.
“You’re not gonna be able to talk,” Joel warned, his voice deceptively soft, thumb stroking your pulse as he adjusted his grip. “So if it’s too much… you shake your head. Got it?”
You nodded fast, barely more than a jerk of your chin, too dazed to trust your voice. Then he pushed himself inside again, this time in missionary, painfully slow, which was a sharp contrast to before.
“Shhh,” he breathed, his voice rich and rasping against your skin as he leaned in closer. “That’s a good girl.”
You couldn’t speak - your throat was tight, lungs fluttering with shallow, uneven breaths - but you weren’t afraid, you weren’t even close. Your body molded to his like it knew him, like it had been waiting for this, and the weight of him between your thighs felt like the only thing keeping you held to the bed
“I got you,” he whispered, his mouth warm against your temple. “Just breathe. That’s it…”
You were beyond dizzy now, the world blurring at the edges, colors sparking like fireworks behind your ribs, heat blooming everywhere he touched.
“Listen to me…” he said again, slower now, “...make sure to shake your head if it’s too much. I need to hear you even if you can’t speak.”
You nodded faintly, the belt still biting into your wrists above your head, the leather warm and stiff where it held you open and helpless. You weren’t sure you could even lift your arms if you wanted to. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore - it belonged to him now, every inch of it tuned to his rhythm, his hands, his voice.
Joel shifted over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing down your thigh, coaxing it wider with just the pressure of his palm. His cock dragged out almost entirely before he pushed back in again with maddening control, forcing the air from your lungs with the weight of it.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Taking me so fuckin’ well.”
You gasped, hips twitching, brain struggling to hold onto anything as heat bloomed behind your navel again, hotter this time. Your toes curled, back arching off the mattress like you were trying to climb out of your own skin. It was too much. Too thick, too deep, too… good. Then his fingers were between you again, circling your clit in punishing strokes that made your thighs snap shut around his waist without meaning to.
Your voice caught against his grip, words coming out fractured between gasps. “Joel! Wait. Feels weird, something’s-” The air stuttered through what little space he gave you, the panic edging your tone more than the pain did. But still, he didn’t stop. His free hand clamped your thigh down, spreading you wider, grinding his hips in even deeper.
“I know,” he said, his voice too calm for what he was doing. “That’s what I want. Let go.”
“No, it’s - Joel, I think-”
“Don’t think,” he cut in. “Just feel.”
Your body gave out all at once - like your spine liquified beneath your skin. The pressure broke in a sudden rush and you came hard, convulsing under him, slick flooding between your legs in a hot gush that left your cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“I-I didn’t mean-”
Joel stilled, buried inside you, and let out a feral groan. He looked down at the soaked sheets, then back at you like he’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful.
“Fuckin’ look at you,” he growled, almost smiling. “Soaked the whole fuckin’ bed.”
You blinked up at him, completely out of it, breath stuttering, your skin too hot and too cold all at once. You couldn’t tell if you were crying or just shaking.
He leaned over you, kissed your temple, whispered against your hairline: “Didn’t even know you could do that, did you?” You shook your head slowly. “That’s alright,” he hummed, voice laced with pride. “Guess you do now".
And then he started moving again - slow at first, but deep, pushing into the overstretched, soaking heat of you like he had all the time in the world. You twitched under him, breath hitching into a sob, nerves flaring too bright. Every thrust sent sparks flying through your limbs, every drag of his cock felt like it was scraping through something too tender, and yet you still arched for it.
“You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what it means to give yourself up. Let someone else decide when you're done.”
You blinked up at him, vision hazy and wet, lips parted in disbelief.
“I-I can’t-”
“Yes, you can.” His hand slid up your ribs, rough palm dragging over trembling skin until it cupped your jaw, made you look at him through the blur. “You already did. You’re doin’ it right now.”
You whimpered, but didn’t look away; you couldn’t, not when he was holding you together with nothing but his voice and his hands.
“Give me one more,” he said. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
Your mouth opened, but no words came out, just a broken whimper and more tears, spilling hot down your temples. And your next orgasm came with no warning, it was sharp, painful, and utterly breathtaking. You sobbed as it tore through you, and your body convulsed beneath him, hands straining against the belt, mouth open in a soundless cry.
Joel finally slowed. He didn’t pull out, and didn’t speak; just held you there, one hand cupping your cheek, the other sliding to untangle the belt from your wrists. You felt the warmth of his breath against your temple, the slow climb of his chest against yours.
“Shhh,” he murmured, no teasing this time, just soft, firm reassurance. “I got you, baby. That’s it. Just breathe.”
The second the leather slipped free, your arms dropped limp to the mattress. He caught them before they could fall, brought your hands to his lips, and kissed the raw marks along your wrists. You couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop crying, but not from pain. From everything.
Joel looked down at you, eyes a shade softer now, hand brushing the damp hair from your face. “Still with me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
You nodded weakly; that was all you could manage. He leaned down, kissed your forehead, his lips warm. “Good,” he said, “knew you could handle it.”
Your body felt like it had been hollowed out and refilled with fire - your limbs boneless, chest still rising in shallow, shaky pulls. But he hadn’t moved, not really; he was still inside you, still thick, hard, and heavy where you’d stretched around him, still holding you like you might slip through the mattress if he let go. Joel’s hand slid down your thigh, then to your hip, his thumb dragging gently across the mess between your legs. You flinched due to being oversensitive, but he shushed you quietly, lips brushing your temple.
“Easy,” he said. “You’re alright.”
You were too far gone to answer, still blinking through tears, head lolling against the pillow as you tried to remember what your name even was. But then you felt it: that subtle shift of his hips, the way his cock twitched inside you.
“You really thought I was done with you?” he purred, pulling out slowly. “Not a chance.”
You barely had time to process it before his arms were under you, lifting you like nothing, pulling you into his lap, your legs spread wide over his thighs. He guided you back down onto him with both hands, seating you fully on his cock with one deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs.
Joel groaned against your ear, his breath warm. “That’s it. Just like that. Take me again, baby.”
He didn’t fuck you hard this time. The pace was possessive, grinding up into you with an intimacy that was almost more unbearable than before. You were soaked, and he moved like he wanted to feel every aftershock of your last orgasm ripple around him.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your jaw, one hand slipping between your bodies to rest over your belly, feeling where he pressed deep. “All fucked out, and still lettin’ me take more.”
You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, body trembling in his lap. He rocked up into you slowly, groaning like it hurt, like your body was too good, too tight around him. His hands gripped your hips, guiding the lazy drag of your cunt over him, using your pliant body for every inch of friction he needed.
“That’s it,” he growled, his breath ragged now. “Just sit there and take it. Let me finish inside you.” You whimpered, eyes glassy, legs shaking around him. “You already gave me everything,” he panted. “Let me take the rest.”
His pace faltered - hips jerking, thrusts deeper but sloppier now, no rhythm left, just need. One hand slid to your lower back, the other holding your jaw, making you look at him. “Where’s my good girl?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Let me see you while I fill you up, fuck-”
He was right there, right on the edge, his voice breaking, his grip bruising. “Gonna come,” he warned, but it wasn’t a threat; it was a surrender.
Joel came with a guttural sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest, cock pulsing hard inside you as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a full-body shudder. His arms locked around your waist, his face pressed to your throat, and his hips stuttered through the aftershocks - slow, grinding thrusts to push it in deeper, to make sure you took all of him.
“Could live right here,” he muttered, still seated deep inside you, unmoving. “Right inside you.”
You whimpered, barely able to cling to him as his body slowly relaxed against yours - still holding you open, still keeping every drop inside. When he finally moved, it was carefully. He kissed the side of your throat, then your cheek, and eased you off him with a shaky breath.
“S’okay,” he murmured, holding you steady as you whimpered at the shift. “I got you.”
He didn’t ask if you could walk, just gathered you up in his arms again, your body still slick with sweat and cum and everything you’d given him, and carried you straight into the bathroom, flicking on the light with his elbow. The room was quiet except for your shallow breathing and the soft sounds of water filling the tub.
He set you on the closed toilet lid, still naked and dazed, and crouched in front of you. His hands were gentle now, none of the harsh grip from before, just warm palms smoothing down your arms, brushing damp hair off your forehead, checking your wrists where the belt had been.
“You with me, baby?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just… floaty.”
He smiled a little at that, kissed the inside of your knee. “That’s alright. You stay floaty. I’ll take care of everything.”
The bathwater was steaming by the time he helped you in. He climbed in behind you, pulling you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as the heat soaked into your skin. You exhaled, shaky but comforted, head resting on his shoulder while his hands moved slowly across your body. He washed you without saying a word at first - starting with your arms, your chest, then between your thighs, delicate where you were still sore. Every time you flinched, he adjusted. Every soft gasp earned a whispered “shh, I got you.”
He kissed the top of your head, the curve of your shoulder, his hands still moving. “Did so good for me,” he said quietly. “So goddamn good.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”
Joel huffed a breath. “You don’t even know what you gave me tonight.”
Your chest fluttered at that. You turned your head slightly, cheek against his neck. “I thought I was gonna have to say the safe word.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” you whispered. “Didn’t want to.”
Joel shifted, brushing your damp hair aside to kiss behind your ear. “You trusted me.” His voice dropped. “That means somethin’.”
You nodded slowly. “I meant it. It’s only you.”
Joel’s hand slid back down between your thighs again - not to start anything, just to hold you there, his fingers resting over the place he’d filled. “Still sore?” he asked.
“A little.”
He stayed like that for a while, just holding you under the water, the weight of his arm around your waist like a shield. Then, after a stretch of silence, he spoke. “Next time,” he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “we see how long I can keep you beggin’ without lettin’ you come once.”
You turned your head to look at him, your eyes blown wide, “Next time?”
“Oh, sweetheart. We’re just gettin’ started,” he said as he tipped your chin back gently, eyes fixed on yours like he hadn’t had nearly enough.
warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, awkward confession, adrian's a shitty liar, first kiss, implied that reader has hair, etc.
summary: you decide to buy adrian one of those silly bff matching necklaces, not realizing how much it'd actually end up meaning to him
wc: 3.6k
a/n: this concept has been stuck in my head for days so i might do a pt 2 with smut cuz why not <3
it was mostly a stupid gesture.
you didn't think too much of it, just wanted to do something nice for the guy. everyone else seemed to disregard him a little more often that you felt was acceptable, so you did your best to pick up the slack for them — not that being friends with adrian was anything other than an effortless task.
and so you decided to take on the task of being his best friend.
it wasn't much of a conscious decision. it was more like something that just happened.
you never once verbally named him your best friend out loud, but you felt it was pretty much implicit based on how much time you spent with him, how often you engaged with his senseless rambles. and you truly enjoyed yourself in doing so. adrian might've been a prolific killer, but he was also a funny guy with a heart of gold.
he continued to insist that peacemaker was his best friend, so you never once tried to take that spot. adrian was too much of a sweetheart to rank you in his leaderboard of best friends, so you left it all unspoken.
that was until that aforementioned stupid gesture.
one of those old, plastic and tacky bff necklaces. those meant for 4th graders.
a little pink and blue heart split in two, connected by small magnets found in between. one had a b and an f engraved while the other had the remaining f. together they spelled out one of adrian's favorite acronyms — because, yeah, he had a list of favorite acronyms.
you'd seen it in the midst of shopping for some new earrings and couldn't help but grin to yourself. it instantly made you wonder if adrian ever had some matching piece of apparel with a friend back when he was a kid.
pretty sure that that wasn't the case, the smile left your lips, replaced by a frown. fuck, not even peacemaker wanted him as a best friend. even when adrian did everything he could to make chris happy, he was still easily bumped down the list by eagly, then by adebayo and emilia, followed by john and then you. adrian was easily dead last.
and so you picked it up and took it to a cashier.
maybe he'd find it awkward and see himself forced to remind you that his number one bestie was already peacemaker. but you were sure it'd at least get a smile out of him knowing that you were thinking about him and ranked him first. it was just some dumb gag gift after all. it didn't serve any big purpose other than to get a smile out of your bestie.
(you didn't really buy into that whole idea — you loved all 11th street kids all the same, no ranks, no nothing. adrian just so happened to make your heart beat a little faster than the rest. he was the one you sought out the most).
dumbly enough, you felt a little nervous about giving it to him.
adrian was the least judgmental person you'd ever met, but still, the whole concept of best friends was important business to him. you didn't want to overstep.
still, when you arrived at your little makeshift headquarters, you approached him in what was meant to be his room, necklaces hidden in a fist.
"hey," you called out to him from the door, knocking on it despite it already being open.
he sat on the bed, vigilante suit still mostly on.
"oh, hey! did you wanna watch a movie again? i was thinking a documentary this time- i know they're kinda boring, but i found one on spiders that i thought looked really interesting. i probably already know everything there is to know about spiders, but, i mean, why not," he rambled from his seat on the bed, "we can watch, like, some boring superhero movie, though, if you wanna."
he'd been cleaning his visor when you walked in, sat at the edge of his bed. as he rambled he spoke more animatedly than you'd expect a person to do within a mere three seconds of conversation, making you hold back a smile in the process. he was the lead cause of the intense cuteness aggression you'd been feeling lately.
you nodded, walking off your spot at the door and taking a seat next to him on the bed.
"yeah, we can watch your doc about spiders later, if you want," you turned your body in his direction, "but, actually, i wanted to give you something first."
his head cocked to the side in the same fashion of a curious kitten, bottom lip protruding a little, "you got me something?"
his voice tilted higher, surprised.
nodding, you lifted up your fist, bringing it between you and opening your hand to reveal the necklaces hidden inside it.
"it's just- i saw it, and i thought it was cute. it reminded me of you," you shrugged, "see? it's two halves of a heart. when you put it together-"
"oh my god," he gasped, hand coming to grab at the connected necklaces. the chains were slightly tangled, which he undid delicately with his gloved hands, "this is- oh my god, you got this for me? like, you wanna match with me? or are you, like, just showing me? oh, fuck, wait, i shouldn't assume," he rambled once more, "cause last time peacemaker showed me tickets he had to a show, but he took harcourt instead, and, uh, yeah," he scratched the back of his neck, a little awkward.
his anecdote made you frown. god damnit, chris.
you couldn't really blame him. you doubted he did it on purpose, but still! adrian was more sensitive to these things than he let on. it made you sad to think chris couldn't at least humor him a little.
shaking your head, you took one of the necklaces from his hands, "no, it's for you, silly. who else would i wanna match with other than my best friend?"
adrian made some weird choking sound at that. it was half a gasp, half some word that got stuck in his throat before it could make it out.
"wait, really? like, really really? you wanna- with me?" he smiled widely at you before frowning to himself, "but, peacemaker's my best friend ..."
you shook your head, "adrian, it's fin-"
"no! no, wait. i want it! i'll- screw peacemaker," he scoffed awkwardly, "this shit fucking rocks! i've never had, like, a bff insignia or anything like that," his eyes were entirely focused on the necklace still in his hand, "i'm gonna wear this all the time. everyone's gonna know we're besties- like, number one besties! wait, we are, right? like, this isn't just second rate besties or something? you don't have, like, a fucking golden anklet matching with economos?"
that was a lot to take in, but it still made you giggle at him. it was way too serious to him, but, still, it was a very endearing thing about him.
"no, adrian. you're my one and only bff," you reassured him, "now help me put this on, okay?"
you stood up, urging him to do the same before turning your back to him. uncovering your neck, you turned your head to the side, smiling to your peripherical as you handed him the necklace still in your hand.
behind you, you could feel a stutter in his movements, but you couldn't really blame him. not when you yourself shuddered the moment his fingers graced yours to grab the necklace from your hand.
"oh, uh, yeah, okay! i'll- there!"
turning back around, you beamed at him, showing off the small chain resting on your sternum. the pink half heart shone in the ambient light of his room, making his eyes zero in on it as if in a daze.
"shit," he gasped, "you're like, my bff now, man, wow!"
you giggled at him, gesturing for him to turn around so you could return the favor. he did so happily, head turned to the side to look at you as your fingers graced his neck, clipping the chain on the back of his neck.
when he turned around, his hands went up to your sternum, grabbing the necklace before connecting it to his blue half. a smile took over his face yet again at the sight.
"oh my god, dude, this is the coolest thing ever!" he repeated again, literally bouncing in place, "wait, we can't tell the guys about this. they're gonna be sooo jealous, man."
shaking your head to yourself, you giggled, "let them."
⭒⭒⭒
you mostly forgot about the necklaces after that first exchange. although it became a staple in your every day life, never leaving your neck, you didn't pay much attention to it.
the chain was long enough for it to be hidden under your shirt most of the time, as was adrian's. but you couldn't help but notice its shape perpetually found under his shirt.
he never took it off, and in return, you didn't either.
occasionally, he'd pull out his half, gesturing at you so you could clink them together as if they were two glasses of whiskey. other times, he'd dig for yours and attach the magnets together. it sorta became your thing, and it just so happened to endear you every single time.
it took a while for anyone else to notice the necklaces. they weren't a huge declaration of friendship. they were pretty small, very unnoticeable unless you were actively looking for them.
the first to notice them was harcourt.
her reaction was pretty tame. it'd been just the three of you at the headquarters, with adrian down to a white tank top and his vigilante pants still on.
when she noticed his, she immediately turned to look at you, already connecting the dots. sporting the similarly shaped half heart hiding under your thin top wasn't too difficult. with a lighthearted scoff and a chuckle to herself, she shook her head as you shrugged at her with a smile. it was quietly understood that she found it kiddish, but amusing.
the next member of the crew to notice had been economos, who shared a similar reaction to harcourt.
it had actually been adrian who'd shown it to him, too giddy about it to not tell anyone. economos found it a little dumb, but he didn't really care as long as it wasn't him bearing the other half — those nightly calls were more than enough for him to demonstrate his friendship with adrian.
leota and chris noticed it at the same time, and they had the biggest reactions out of all.
hanging out at the headquarters after a mission, chris had the idea of getting a couple of six packs to celebrate your shared success. everyone relaxed as they were finally able to let their guards down and take in the aftermath.
when you took off your jacket, you'd forgotten how low-cut your shirt underneath was, but chris, being chris, took notice of it immediately.
"nice," he chuckled to himself as he looked to your cleavage.
"hmm, hey, what's that?" asked leota, looking your way. her finger pointed at your general direction, but it was specifically focused on that small piece of metal resting on your sternum.
"hmm?"
"is that one of those little bestie necklaces? those ones you wear in elementary?" there was no judgement in her voice, just amused wonder.
"oh, right. yeah," you nodded.
"wait, who's got the other half?" asked chris.
"it's-"
"me, obviously! i'm her best friend," adrian interrupted, "her number one best friend, by the way. i double checked."
economos sighed to himself, annoyed. emilia wasn't really paying attention.
"oh, adrian, i thought chris was your best friend," leota recalled.
"nope. he's been bumped down to second best friend — sorry, man," he walked over to you, hand perching on your shoulder like you were buds, "couldn't just leave my bff hanging when she got us these kickass bff necklaces."
his smile was wide as per usual. there was that usual liveliness in him, but he looked extra proud of himself. it was like he'd been vibrating with the need to let everyone know that you'd claimed him as your best friend, waiting for the moment the big reveal came to be and he could finally make it official.
to everyone else it was mostly a dumb label he seemed to fixate over as he did with any other thing that caught his interest, but to adrian it felt like cardinal law.
sadly, his pride didn't get to last for too long.
"dude, what? you got fucking friendzoned- no, you got bff-zoned, that's even worse," chris snickered at adrian.
leota slapped his arm with a quiet, "dude!" urging him to shut up.
adrian's smile started to leave his lips, eyes darting between you and chris with a sorta panicked look, "i, uh, i don't know what you're talking about! we're both friendzoned! cause we're both friends — besties!"
but chris didn't really take the hint. neither from leota nor from adrian.
"but i thought you said you couldn't rank her as one of your best friends-"
"i never said that!"
"-because you can't be friends with her-"
"stop! i didn't say any of that," he looked to you, panicked, hands gripping his hair.
"-cause you can't be friends and also date, which, i mean- i think you could, but i don't know if you could pull it off-"
"that's- that totally doesn't sound like something i'd ever say. i think peacemaker had a little too much to drink. over-drinking is prevalent in people our age. it's very sad, i think-"
"what the hell are you talking about?" chris interrupted, confused.
beside him was a defeated leota, who'd been trying to quietly shut him up for adrian's benefit, but had ultimately given up after about the third inference that adrian had a crush on you.
by now, adrian had his hands fisted up as he tried to hide his face behind them, quietly groaning to himself.
economos had spent the entire exchange wincing at the painful interaction from a distance. emilia almost face palmed at what a terrible wing man chris was, partially wondering if he was doing this shit on purpose.
you simply stood there and listened. you felt kind of sorry for adrian as chris aired out what seemed to be a private conversation between them. known to be an airhead, it didn't surprise you coming from chris.
"adrian?" you asked after a few moments of deeply uncomfortable silence.
his head snapped up, eyes a little crazy.
"me? i have to go- i totallyyy forgot i have to hang out with my other friends," he let out, "you guys don't know them. they're super cool. peacemaker was actually talking about one of them just now! yeah- not you! i don't know why he's saying all that stuff. anyway! i need to go, so i'm just gonna leave now. okay! bye!"
with his rambles, he made his exit, bumping into a chair on his way out.
the remaining four of you stood there awkwardly until chris broke the silence again.
"ohhhh! i thought he meant you! — that he was crushing on you! man, i wonder who he was talking about. i mean, crisis averted, right?" he scoffed lightly.
"are you fucking kidding me?" it was emilia this time around.
⭒⭒⭒
going after adrian was faster than you thought.
you didn't have to look far, as he hadn't really left at all. right around the corner of the building, you found him kicking rocks (literally), muttering curses under his breath.
"fuck! what do i even- shit! why did i say that! she's gonna look at me all weird now!" he muttered, all hushed as his eyes cast down to his feet, rocks becoming victims to his stomping, "'he was talking about a different friend' god, adrian, you- you idiot!"
you couldn't help a muted giggle leaving your lips. even when he was angry at himself he was adorable.
the big reveal to a crush didn't quite shock you as much as you would've imagined. maybe it was the incredibly anticlimactic way in which chris had revealed it to the entire room, or perhaps how close you and adrian had gotten since the exchange of those silly necklaces.
it did cross your mind at the time; how adamant adrian was about labels and rankings for his friends. what if he felt like you were boxing him in as a friend once you gave him that necklace?
well, it turned out you were worried about the wrong thing. the poor boy had been secretly agonizing about it, even going as far as airing out his frustrations on the worst recipient ever — which reminded you for the nth time to never trust chris with any private information about you.
"adrian?"
you approached him like a stray dog, afraid that too much would make him run and ruin your chances to put him (and, really, you too) out of his misery.
it was understandable why he'd be embarrassed. hell, you were embarrassed. chris hadn't had any ill will, but he'd put you both on the spot, inadvertent as he aired out yours and adrian's very badly hidden crushes on each other.
his head snapped up, eyes wide and shocked at your sudden appearance. not very vigilante of him. his guards were always down when he was with his friends.
"oh! uh, i was just- i was about to leave. i have to go see that girl- my friend, the girl," he stammered on, an awkward laugh leaving him, "it wasn't you that peacemaker was talking about, by the way," he shook his head to hammer on the point, "hah! i don't even know what he was talking about. anyways, she's, like, super pretty. you'd like her-"
you had to tune him out by then. there was more and more about some nonexistent girl he'd made up on the spot as some sort of scapegoat. a defense mechanism, you assumed. his tendency to lie when panicking wasn't news to you. it was usually a cute aspect of his personality, all the white lies he'd tell to make himself appear cool. but in other occasions it'd get in the way. such as now.
again, you interrupted by saying his name.
"uh, yeah?"
"was peacemaker talking about me?"
"what? i just said no! i don't know why you'd think that! we're besties, remember? besties can't- besties are friends! like, yeah, maybe sometimes i have threesomes with chris, but that's just as friends," he went on, "not that i'm saying we should have threesomes- but, like, unless you want to! anyways, i don't even know what we're talking about-"
you couldn't help rolling your eyes. he'd really be willing to go on and on unless stopped. the only option here was for you to bite the bullet.
two steps were enough to get his attention back on you, making him halt in his endless stammers.
"so you don't like me back?" you cocked your head to the side, lip curling a little.
and for the first time, he stopped, going from his usually expressive gesticulations to a stilled state that gave you whiplash.
"'back' what- what do you mean by 'back'?" he exhaled, "are you pranking me? is peacemaker in on this? he's always teasing me about you- like last week when he kept waving his hand in front of me to stop staring at you, cause 'i looked like a creep,' whatever that means-" he did the quotation marks with his hands, scoffing at the memory.
now a little frustrated that he just would not let you answer, you decided to go for the most overplayed move you could think of. it really seemed to be the only way to get him to stop and listen to you. or, well, acknowledge what you'd been trying to say.
for a seasoned killer, it was easy to catch him off guard, to move him to your liking and press your lips to his. and after the initial touch of lips, it was even easier to get him lost in the kiss. immediately, he melted around you, whimpering at the very first kiss, but sighing once he realized what was happening.
opening your lips, you caught his lower lip between yours, sucking it, kissing it, licking it. you felt the vibration of his pleased sounds against you, making a monster grow within you that itched to draw even more sounds out of him.
fingers entangling in his honey hair, you held him close to you, sighing into his lips and entangling your tongues. his hands had traveled to your waist by then, engulfing as much of you as he could and keeping you pressed against him.
he kissed you like he'd been waiting for the moment. his lips were greedy, taking up all of you in the same way his words usually did. adrian gave all of him in every situation, and this wasn't an exception.
pulling away was a losing battle, as his lips chased after yours until they caught them again. a tiny whine left him as he did so, which simply forced you to kiss him again and again, until you had trouble breathing.
"shit- was that- that really happened, right? fuck- was that a besties thing, or? please tell me it wasn't. unless you wanted it to be a casual thing, in which case, uh, yeah, i can be, you know, cash about it."
it was kind of comedic by now, but still, you shook your head, holding back a smile.
"is that how you kiss your friends?"
"uhhh, no. duh. i never kiss peacemaker when we have threesomes. it's like a rule. it'd be weird to kiss a friend. too intimate-"
and so you kissed him again. this time a little lighter.
"there's your answer, then."
"fuck, thank fucking god," he chuckled, breathless before his eyes widened in alarm once more.
"shit- does this mean i have to give back the necklace?"
summary: just another day of trying to navigate your feelings, discovering a new turn-on, pancakes and your daily dose of crow facts
pairing: adrian chase x fem!reader
word count: 8.3k
tags: 18+ content! minors dni, reader will get healthier tendencies (i promise), kissing, face-sitting, the vigilante suit stays on!!!!, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, rough sex, his fingers will be in your mouth, fluffy ending, kinda obsessed with them ngl, not proofread at all (sorry)
part one | part two
a comment and/or reblog is always appreciated!
main masterlist | dc masterlist
The rest of the day goes by without much else happening. As soon as you storm into your apartment, you throw your jacket on the couch before you’re leaving your keys and phone on the coffee table. Leaving the device face down is a conscious decision, craving just a few hours of complete peace from the outside world.
You don’t want to hear anything about anyone. You don’t want anyone contacting you and trying to disturb you in a moment like this. Not when you desperately need some time to be on your own. Unless there's a spaceship coming down to Earth with beings trying to take over the world or something equality as urgent as that is happening, the outside world better leaves you the fuck alone.
At first, you don't really know what to do in a moment of crisis such as this. Because truly, you couldn't possibly embarrass yourself even more than what you already did today. You couldn't possibly reach a new low even if you tried, because it's already rock bottom at this point. It's like you were trying to see just how many bad decisions you were able to make in the least amount of time possible, until you just didn't know when to stop. And now you're here. Rock bottom.
So, finding absolutely nothing else to do, you start cleaning. Not a casual sweeping of the floors, but more of a ‘I’m cleaning absolutely every corner of this place’ type of deal. It's the only thing that could help to distract you so you don't try to look at your phone in hopes that someone (Adrian) is trying to reach out.
And it works for the most part. If you start thinking about how his breath felt on your neck when he had you trapped underneath the couch, you begin scrubbing the tile walls of your bathroom just a little harder. Whenever the sound of his laugh creeps into your mind, you find a new spot on the window you're cleaning that requires immediate attention. And if you catch yourself fantasizing about what the day would've looked like if you just dared to kiss him that morning in front of the others, you come up with a new idea to relocate your furniture.
By the time you're done, it's already fully night time and you're positively exhausted. But that’s a good thing, because it means you can go to bed earlier than usual and just hope that tomorrow everything feels a little more normal.
Phone still forgotten somewhere (you can't quite remember where after moving it around along with your furniture all afternoon), you decide to make yourself a sandwich so you don't go to bed on an empty stomach. Whatever random show that you can find on the television is enough entertainment while you eat.
It's one of those fictional criminal shows that you definitely don't know the name of, but it's entertaining to watch the detectives trying to catch the killer. You allow yourself two episodes before getting ready for bed. There's something incredibly rewarding about finally being able to be under the comfort of your sheets after such a shitty day. It's going to be twice as rewarding passing out for nine to ten hours, completely disconnected from the outside world, absolutely nothing or anyone being able to disturb you.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
There's a noise outside your room, loud enough for you to wake up, immediately alerted. Without thinking twice about it, you roll out of bed as stealthy as possible, not wanting to alert the intruder that you're already fully aware of their presence.
As if your day could get any fucking worse, someone just had to ruin it a tiny bit more by breaking into your apartment. Great. Just perfect. Exactly what you need right now.
You grab a pocketknife that you keep in your nightstand, just in case you need extra protection against this creep. Some might think you're paranoid for sleeping with a knife right next to you– disturbing, even. But you know you can never be too careful. Especially in this wonderful line of work of yours. Or more like a side-job now, since Amanda Waller decided to be the butt-hurt bitch she always has been and black-list you.
Outside, the intruder is walking further inside your apartment. You can tell they're trying to be discreet, but you still hear the faint footsteps as they get closer and closer to your bedroom.
As soon as they dare to open the door, it's game over. It's a bit dark, but you can still make out their silhouette perfectly. Lunching forward, you grab their arm and twist it just enough, using all your strength to push them to the ground.
The familiar voice startles you, finally allowing yourself to take a closer look at the intruder laying underneath you, completely immobilized. That's when you notice the full-body suit with a sprinkle of teal.
“Adrian?” you ask in disbelief, immediately letting him go.
He takes a few rapid breaths, rolling around until he's fully on his back now, not standing up from the ground just yet. “Holy shit, I thought you were going to kill me!”
“What the fuck are you doing here?! And why did you break into my apartment?”
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay! I tried texting and calling you after you left but you weren't answering your phone. At first I thought maybe you were ignoring me so I didn't think much of it, but then I asked the others if they’d heard anything from you, but they couldn't reach you either.”
“And so you broke into my apartment,” you insist, still not finding any reasonable explanation as to why this would be his first instinct.
“Well…yeah. Just so I could make sure you weren't kidnapped. Or dead. I tracked your phone and it was here, so… if someone took you from your house, I'd be logical that I’d start here to gather some clues!”
“You keep track of my phone?”
“I keep track of all of your phones. But I’m not keeping track of what everyone is doing every second of the day, I’m not a creep! I just use it for emergencies like this one– well, turns out this isn't an emergency, but…if it was, I would already be rescuing you from a bad guy's secret layer.”
You let out a tired sigh, taking a seat at the edge of your bed almost at the same time as he's finally standing up from the ground, swinging his arm a few times in hopes that the discomfort from your attack will disappear faster if he does.
“You know, in my defense, I wasn't going to come here at first, but after I got out of work I decided to do a little late-night patrol in case there were some bad guys out there that needed to die– that's when I decided to stop by in case you needed help.”
“Well, I don't need help. I just wanted to log off for a while.”
“Right,” he mutters, standing awkwardly in the middle of your room. “I’m sorry.”
You really don't want to start any sort of unpleasant back and forth, so you decide not to lash out any further. “Don't worry about it,” you reply in a much calmer voice, shrugging. “I appreciate the concern, I guess.”
There's a brief silence before he speaks again. “I’m not just sorry about breaking in, you know.”
You don't dare to look at him, simply nodding your head. You don't even know if he can see you that well through his visor. “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” you offer, voice laced with a level of vulnerability that almost makes you want to find a way to escape this yet again. Like the fucking coward you are.
Another silence. You don't dare to look up and he doesn't dare to move. Even when you know you should probably feel at least some level of awkwardness due to the prolonged silence, the comfort of having him around is a lot stronger.
He is one of your best friends after all. No matter how blurred the lines get or the many instances of miscommunication, he's still someone you care for a lot. Of course you don't like feeling like there's something off between you.
“Can I sit?” he asks eventually.
“Sure.”
He walks towards your bed like he fears you'd twist his arm and throw him to the ground again. It's only when you feel the mattress sinking with his weight that you finally look up at him, just in time to watch him take off his mask.
You keep looking at him as he tries his best to fix the messy curls at the top of his head, reaching for his glasses inside a compartment in his suit. Even now, in a darkened room and uncertain waters, you can't help but notice he's ridiculously gorgeous. It's almost annoying to feel this much towards him.
“I shouldn't have spied on you and Chris earlier,” he says out of nowhere, seemingly unaware that you were staring at him. “That was a bit creepy of me. I’ll admit it.”
“I appreciate that you're apologizing, but it's really not necessary,” you reply, offering him a tentative smile. “If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. Like, I don't know how many apologies I owe you at this point.”
“Not that many,” he replies in a much lighter voice. He almost sounds like he usually does, which brings an inexplicable sense of familiarity that you've been craving since you sang together in his car. “Besides, it's all forgiven on my part, so you don't really have to apologize either.”
The fact that he's so willing to forgive you when you clearly don't deserve it tugs at something within you. It makes you feel even worse somehow, but it also kinda reminds you why you’ve grown to like him so much. “No, but I do. Because I really am sorry for the way I’ve treated you.”
He looks a bit taken aback by the sheer honesty in your voice, not knowing how to answer at first. Perhaps he also didn’t expect to finally find some sort of bridge between the two of you to communicate about what the hell has been going on lately.
“I forgive you,” he insists, shrugging. He looks a bit awkward, but you figured it’s because he also doesn’t have a clue of what he’s doing. “Maybe I should’ve acted differently? I don’t know. I actually have no fucking idea what’s been happening in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, I get that,” you offer sympathetically, sighing softly. “There’s a lot that I would’ve done differently for sure. Turns out I’m an even bigger mess than I thought.”
“Hey, would you really be an 11th Street Kid if you weren’t fucked in the head?”
The comment manages to make you laugh. “I guess that’s kind of our thing.”
Another silence. Your eyes wander across the room until they focus on his profile again, noticing he’s also taking in every detail of your bedroom– or at least most of what he can make out in the dark. If you could take a look inside his head, you'd probably see the gear in his brain overworking itself in hopes of trying to come up with something to say to spare himself from the uncertainty of pure silence.
When he looks back at you, the only thing you can do at that moment is smile at him. He already caught you staring, so what’s really the point of trying to act like you weren’t.
“What?” he asks, a soft laugh escaping him.
You shrug nonchalantly. “Nothing. I’m just looking at you.”
“That’s creepy too.”
“Yeah, I think it is. I’m sorry.”
Now he’s the one shrugging. “I never said it was a bad thing. Just creepy.”
“Oh, so you don’t mind that I look at you?”
“Of course not. I like when you look at me.”
It’s actually unfair how much his words manage to impact you. An overflowing warmth spreads through your body, stomach fluttering as you find it impossible to keep looking at him. Is he really making you this nervous just with that little comment? Does he really have this much power over you to leave you a complete mess with barely any efforts?
“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” he says, immediately making you look back at him again. He looks troubled. It’s not like he’s the best at reading other people’s emotions, so he really can't tell if your silence is a good or a bad thing.
“No, no. It’s fine!” you reassure him quick enough. “I just…I wasn't expecting you to say that.” The little giggle that escapes you only helps to make you feel even more embarrassed, because at this point it’s painfully obvious what he’s doing to you. “This is a good reaction, actually.”
“Oh!” he says with obvious relief. “It’s– okay. Am I, like, making you nervous or something?”
You struggle to answer at first, because admitting shit like this is definitely not something you’re used to. “Yeah, and you’re kinda making it worse with that question.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn't really mean it. You can hear it in the way he apologizes. He looks way too happy with that information to feel sorry about it. “If it helps to make you feel any better, I get nervous around you all the time– wait, am I really making you nervous?”
The fact that he seems unable to process what you just admitted to him makes you chuckle. “Why is it so hard to believe?”
“I don't know, you're just not the type to get nervous. You're too much of a badass for that.”
“Well, I might not be too much of a badass when it comes to this,” you reply in an even softer voice, feeling like you're stepping way out of your comfort zone. But it's worth it– he is worth it, so you just roll with it.
“This…” he trails off, looking like he wants a further explanation.
“Us. Whatever that's going on between us, and that I’ve tried to run away from since last night– perhaps even longer than that.” As nerve-wracking as saying all of this is, it feels like a massive weight is being lifted off your shoulders. “I don't know. I’m not really good at…expressing myself, but– but I guess I can't keep trying to act like I don't feel some type of way about you.”
If he looked excited before, now he looks like he might actually begin cheering out loud. “Really?” he asks almost immediately, scooting closer to you. “Because I like you a lot. Like, a ridiculous amount. Sure, I said we could be just friends and all that, but…I like you in a so not-friend way! And how could I not be into you? I mean…look at you!”
His excited little ramble is probably one of the cutest things you've witnessed, immediately making you smile. “I actually don't understand how you even like me.”
“You want me to list everything out loud?” he offers it genuinely, like he’s fully capable of pointing out every single reason. You don't doubt that he can.
“Perhaps some other time,” you reply, voice trying to convey just how much you're craving his affection right now. He looks in complete awe when you move closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Now I just really want to kiss you.”
You don't need to say anything else. In a matter of seconds, he has an arm wrapped around your waist and he pulls you impossibly closer. A little gasp escapes you at the unexpected force practically dragging you to his lap, but you're soon enough comfortably straddling him, mouth crashing against his.
He holds you like he hasn't had the chance to in years, hands firmly pressed against your back as he keeps you glued to his body. The kiss, although undeniably passionate, is slow and intentional. Like it's okay to take your time and enjoy it, because there's absolutely nothing in this world that could be more important than being like this right now.
There's something special about this moment. It makes your head spin and your entire body ache for him as if you're not currently on his lap and in between his arms. Not like what already has happened between the two of you didn't mean anything, but there's this extra layer of fulfillment now that's it's already painfully clear that you like him and he likes you.
It feels like you might actually allow yourself to fully give in to this feeling that you’ve been trying to outrun.
But you sense a bit of hesitation in him when he pulls away from the kiss, looking back at you. “Are you completely sure? Like…you’re not going to backtrack later? Because I don’t think I can–”
You quiet his worries with a short kiss, offering him a smile immediately after. “I’m completely sure.”
It’s like your words make all his restraint snap, immediately pulling you back into a seething kiss that confirms you’re making the right decision by finally choosing him. Not your fears, or pride, or weird need to try to control a situation that’s quite literally out of your control. How do you control the inevitable pull that forces you to be close to him whenever he’s around? How do you trick yourself into thinking his random animal facts don't make your heart melt because he’s just so cute when he gets all excited sharing them with you? How are you going to control yourself after knowing how good his mouth feels against yours?
There’s just no way you can run away from this. It was going to catch up to you sooner or later, so you might as well just let it happen.
Your brain is deprived of any trace of logical thinking when he groans into your mouth, holding you impossibly tight against the hard front of his suit. One of his hands trails down your spine, resting at the very end of your back, giving you the slightest of encouragements as another sound dies against your lips.
The first few rolls of your hips make him pull away from your mouth, eyes locking almost immediately. You’re not entirely sure if he can feel much in his suit, but the simple act of having you moving on top of him seems to be more than enough.
He presses kisses along your jaw, muttering a few things here and there. “You’re so pretty”. “Does it feel good?”. “I’m fucking crazy about you”. Each whisper against your skin makes you feel more and more lightheaded, the process of breathing just a little more difficult, and the urgency of your movements increases.
And then another whisper. One a lot more rushed. Desperate. “I want you to sit on my face.” It sends actual shivers down your spine. “Please.”
There’s no way you can refuse. Not when he asks you in that tone and you can notice the excitement exuding from him in anticipation if you were to agree.
He looks like he just won the fucking lottery or something when you stand up from his lap, seemingly agreeing with his request. You want to remove the joggers you’ve put on to sleep but he beats you to it, sitting at the very edge of your bed as he slowly slides them down your legs, eyes glued to yours as he does it. You can’t quite process just how hot he looks in his suit, looking up at you like that with the tiniest grin on his lips.
A little breathy sound erupts from your lips when he inches his face closer, pressing a kiss to your hipbone while his hands keep a strong grip on your thighs, squeezing your flesh in a way that immediately threatens to make your knees buckle.
Adrian only moves away from you when he’s hurriedly trying to get rid of as much gear as possible– gun holster, belt and the blade strapped to his back all joining his mask on the floor. You almost want to say something about the way he just casually throws his gun like it’s nothing, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything that would distract you from this moment.
Back fully pressed against the mattress now, he waits for you like you’re about to give him the most amazing present ever. Perhaps you are. He watches in awe as you climb in bed with him and, although there’s nothing that you want more than to feel his mouth on you, the situation still makes you feel a tiny bit embarrassed. The hesitation within you is probably evident in the way you press both knees at each side of his face, sinking your body almost tentatively.
If he detected some of that embarrassment, he doesn’t acknowledge it. And if he did, he doesn’t allow you to dwell too much on it because his gloved hands are quickly gripping your hips to bring you down to his face in one swift, urgent move. A low groan vibrates against you almost immediately, and you watch with delightful surprise how he quite literally buries his face in you.
It’s like he’s been waiting a long time to fulfill this particular fantasy of his, showing his gratitude to you and the entire universe for this opportunity in the form of eager swirls of his tongue and needy moans. Like a man starved, almost at the brick of death, he devours you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. Like he can’t possibly get enough now.
The rapid movements of his tongue and the way his nose keeps sliding against your clit overwhelms you, and it's so incredibly intense that you have to hold onto the headboard of your bed, your entire body shuddering as the most painful moan rips from your throat. The grip on your hips only gets tighter when you try to rock your hips against his face because he wants to do all the work.
The light coming from the lamppost outside is enough to catch a glimpse of his face– the part that you can see, at least. His glasses are fogging and he barely allows himself a few moments to breathe before he dives right in.
Your moans only increase in volume, hoping your poor neighbors aren't hearing any of this. Each sound is laced with desperation, his mouth doing wonders and driving you closer and closer to your sweet release. The obscene sounds and scenery before you aren't doing you any favors either. And the fact that his own groans of delight keep vibrating against the most sensitive parts of your body might just make this that much difficult for you.
So, really, the possibilities of holding back your orgasm were very slim. When you do surrender to the indescribable feeling his mouth is providing, it's intense and almost painful. Your hands grip the headboard so tight, you fear you might actually manage to break it somehow. Thighs tremble just enough, but his gloved hands provide enough support so you don't fully collapse on top of him.
He gladly accepts every last drop of his work’s efforts, his once merciless tongue just now slowing down to give you room to come down from your high. The tight grip on your hips only loosens when he notices your breathing has become steady enough.
Your mouth finds his own as soon as you reposition yourself on top of him, chest fully pressed to his and knees at each side of his body. A soft moan escapes you when you taste yourself on his tongue, fingers gently tugging at his curls as the kiss deepens.
“That was just…” he says as soon as you pull away from his lips, slightly out of breath. “It was…so much better than I anticipated. It's like you're a dream come true.”
“I think I should be the one saying all that,” you offer with a soft giggle, enjoying the way his hands run up and down your bare thighs. “And you know…you might be even more dangerous that I originally thought.”
“Dangerous?” he asks with the most nom-dangerous smile you've ever seen. “How am I dangerous?”
“You might be a little too good at this, and then I’ll want to fuck you every second of the day.”
His smile only widens at that, letting out a silly little chuckle. “You say that as if it's a bad thing.” And then, before you even have time to process what he's doing, he flips you over so he can be on top now. “I’d gladly stay like this with you forever.”
“Well, I’d prefer it if you have less clothes on.” You notice he looks down, almost as if he’s just now remembering that he's still fully dressed. “I mean, not like the suit isn't doing it for me, but…”
He leans down to give you a quick kiss on the lips. “You want me to fuck you with the suit on?”
The question stuns you at first. Then, you look away from him just for a few seconds, almost as if you're thinking about it. “I guess I wouldn't mind if you decide to do that.”
“Wait, are you serious? I didn't know you liked the suit.”
“Now you do,” you offer, shrugging innocently. He looks pleasantly surprised. “Do with that information what you will.”
He can't resist the urge to kiss you again, smiling against your lips. “You're fucking amazing.”
Despite wanting to keep making out with him, he stands up from the bed before you can do anything about it, extending his hands to you so he can help you stand up. You don't fully decipher what he's planning until you're on your feet again and Adrian is immediately pulling you close, guiding you towards your desk. It's right by the window and it barely has anything on the surface, so he wastes no time as he lifts you up just enough, helping you take a seat on top of it.
“I think you get a better look from here, right?” he asks, standing right in front of you.
The lighting from outside cascades perfectly upon him. Your eyes trail down the black and teal suit, admiring how it looks on him, fingers mindlessly tracing patterns on the armor plate at his shoulder. Is there something about him breaking into your apartment in the middle of the night that's making it for you right now? Whatever it is, it’s turning you on more than you’d like to admit out loud.
Adrian hurriedly works on getting rid of his pants, sliding them down to about the middle of his thighs. You watch the sheer desperation in his eyes as he inches closer, trying to find enough self control to slide inside you as gently and slowly as possible.
His eyes close as he lets out a shuddering sigh of relief when the first few inches of him are finally inside you. “Fuck,” he mutters, a hand at your lower back to keep you in place at the very edge of the desk.
You moan in response, eyes glued to where your bodies merge and feeling like you might actually lose your mind if he pretends to move this slow the entire time. When he bottoms out, he allows himself some time to savor the feeling. Arms wrapped around you, lips placing soft kisses on your shoulder. It's only when he feels the way you wiggle your hips that his eyes find yours again.
“You're being a little impatient,” he comments playfully, allowing you one thrust of his hips that almost makes you gasp. “It looks like you really like the suit.”
“It's not just the suit,” you reply almost immediately, placing a hand at the back of his neck, trying to reach his lips. He complies, leaning down to kiss you. “Fuck me,” you half-demand, half-plead against his lips. “Please, Adrian, I need you…”
His mouth crashes against yours almost at the same time as his hips begging to move at a speed that would have you screaming if it wasn't for his tongue in your mouth. If you ask him to fuck you, then that's exactly what you're going to get. It's rough, intense and it has both of you moaning pathetically into each other's mouth. The desk underneath you squeaks just a little, and you fear it's going to break if Adrian decides to keep this up.
But he doesn't stop. He can't bring himself to slow down now. Not when you've asked one thing of him and he's just so eager to please you in any way that he can. You feel one of his hands playing with your breasts, sneaking underneath your tank top, and you immediately lean into the rough touch of his gloves. The other stays at your lower back, almost wanting to angle your hips so he's able to go as deep as he possibly can.
“Like– is this okay?” he asks against your mouth, completely out of breath, a throaty groan leaving his lips right after. “Doesn't hurt?”
You shake your head. “Feels so good…don't stop.”
“Okay…okay, okay. Just making sure. I won't stop…won't stop until– fuck! until I make a mess of you.”
And he keeps that promise, pounding into you like his life depended on it. You catch a glimpse of his little smirk before your eyes roll to the back of your head. It's like Adrian already knows what to look for to see if you're close or not, because as soon as you do that, his hand trails down in between your bodies, urgently rubbing your clit to help you reach your orgasm faster.
You have to kiss him again when you come, preventing you from potentially waking up every single person living in this building. Legs shudder at each side of him, walls squeezing him for dear life. It's like you're floating, completely lost in a haze of pleasure that you didn't even know was reachable until this point.
Who knew he could fuck like this?
Luckily enough, his movements slow down to let you regain some composure, but it's hard to fully recover when he's still thrusting in and out of you, making you tremble a little whenever his tip brushes against your sensitive spot.
You move back from his lips, leaning into his touch when his hand is holding the side of your face. “Are you okay?”
It's almost annoying that he dares to ask that after almost splitting you in half– almost, because your stomach flutters at his sudden gentleness so you can really be annoyed by it.
“Okay is an understatement,” you reply with a lazy grin, which makes him chuckle briefly.
His fingers are trailing your jaw now, eyes sparkling with just a pinch of mischief. “So you can give me one more?”
As if you didn't already know what he means by that, he rolls his hips more vigorously this time, scanning your reaction. It makes you whimper, still not entirely composed yet, but you nod regardless.
That characteristic grin of his appears on his face, gradually speeding his thrusts. “Yeah?”
You couldn't answer that even if you wanted to. Not verbally, at least, because almost as soon as he asks, two of his gloved fingers are sliding inside your mouth. He watches in awe how you take his fingers, sucking on them as he presses them against your tongue.
“That's so hot,” he mutters, the words coming out with difficulty as he keeps thrusting in and out of you. “I think you were– fuck, like you made for me.”
You don't know for sure what the answer to that might be, but there must be some truth to it because there's just no way this whole entire thing is some good-timed coincidence. There's nothing coincidental about the way you feel about him, or how much this affection you feel towards him just keeps growing the more you allow yourself to drown yourself in it.
You're not a sucker for destined soulmates and corny shit like that, but maybe there's something that was tying you to him long before you realized the two of you ever being anything more than friends was even a possibility.
He urges your hips up just a little more, letting out a shuddering moan when he feels the slightest shift in angle, keeping his eyes glued to the sight of his cock disappearing inside you.
Still sucking on his fingers, you only realize he's probably close when his thrusts slow down just briefly, like he has to make sure he's not about to release his load inside you right at that very moment. The sight of him looking at the bridge of collapse makes you clench around him, which only works to make him crumble a little more.
He gives you his last series of thrusts, your orgasm and his almost in sync. You would've probably fallen backwards if he didn't immediately wrap both arms around you, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath.
“Is it me or does this get better each time?” he asks after a few seconds of complete silence. Still buried deep within you, not daring to move just yet. Before you can actually answer, he keeps talking. “Wait. I think I might need a third to test my theory– and a fourth, just for further research.”
“Oh, that was very smooth,” you tease, letting out a soft chuckle.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Next morning, your bed feels surprisingly empty, like Adrian didn’t sleep there beside you at all. Sure enough, you reach out with your arm, still a bit sleepy, finding nothing but the covers and the mattress. Before confusion and a weird sense of longing starts to creep in, you sit up on your bed and notice the suit is still on the chair he left it on last night, which means he has to be here.
You get up, using the bathroom to pee and wash your face before leaving your room in search of Adrian. It's not like your apartment is that big, so you quickly find him in the kitchen. “Good morning?” you greet him in a questioning voice, wondering what the hell he is doing.
As soon as he turns around, you can tell he's disappointed. “Oh…good morning– sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” he replies, quickly realizing his lack of enthusiasm. “I really wanted to surprise you!”
“I am surprised,” you reply, eyeing your surroundings with curiosity. He's wearing your kitchen apron on top of his white tank top and boxers. There's hot coffee on your coffee machine and a pile of pancakes on a plate next to the frying pan he's using. “Are you making breakfast?”
“Yes, that was the surprise. I wanted to wake you up with breakfast in bed, but…well, you're awake already.”
You're not sure if you're actually awake because this feels so surreal, you might as well be dreaming. Is he really standing in your kitchen making pancakes and coffee for you? Even when the whole thing feels incredibly weird, you can deny the domestic element of it all is almost…comforting. Like you enjoy the idea of waking up to this, and maybe you wouldn't be opposed to this becoming a somewhat recurring thing.
But you don't address any of it. Instead, you walk towards the coffee machine and grab two mugs from your cupboard. “I didn't picture you as a cooking type-of-guy.”
“Trust me, I have many hidden talents. I’m actually a decent cook, I just don't do it very often– oh, expect rice. I cannot for the life of me cook rice.”
You can't hold back your laughter, that comforting feeling inside you only growing with each second that you spend in his presence. At first you feared waking up together could be a little awkward, but it's proven to be the complete opposite.
“Do you want any sugar?”
“Yes, please. Five.”
“You drink your coffee with five tablespoons of sugar?” you ask, surprise evident as you turn to look at him. “Like…regularly?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m not obsessed with coffee or anything, so I’m not drinking it every single day. And I need to have it that way because if it has less than five sugars, it’s going to taste like dirt.”
“I don't remember you asking for sugar at Em’s apartment.”
“I didn't want the others to give me shit for it– which you're kinda doing now, by the way.”
“I’m sorry, do you feel judged?” you tease, noticing how his grin widens when he turns to look at you.
“Very. That's why I didn't want to share my secret with the others. I thought this was a safe space, but maybe I was wrong.”
“Oh my god, you're so dramatic,” you laugh yet again, grabbing the sugar and pouring exactly the amount that Adrian requested. No wonder he's so hyperactive if a black coffee with five sugars is the thing he drinks to start his day.
He flips over the last pancake, cooking it for a few more seconds before placing it on the plate with the others. He makes his way to you, arms wrapping around you from behind. You feel him kiss the top of your head, but you don't react. In fact, you're actually stunned because this whole thing is completely new to you. Sure, you've had a few guys over at your place, but they usually leave that very same night or as soon as they wake up in the morning. It's never making you breakfast and hugging you from behind.
It's not like you don't want to react to all of these gestures, it's more like you don't know how.
So, the only thing that pops inside your head is to offer him his cup of coffee. Luckily, he doesn't seem to notice how much you're overthinking everything as he quickly accepts it, letting you go. “Thanks.” He took a sip to taste its sweetness, nodding in approval.
You take a sip of your own coffee too, turning around so your lower back is pressed against the counter. There's this silence between you, him looking at you while you keep the mug near your lips as if it could shield you from any potential display of physical affection.
“Should we eat?I kinda want to rank these pancakes.” It’s the first thing that you can come up with to distract you from your complicated feelings.
He laughs, silently agreeing as he walks towards your small dining table. There's enough space for two people to eat comfortably, so you move the large plate with the pancakes to it before looking for plates for the two of you.
“You want butter?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Can you grab it from the fridge, please? I think I have some syrup left in that cupboard up there, too.”
“Got it.”
Again, this sentiment of familiarity is becoming way too overwhelming, forcing you to rapidly grab everything to take a seat across from him, as if that could possibly provide any form of security– security from what? You don’t exactly know the answer to that.
He watches you take your first bite, grinning in anticipation as he leans forward. “So? Are they approved despite your unreachable standards?”
“Hey, I never said I had unreachable standards,” you argue back almost immediately once you've swallowed your food. “They're actually very good. Congratulations.”
He leans back on his chair, seemingly satisfied. In fact, that would be an understatement. He looks like you just made his entire day with that compliment. “Now I know what to make you for breakfast,” he replies, crossing his arms. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex when he does that. Why doesn't he wear these tight, sleeveless tops more often? Or perhaps it's better if he doesn't. That way you’re the only one who gets to witness the mouthwatering sight that is sitting before you.
As hot as his muscles look, you get immediately distracted when he speaks again. “Hey, do you want to hear a new crow fact I learned recently?”
He looks far too excited to say no. Besides, you've grown to appreciate his animal facts. “Sure.”
“They can remember human faces! Which means, they’re nice or mean to you depending if they liked you or not. And if they don't like you, they can tell their crow friends to be mean to you as well.”
“And how do I know if a crow likes me or not?”
“Well, if they don't try to poke you in the eye, you're all good. I think they can even, like, bow if they think you're cool. That's sick, right?” he keeps grinning from ear-to-ear, getting way too carried away about the crows. “They're one of the coolest animals. I’d like to meet one someday– maybe I can get them to be my friend! It'd be just like Eagly.”
The rest of your breakfast consisted of hearing more animal facts (mostly about crows and spiders). You don't know exactly which of them are true and which he completely fabricated, but you don't care. He looks pretty rambling like that.
Adrian offers to wash the dishes and you can't help but find the entire dynamic absolutely diabolical. It's like he wants to give you a mental breakdown. And that fucking tank top just does this a trillion times worse. He probably has no idea how hot he looks right now, which makes him even more attractive.
You watch him in silence, thinking to yourself how did you even end up in this situation. Adrian stayed over last night (after fucking your brains out) and you're loving every second of his presence. Like you wouldn't mind if he decides to stop by your apartment a lot more often.
He catches you staring, offering you a smile before taking the latex gloves off. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
Shit.
“Okay.”
“When you were at Peacemaker's house– without me, by the way, which still hurts– you said you were talking about me, right? What exactly did you guys talk about?”
He's standing right in front of you, and you feel like you have no way to escape now. “Just…you know, what we talked about yesterday about– uh, about me feeling…things.”
“Right,” he nods, looking just a tiny bit impatient. “And just to make sure we’re on the same page here, how do you feel about me, exactly? I mean, I don't mean to be pushy or anything, it's just that…sometimes you're a bit undecipherable.”
You look up into his eyes, feeling like your lungs are running out of oxygen and your stomach is twisting into a series of complicated knots. “I like spending time with you. And it's…you know, I like being around you. I feel…safe.”
Your words make him smile, and you can actually see the slight flush in his cheeks. It's the cutest thing you've ever seen. “Well, I also like spending time with you. And I feel everything when you're around. All sunshine and rainbows and cute little animals singing and shit– that's how my head probably looks like right now.”
Despite the laughter that erupts from you after his words, you can't help but feel a heavy weight on your shoulders. He’s always been so vocal and honest about whatever that's on his mind, you don't doubt he'll be just as expressive when it comes to his feelings for you if you were to give each other a chance. That's just how he is.
But you can't help but feel a little guilty, because that's exactly the type of person you aren't. You struggle with that whole thing. Expressing your feelings in a healthy way and all that. You're the kind of person that freaks out when someone wants to do something nice for you. If they get too close, you inevitably create distance. Again, not because you want to, but because that's how you've always been. That is who you are.
“You're doing that again.”
Adrian's words make you snap out of it almost immediately. “What?”
“That thing you do…like you're putting up hard steel walls around your head so no one can know what's up there.” He lightly taps the side of your head, hoping that the conversation remains light and honest. You can tell he's starting to get a bit worried that you'd decide to push him away again.
And you do feel that need to run away, but for once, you try to ignore it. “It's just that I’m a very difficult person emotionally. And this whole thing is reaaally making me step out of my comfort zone and I don't think I can handle it. I don't want to hurt you just because I don't know how to handle my fucking feelings.”
He offers you a soft smile that you find instantly comforting. “Hey, I’m not the most stable person either. Peacemaker always says that I’m ‘too much’, and maybe I am. But you said you like spending time with me, right? Even when I'm too much.”
“Yeah, I kinda like that you're too much,” you nod, a bit uncertain on where this is going, but choosing to hear him out.
“I like that you're difficult emotionally! I mean, not like that's exclusively what I like– and, you know, maybe there's some room to improve there. Therapy and all that…” He notices he's starting to ramble a little, lightly shaking his head before continuing. “My point is, I don't care about that, because at the end of the day I still like you a lot. And if you give me a chance…you know, this might work. We make sense in a weird way– or maybe we don't make any fucking sense all at, I don't know. But we make sense to me, so…” he lets out an almost exhausted sigh, as if he's fearing he might not be able to quiet your worries. “If you could just give me a chance…”
You don't know how to answer at first. He looks so desperate for you to just give him the opportunity to prove to you just how much sense this all makes in his head. Again, he's looking at you like you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand and you don't really know what to do with that information. It's terrifying to have that responsibility, but it also fuels you with a sense of purpose– like you're willing to do everything to prove to him that he's putting his trust in the right hands.
Maybe he mistakes your prolonged silence as a bad sign, because he starts talking again almost immediately. “You know, we could go slow with the whole PDA thing. We don't have to be calling each other corny names all the time or holding hands– hell, I struggle with human contact from time to time so even I will need space sometimes. And– and, you know, it's not like I need words of affirmation every five seconds so we’re cool there too, and–”
“Adrian,” you cut him off, finding his rambling incredibly adorable but also a bit overwhelming.
“Sorry. I’m just– sorry. It's your turn to speak.”
“My thoughts are a lot more precise,” you offer with a smile, hoping that could ease some of his concerns. “I was just going to say that maybe we can give this a try and see how it goes.”
You swear you've never seen him this happy before. It's like right up there with the time Chris sent him that video of a squirrel jumping from one tree to the other with the “this reminds me of you” text. Or the time he saw an owl outside his window and he bombarded the group chat with pictures and then just wouldn't shut up about it for two weeks straight.
“Wait, really?” he asks, almost unable to hold back his excitement as he jumps up and down on his spot. “Do you absolutely mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it. If we can respect and adapt to each other's pace, then I think this can work.”
“Fuck yeah, it'll work!” he exclaims, making you laugh again. “We’re basically couple goals! We’re badass, we fight crime, you're super hot and I’m completely obsessed with you.”
Still laughing, you wrap your arms around his neck and he immediately responds by placing both hands on your hips, pulling you in. Your giggles are only stopping when he leans down to kiss you. Completely melting into his touch, you return the kiss with equal fervor and affection.
It's passionate, but so incredibly sweet at the same time that you're almost unable to process it. From breakfast to this kiss, you haven't been able to process any of it. This guy is absolutely down bad, and it's actually mind-blowing how you were able to find this kind of affection that you never really thought to be deserving of. Maybe you do deserve it, and he might actually be able to help you believe that.
So, you know what? Fuck yeah. This will work.
previous part
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summary: after a few more instances of poor decision-making an a conversation with your emotional support bestie, you might finally be ready to admit how you feel about adrian (read part one here)
pairing: adrian chase x fem!reader, chris smith x fem!reader (platonic)
word count: 8.3k
tags: no smut in this part but the whole series is intended for 18+ folks only, angst, still not one feeling is confessed, reader struggles with commitment, chris and reader being besties, mention of drug use (not reader), alcohol consumption, reader meets adrian's mom!!, jealous!adrian, they're both just so dramatic (for the plot)
note: i might've gotten way too attached to this fic so this might become a whole series that somewhat follows the plot of season 2. i have my final law exam in like two weeks but writing fics is like therapy in this trying times so maybe i fully collapse and write like two words or i start uploading like crazy lmao we'll see!
part one | part three
a comment and/or reblog is always appreciated!
main masterlist | dc masterlist
You wake up the next morning when you hear a faint conversation taking place nearby. Eyes fluttering open, your brain starts registering your surroundings. Daylight coming from the windows, the smell of coffee invading the entire apartment, and your arm loosely wrapped around Adrian.
Luckily your head isn’t hurting as much as it could considering how much you drank last night. The voices you were hearing come from Emilia and Adebayo chatting in the kitchen. John is probably still passed out in the bathtub. Adrian is apparently still asleep, but you soon realize he’s probably only half asleep when he pulls you close as soon as he feels you moving away from him.
“I want to get up,” you mutter to him, but you only get a sleepy groan as a reply, still refusing to let you go. “Adrian.”
“Stay.” His voice comes out in a soft whisper that definitely shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. It really shouldn’t make you want to stay snuggled up to his side for as long as he wants.
“Come on,” you insist, trying to get rid of his embrace. He groans and tries to keep you glued to him for a few more seconds before he eventually gives up, his grip around your body loosening enough for you to stand up from the recliner. He moves, almost as if he's trying to find the comforting feeling of your body pressed against his again, eyes still closed as he allows himself just a few more minutes of rest.
Your friends are already looking at you from the kitchen, but immediately pretend like they weren’t staring when you look back at them. “Good morning. Do you want coffee?” Emilia asks, turning around towards her coffee machine.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll just– is John still in the bathtub?”
Adebayo turns to look at you now, a glass of water sitting in front of her on the counter. “Yup. We should probably wake him up.”
“Alright. I’m on it.”
The bathroom door is wide open, and the first thing you see is John sleeping peacefully inside the bathtub, a pillow preventing his head from hitting the cold tiles. You can’t help but frown when you realize he’s not wearing any pants, but you quickly decide to ignore that little detail. Who are you to judge the decisions of a drunken individual, anyway?
You try to wake him by gently shaking his shoulder, which soon enough proves to be unsuccessful because he keeps sleeping completely unbothered. It's only when you're practically punching him in the arm that he's finally opening his eyes. It genuinely looks like he's coming back to life, which is partially disturbing.
“Ouch!” he grunts, eyes barely open as he tries to adjust to the light.
“Sorry, you just weren't waking up.”
“I meant my head,” he mutters, frowning even more when he looks down at his bare legs. “Where the fuck are my pants?”
“Uh…didn't you take them off?”
“Not that I remember. I’m pretty sure I had them on when I got in the bathtub.”
“Not like I want to point fingers,” you start casually, your toothbrush already in your hand, “but Adrian was the last one to see you last night– well, and Emilia, but I doubt she has anything to do with your missing pants.”
John sighs tiredly, leaning his head back against the pillow. “Why does he have to be so weird and creepy?”
You offer him a shrug before turning towards the sink, looking at your reflection as you brush your teeth. Eyes locking immediately on the purple spots on your neck, you’re immediately thinking back on what happened last night. Not only the sex, but what happened after– especially what happened after. How you were dumb enough to blur the lines like that.
It was a very stupid thing to do, because there's absolutely no scenario where the two of you end up together. No fucking way. You’re just too unavailable and he’s ridiculously available. How is that ever going to work? It's just never going to happen.
The only problem is trying to communicate that to Adrian now. It sucks, because you know he (rightfully so) got his hopes up after last night. He definitely was trying to confess something when he started rambling about getting punched in the face by you, and instead of shutting that door…you kiss him. What a fucking idiot.
Even when you try to tell yourself not to feel like the bad guy, it's obvious that you are. You allowed things to go way too far, and now you have to backtrack on all of it. For your sake and his.
And just as you’re thinking about that, Adrian walks inside the bathroom with a grin on his face that's so characteristically his. “Good morning!”
John immediately snatches his hand away when Adrian tries to ruffle his hair, proceeding to watch with obvious curiosity as he steps closer to you, casually placing a hand on your hip before kissing the top of your head. Like it's nothing. Like he's been doing that forever.
All you can do is look at John through the mirror, silently begging that he doesn't acknowledge it out loud, fearing it might encourage Adrian even further. You want to avoid as much of that until you inevitably have to break your friend's little bubble.
“Hey, where are my pants, dude?”
You feel immediately relieved, washing your toothbrush clean of any toothpaste residue before you start to make your way outside the bathroom.
The situation you're in is anything but enjoyable, hating to feel like you have to avoid Adrian at all costs now. Is this what your friendship has become? Are you inevitably forced to always feel awkward around him? Perhaps sleeping together (in every sense of the word) was a huge mistake– even worse than you initially thought.
Emilia is offering you a cup of freshly brewed coffee as soon as you join her and Adebayo in the kitchen. “Has anyone heard anything from Chris?”
“I sent him a text today, but he still hasn't replied. Not even to the ones I sent yesterday,” Adebayo replies, pouring herself another glass of water. She looks equally as hungover as John, if not worse.
You can already feel the tension. That something lingering in the air because they want to talk about it, but they know you probably won't want to hear it.
And it's true. You don't want to hear any of it, so you try to avoid that conversation as much as possible. “I hope he is okay. Should we check on him? He has been acting a bit weird lately.”
“Well, he is weird.”
You nod at Emilia's words, taking a sip of your coffee. “Weirder than usual, I mean.”
“I'll probably stop by at his house today to see what's up, so I’ll let you know.”
That horrid silence is back, immediately making you feel extremely uncomfortable– anxious, even, because you're just waiting for them to open their mouths and say something about that.
“Great. Thanks,” you mutter in hopes of sparing yourself, but it somehow makes it worse.
It only takes them a few more seconds until they can't hold it in anymore. “So…you guys were sleeping together.”
If looks could kill, Adebayo could very much be six feet under right now. “Very observant.”
“Thank you, it's one of my many talents. But I was just pointing it out because, you know…is there something we should be aware of or–”
Much to your own luck, John and Adrian are joining the three of you, interrupting the conversation. It's nice to see that John has been reunited with his pants, and he also looks a lot more alive now that he's out of the bathtub.
“You guys want coffee?"
“I'll just have water.”
Adebayo raises her glass towards John, almost in a sympathetic manner because she knows exactly how much his head is hurting right now.
“Is it good?” Adrian asks you, noticing the cup you're holding. He doesn't even wait for an answer, walking towards you to grab the cup from your hands to take a sip. You have to look away as you clear your throat, realizing just then how close he is to you and how difficult it’d be to focus on anything if you dare to look back into his eyes.
You feel your body burning with embarrassment because he's doing all of this in front of the others and because he's so close you could just lean in and kiss him again if you wanted to– wait, do you want to kiss him? Perhaps you will if you dare to turn your head.
“Okay, I’ll have some,” he eventually accepts Emilia's offer, handing you back your cup. She looks in between the two of you, deciding not to comment on what happened as she grabs another cup for him. “Hey, are you okay?” you hear him speak, finally looking up to meet his gaze.
He looks a bit worried, still unsure if he's just being paranoid or if there's actually something wrong with you.
Feeling like the worst person in the entire world, you force a smile as you nod reassuringly. “I’m great.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Adrian refuses to let you carry your backpack downstairs, walking with that and his own bag to his car, putting both on the trunk while you get in the passenger seat.
Of course he immediately said yes when you asked if he could give you a ride to your apartment, seemingly excited to spend more time with you. Meanwhile, you’re trying to act like nothing’s going on, not wanting to reveal your inner turmoil just yet. You figured the ride back to your place would be a good time to have a conversation about everything that has happened.
“So, do you want to grab some breakfast? It's the most important meal of the day, after all. It can't just be a single cup of coffee.”
In other circumstances, you probably would've agreed. Right now, you feel like spending so much time together is only going to make things worse for the two of you. “I actually want to get back home and take a shower.”
“Oh…yeah. Sure. That's fair.”
He turns the engine on, heading straight to your apartment after you rejected his invitation to eat breakfast together. It's very obvious that your answer disappointed him, creating an awkward silence between you that you’re not exactly sure how to break.
This isn't a very good starting point to the conversation you planned on having with him right now, but you know you need to put an end to whatever this is before it creates an even bigger mess that you won't be able to fix if you let it escalate.
It's the right thing to do.
Despite the awkwardness, you decide to address the situation anyway. “Hey, so…about last night,” you start, almost cautiously, eyes scanning his face as you take in his reaction to that sentence.
Blissfully unaware, he immediately smiles, his initial disappointment disappearing. “Best night ever, am I right? You know, you would think the best part would be the sex, but I actually liked when you kissed me in the kitchen a lot more. Not like the sex wasn't mind-blowing, it's just…you get what I mean, right?”
“I guess…” you mutter, already feeling incredibly guilty for having to ruin whatever expectation that he (again, rightfully so) acquired from your poor decision-making. “Listen, Adrian…I think we got way too carried away last night. It was– we were very drunk.” You couldn’t bring yourself to call it a mistake out loud.
His smile drops almost immediately, and all you can think at this moment is if it would be too much of a drastic decision if you just jump off the car right now to spare you from this conversation. “Oh,” is all he says at first, the realization of you regretting everything that happened between you finally sinking in. “Is that how you feel?”
You don’t even know how you feel. All you know is that you can still vividly remember the way he looked at you after you kissed him in the middle of the night. Actually, you remember absolutely everything– his hands on your body, the sounds he’d make, that unspoken thing between the two of you that’s been haunting you since you woke up this morning. You don’t know what the fuck that feeling is. All you know is that it feels like a punch in the stomach and you find it a little difficult to think coherently, almost making you want to run away.
So, that’s what you do. You run away. Because that's all you've ever done when you feel like you're about to suffocate.
“I just want to reiterate that we’re friends, that’s all. And…you know, that’s all we ever will be. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
He doesn’t even look back at you, eyes glued to the road ahead. It’s very obvious to you that he’s starting to get upset, which, again, he has every right to. “I know what we are, you’ve stated that a lot lately,” he replies, using that tone he only uses when he’s pretending not to be angry. “Not like anything we did would give me any mixed signals.”
“Look, I get it. I shouldn’t have kissed you last night when you– after I woke you up. That was fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“If it was so fucked up, then why did you do it?”
The question takes you a little by surprise, looking out the window as if the right answer to that question could somehow be written up in the clouds for you. “I don’t know,” is all you say, because that’s the genuine truth. Maybe not the right answer, but the only one you’ve got for now.
“You don’t know,” he repeats, the passive-aggressive tone starting to get a little annoying because you’d much rather have him express his frustration with you and be done with it already. But you’re in no position to demand things from him at the moment.
There’s a brief silence before you continue. “I think it’s best if we remain strictly friends from now on.”
“Fine by me.”
He wouldn’t even look at you. “Okay,” you mutter, looking straight ahead with a lost expression. “I’m sorry.”
When you turn to look at him, you fear your apology might’ve made things worse. “Why would you be sorry? It’s not like what happened meant anything.”
Now you definitely want to jump off the car.
The tension is practically unbearable at this point and his words cut a lot deeper than what you would’ve predicted. This isn’t making any sense. You want to push him away, but now you feel terrible because it’s working. You already feel a distance between the two of you and, although it should bring you the relief you were hoping for, it only makes you want to reach out again and close that gap.
Realistically, rolling on hard concrete after jumping out of a moving vehicle wouldn’t really fix anything, so the only thing you could come up with at the moment is going through the various radio stations until you find anything that could distract you. Much to your luck, you find one that’s playing a song you know for a fact Adrian loves. He wouldn’t admit it out loud because it’s ‘girl music’ and liking that kind of songs would be embarrassing because he’s not a girl, but you know him enough to know there’s nothing he adores more than popstars.
You look at him, scanning his face for any sign of a positive reaction as you turn the volume up. He tries to remain cold and distant, but you do notice the way his eyes briefly drift to you, fully aware of what you’re trying to do.
He only properly turns his head to look at you when he hears you singing along, which visibly stuns him. As he focuses back on the road, he still tries to process the fact that he’s getting to hear you try to harmonize with Sabrina Carpenter in an effort of earning his forgiveness somehow. Of course you can’t sing at all like her, but you go all in– singing, dancing, pretending like you’re the popstar, and all the embarrassment is worth it because it makes the icy barrier between the two of you crack.
“You’re an awful singer,” he eventually points out, a faint smile adorning his lips.
“Better than you, at least,” you offer back at him, making his smile widen. It shouldn’t feel as big of an accomplishment, but it does.
Soon enough, Adrian is joining you on the singing, starting a mutual effort at completely butchering Sabrina’s song. Even when he’s already parked outside your apartment, the two of you sit there to enjoy the last chorus, almost pretending to have a conversation in the form of lyrics.
This is what your relationship with Adrian should look like. Singing pop songs in the car and laughing together because you’re just terrible singers. Not a single trace of that initial awkwardness left at this point, just two good friends enjoying spending time together.
When your laugh dries down, you finally take your seatbelt off. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Thanks for the concert,” he replies, which immediately makes you chuckle again.
Now, the logical thing to do would be to get out of his car and grab your bag from the trunk, but it’s almost as if any sense of logical thinking slips right out of your mind as the two of you just sit there looking back at each other. A new kind of tension invades the air surrounding the two of you. That kind of tension that makes your head spin and your heartbeat quicker, hands almost itching to wander without your permission.
You part your lips, almost as if you want to say something, but no words come out. No matter how much you want to grab the door handle to get out of the car, your body just wouldn’t respond to such a command. It’s like every fiber of your being is trying to resist the magnetic field pulling you towards him, and you can tell he’s probably having that same inner battle just by the way he’s looking at you and the tight grip he has on the steering wheel.
What happens next is kind of a blur. One second, your hands are resting impatiently on your lap and, in the next, they’re urgently pulling at the collar of his flannel. His hands previously gripping the wheel for dear life are currently tangled up in your hair and he’s quite literally devouring your mouth in a kiss that instantly makes that previous conversation go to shit.
There’s nothing friendly about this. No friend should be trying to pull you onto his lap in desperate need of more contact, and you shouldn’t moan into your friend’s mouth the way you do when his hand rests at the back of your neck, angling your head just perfectly to deepen the kiss.
Shit. This is so wrong. It’s exactly what shouldn’t be happening after trying to convey the importance of never crossing that line again for the sake of your friendship. But it feels so right too, and you can’t really bring yourself to stop right now.
To your surprise, it’s him the one who pulls away, as if he suddenly remembers he shouldn’t have his mouth on yours. He reads the confusion in your eyes, offering you a soft smile. “Probably shouldn’t be doing this if we’re going to be just friends, right?”
You don’t find the words to answer right away, something deep within you still not processing that he was the one who decided to draw the line. Were you expecting him to always follow along with this? Especially after your insistence of not going down this path again? It’s only fair that he puts up some sort of barrier right now. After all, that’s exactly what you wanted.
“Yeah, probably,” you mutter back to him, immediately returning to your seat to create a much needed distance between the two of you.
All you offer him is a half-smile before exiting the car, quickly getting your bag from the trunk before you awkwardly wave as one final goodbye. You turn around, hearing the car coming back to life. Refusing to look back, you immediately start walking towards the entrance of your building, feeling an unexplainable sense of discomfort at the back of your throat as your chest tightens.
This is what you wanted, so why do you feel so shitty about it?
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“Ladies first.”
You let out a sigh at Chris’ offer, watching him with the bong already in his hands as he timidly offers it to you. “No, thanks. Last night’s alcohol will be as much as I'm allowing myself this weekend.”
After taking a shower and having something to eat, you texted Chris in hopes of getting some sort of update from him. Adebayo was apparently unable to reach him, so you really didn't know what to expect when you reached out. Luckily enough, he told you to come over to his place after about half an hour of you texting him so, sure enough, you drove to his place to meet him there.
You and Chris have a very particular type of friendship. Over time, both of you have learned that when you need someone to drown your surrows with, you're each other's person to do that. No judgment, no nothing. Just sit on the couch and get high and/or drunk while watching a random movie, trying to pretend life isn't as miserable as it really is.
If he reaches out, you know he wants someone to feel shitty with. If you reach out, he knows that’s your intention too. From an outsider's perspective it probably looks like an extremely sad dynamic. Like you’re enabling each other’s self destruction. But it’s actually very therapeutic and it’s made your friendship even stronger.
You watch him lean back on the couch next to you, exhaling smoke as he looks up at the ceiling. “Can I ask why you left so suddenly last night?”
“I think you know the answer.”
Of course you do. The more pity sessions you have, the easiest it has become for both of you to be more vulnerable with each other. It took Chirs a lot longer than you to adjust, but you’ve noticed he has become more comfortable and trusting. He has opened up to you in ways that you didn’t think was possible coming from someone like Chris, which is why your bond has become stronger. You’ve seen a side of him that maybe he doesn’t dare to share with many people.
So, of course you know all about his relationship with Emilia. How close they got, the boat incident, the ghosting. Absolutely everything. You promised you wouldn’t tell a soul about it, so not even Emilia knows just how aware you are of the situation.
“You have to get over her, dude. It’s not healthy.”
“Yeah, I’m fucking over it now. After last night, I couldn’t care any less about it,” he snaps, sounding like he’s definitely not over it. “She can keep trying to fool herself all she wants, but I’m done playing into that shit.”
“If you say so,” you sigh, taking another sip of your drink. Just Diet Coke. You know, to be healthy or whatever. “Just…you know, remember you deserve to be happy and all that.”
“Oh, you’re getting sentimental on me now?” he teases, nudging your side with his elbow. You roll your eyes, letting out a soft chuckle at that. A brief silence follows, before it’s his turn to inquire. “What’s up with you? It’s like, I don’t know, like you have a big cloud over your head or something.”
“Is it that obvious?” you offer in a tired voice, almost feeling sorry for yourself. “Last night Adrian and I sort of–”
“Holy shit, you fucked him?” he interrupts, visibly surprised at the way you just casually drop that information now, as if it isn’t important. “About time!”
“Dude, I wish it was just that. Let me finish.”
Chris sits up immediately, turning to look at you fully like this is the most interesting gossip he’ll hear in his entire life. You’re not sure how to feel about that, but if there’s someone on this Earth who you’d feel remotely comfortable discussing this with, it’d be Chris.
Who would’ve thought he would become your top confidant.
“So, that happened. All good, done. But then things sort of started to feel weird because I thought we could still be just friends after that, but…I don’t think he wanted that.”
“You’re surprised the guy who has a crush on you got too attached because you had sex with him? Shocker.”
His comment doesn’t make you feel any better. If anything, you feel a lot shittier than before because of course he’d get his hopes up if he was already feeling some type of way about you. What the fuck were you thinking toying with his emotions like that?
Leaning forward on the couch, you rest your elbows on your thighs as you cover your face with your hands, wishing you could just go back in time and avoid all of it. “I’m the worst, aren’t I?” you ask, not necessarily expecting an answer because you immediately continue your story. “Later that night he was sort of confessing his feelings in a very Adrian way, and I just– I just went in and fucking kissed him. And then this morning I had to pull the ‘hey, we’re just friends by the way’ card again…and then we made out in his car when he dropped me off.”
Chris takes your words in before immediately grabbing the bong from his coffee table. “Shit,” he offers as the smoke is leaving his mouth. “Could you just, maybe, stop making out with him if you want to keep him in the friendzone?”
“That’s my problem!” you exclaim, hitting his arm as if you’re frustrated that he doesn’t get it yet. Or perhaps you’re just frustrated at yourself because you still can’t figure it out either. “I can’t stop! It’s like my brain shuts down when I have his…his stupid handsome face in front of me! Like all I want to do is…is…fucking have him close to me!”
There’s a much too prolonged silence that follows after your little outburst. You keep your eyes glued to the carpet of his living room and you can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of your face.
Breath slightly agitated, you try to control the frantic beating of your heart after the words that just came out of your mouth. You described his face as ‘handsome’ and you claimed you want him close to you. It slipped out of your mouth before you could even process it. In between all your initial shock, you can’t help but notice that the unfortunate confession does help to ease the burning feeling in your throat and the pressure on your chest, alleviating the physical discomforts you feel whenever you think about him.
Eventually, Chris decides to speak. “Can I be completely honest with you for a sec?” He only reveals what’s on his mind when you finally turn to look at him, awaiting him to continue. “I think you’re Adrian’s Harcourt.”
“I’m…what?”
“You’re Adrian’s Harcourt,” he repeats with full confidence. “You have feelings for him, but you don’t want to admit it. And then you blame it on him, like he is the only one making things weird, when in reality it sounds like you don’t want to be just friends either.”
“I don’t–”
It hits you like a high-speed train. Like a bullet right in the centre of your forehead. Sweeps you off your feet, sends you flying across the room and makes you land face-front on hard concrete. A realization so immediate and abrupt that it practically gives you whiplash.
The obsession with repeating over and over how the two of you are just friends. The overflowing sense of comfort when he's around and the heavy feeling of lost when you’re pushing him away. That burning sensation at the back of your throat and the liberation that comes with claims like ‘I just find his handsome face ridiculously irresistible, it makes me want to kiss him forever’.
The fact that you want to put an end to something that technically didn't even have a beginning like you were afraid of something terrible happening.
It's you. You're the fucking problem. You're the one that needs constant reassurance of the friend status, because deep down you already knew that status was long gone from the second you realized the way Adrian looks at you. Perhaps you weren't paying much attention before, but you did realize last night in Harcourt's kitchen. He looks at you like he would get you the moon if you asked him to. Like there's absolutely nothing in this world that he wouldn't do to make you happy.
That's why you need to remind yourself where the limits are. So you don't try to cross every single one of them if he were to ask. Because there's absolutely nothing in this world that you wouldn't do for him either.
No matter how much you try to lie to yourself or try to blame him for your own feelings. Hell, you don’t even bother to try to decipher just how long you’ve kept these feelings hidden from the world– feelings so incredibly concealed somewhere deep within you, that not even you could’ve discovered that they were there in the first place. All that matters is that you can finally admit (oddly enough, thanks to Chris’ comparison) that you're irrevocably and unequivocally falling for one of your best friends.
You turn to look at Chris again, panic and shock evident in your features as you try to process the overwhelming amount of newfound clarity. “Holy shit, I think I have feelings for him…do I have feelings for him?”
“That’s something you need to figure out, but from what I’m hearing, it sounds like you do,” he replies, offering you a sympathetic smile. “And look, as someone who’s on the other side of that situation, please don’t be a fucking asshole. Either be with him or shut the door completely. Don’t leave any trace of hope lingering, cause that just sucks. Getting a hard ‘no’ is a lot better than a ‘maybe’– what the fuck are we supposed to do with a ‘maybe’?”
You ditch the drink you prepared for yourself, choosing to take a swig directly from the Vodka bottle, brows furrowed as the liquor travels down your throat. “These therapy sessions are getting way too intense.”
“I’ll drink to that too,” he agrees almost immediately, snatching the bottle from your hand to bring it to his lips. He offers it back to you, but you quickly shake your head as you physically retreat from the idea of drinking more of that straight from the bottle. “And hey, just remember that you also deserve to be happy and all that.”
He offers you a sincere smile, so contagious that you have to smile back. “Look who's all sentimental now.”
“It's these damn therapy sessions– that, and the fact that I estimate you a lot.”
You can't help but chuckle. “You estimate me?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Nothing. It's just that ‘estimate’ sounds weird.”
“It’s the first word that came to mind.”
“Well–”
“Can't you just take the fucking compliment and move on?”
“Jeez, fine! I estimate you too.”
“Thank you,” he replies, still exasperated after the previous exchange. “See? That's how taking a compliment and moving on looks like.”
His behavior makes you laugh yet again, leaning back on the couch as you get more comfortable. “Can I ask a weird question?”
“Sure.”
“This…alternate universe that you're so obsessed about,” you start, lazily turning your head to look at him. It’s the first time you ever bring it up in a conversation after he told you what he was up to. “Do I exist in there?”
“I don't know, I haven't seen you. I haven't seen any of you, actually. I mean, I only know Emilia, but that's about it.”
“It would be cool to see what I’m like. Do you think we're friends?”
He thinks about it for a moment before actually replying. “I highly doubt it. I think I would've heard from you by now if we were friends. You probably hate me, which wouldn't be too far-fetched considering I was a huge dickhead.”
“I mean, you're a dickhead here too and we're friends, so…” The fake laugh he makes after your joke makes you smile, satisfied with that reaction. It’s exactly what you were expecting.
Your amusement doesn't last too long though, because you immediately notice something's off about what he said earlier. A miniscule, at first completely insignificant detail that might go over other people’s heads but definitely not over yours.
“Did you call her ‘Emilia’?” you ask, suspicion already creeping in.
He looks immediately confused. “What?”
“You always tend to call our Emilia by her last name, so why are you calling her Emilia?”
“Why does that even matter? It’s just a name.”
“I don’t appreciate it when you think I’m stupid,” you warn him, crossing your arms across your chest. It could really just be a name. Maybe in that universe she prefers to be called that. But if that was the case, if it was really just a name, Chris wouldn't be acting the way he is after you decided to ask him about it. “Please don’t tell me you–”
“What? It's just a fucking name! Why would it matter what I call her?”
“Christopher–”
“No! It freaks me out when you call me that. Stop.” He looks very much like you’ve cornered him and he’s finding absolutely no way to escape. “Fine. Maybe she and I have gotten a little closer since my first visit. Happy?”
“You can't possibly be doing what I think you’re doing in there.” The look on his face says it all, so you immediately feel the need to punch his arm again, earning a series of protests from him as he tries to dodge your punches. “Dude! She thinks you’re the other Chris, that’s so fucked up!”
“Hey, it’s not like the other me can do something about it! Besides, he was a very shitty boyfriend to her, so it’s best if he’s out of the picture. And it’s not the one in our universe is ever going to give a proper chance anyway.”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you actually prefer to date an Emilia from another universe rather than getting over her.”
“Hey! I thought therapy meetings were a judgment-free zone!” he snaps, visibly agitated and offended. “I feel very judged right now!”
You sigh, leaning back on the couch once again, feeling incredibly exhausted by this entire conversation. Since when has your life become such a shit show that your definition of casual conversation consists of admitting feelings for an amateur masked vigilante and hearing about your friend trying to get with alternate versions of his crush? “Okay, I’m sorry.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
After a few Rick and Morty episodes, Chris ends up falling asleep on the couch so you take that as an opportunity to leave his house, making sure to turn the television off and putting a blanket over him.
A few minutes after driving around random streets with no apparent destination, you park outside a particular house. The excessive garden decorations scattered around the front yard makes it immediately recognizable from the others on the block. You’ve never been in said house, but you have picked up Adrian from that sidewalk a few times.
Like a massive creep, you sit in your car simply staring at the house for what feels like hours. Almost as if you're expecting something bad is going to happen if you dare to walk near it.
For a split second, you consider driving off and forget about this. It's way too much, right? Showing up to his house to tell him you figured out the complex emotions you feel towards him because Chris decided to compare you to the mess that is Emilia Harcourt, and then…what? He proclaims his undying love to you and invites you in to have tea with his mom? Like you haven't been an absolute bitch to him, toying with his emotions like you don't care if he gets hurt?
But then, your mind inevitably goes back to what Chris said about being direct and stuff. If you really want to stop feeling like you're running away from the situation, perhaps driving back to your place now is not the best option. Leaving now would be a ‘maybe’. You can't keep doing that.
Before you can regret it, you get out of your car and immediately go to the front door. Knocking almost felt like a death sentence, but you try to remind yourself that this is what you should be doing. It's better to get this out of your chest and just hope for the best. No more ‘maybe’.
The front door opens and you physically and mentally prepare to meet Adrian's confused gaze. Instead, you meet another set of eyes. They're green, just like his, but they overflow with genuine joy and politeness.
Right. Perhaps you should've also prepared yourself in case his mom was the one to open the door.
“Hello, dear!” She greets you almost immediately, smiling at you in a way that feels incredibly welcoming despite you being a complete stranger. “What can I help you with?”
“Hello, I– uh…I’m looking for Adrian? I don't if he's–”
“Oh, you're one of Adrian's friends?” she interrupts you with evident excitement, immediately stepping aside to let you walk inside. You offer her an awkward smile, not finding it in yourself to refuse that invitation. “I’ve told him countless times to bring you guys over, but he never listens! You know, he talks wonders about all of you.”
“I’m sorry we haven't…uh, visited before.”
The woman is beyond adorable. You didn't know exactly what to expect when it came to Adrian's mom, but so far she seems to be very sweet. A bit overwhelming, but you can tell that being so uplifted it's practically in her nature. It doesn't seem forced or exaggerated. It's just her.
“Please, don't apologize! I’m glad I’m finally able to meet one of you. So, what's your name, sweatie?”
You have a feeling that she'll know exactly who you are when you reveal your name to her. It's in the expectation she has in her eyes. Why wouldn’t she know? Adrian probably told her absolutely every single detail about everyone in the group.
The suspicion is immediately confirmed when you do say your name out loud, noticing her eyes widening almost immediately. Before she even says anything, her arms are around you in a tight hug. At first you don't know what to do, but you do offer her an awkward hug back eventually.
“Oh, I’m so happy I finally got to meet you! You know, Adrian is right– you are very beautiful.” You have to force a smile when she pulls away from the hug to take a closer look at you, her almost analyzing stare making you just a bit uncomfortable.
“He said that?”
“Well, of course! You're the one he talks about the most,” she explains with a short laugh, as if that information shouldn't surprise you. “I was just so happy when he told me he finally got a girlfriend.”
You try to act that like that comment doesn't take you by surprise, still smiling as if nothing's wrong. Like you didn't just find out that Adrian told his mom you two are dating.
Luckily his mom doesn't sense anything weird in your demeanor, continuing talking like normal. “Can I offer you something to drink, sweetie? Adrian’s downstairs, but he should be coming up in a few minutes. I really don't like to disturb him when he's down there. He gets all moody with me.”
Since you're already here, you might as well just wait, so you accompany his mom to the kitchen. Once again, it's impossible not to think about how adorable this woman is as she tells you to take a seat while she pours a glass of lemonade.
She joins you, taking a seat across from you as she starts talking again. The conversation mainly focuses on her trying to know more about you– upbringing, job, hobbies, the whole thing. Like the type of chat a mom would like to have with the girl that's dating her son.
It only ends when Adrian finally shows up, his expression turning into one of complete horror once he realizes what is going on. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, visibly terrified at the thought of what the two of you have been talking about without him here to intervene in case he had too.
“Oh, hey, boyfriend!” you greet him with a playful grin. The color drains from his face when you say that, his worst nightmare confirmed.
“Mom, why didn't you tell me she was here?”
“You said not to disturb you when you're locked downstairs.”
“Unless there's an emergency!”
“Oh, Adrian, please! There was no emergency. I was just getting to know her, since you never want to bring your friends or girlfriend over.”
He starts freaking out even more, which is hilarious at first, until he starts to lash out at his mom. “Yeah, I don't bring people over because you start talking weird shit and make people feel uncomfortable!”
“I was just asking her questions to get to know her. Nothing serious. I just wanted to make sure my darling boy is in good hands, that's all.”
“Mom, stop!”
She completely ignores him, turning to look at you as she reaches out to grab one of your hands, smiling brightly. “I have to say, he's in the best hands possible–”
“Seriously, that's enough!”
“Truly. You're a very nice girl–”
“Mom!”
“You’re exactly the type of girl that I’d want for Adrian–”
He looks like he's about to have a heart attack. “Please, mom! Why do you always do this? Just shut the fuck up!”
Fed up with the entire situation, you turn to look at Adrian with a warning look. It's actually mind-blowing that he talks to his mom like that. “Honey,” you say, the affectionate word deprived of any of its positive connotation as it sounds almost venomous coming from you. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Oh, I’ll give you guys some space,” his mom chimes in, giving your hand a slight squeeze before finally letting you go, standing up from her seat. She walks past Adrian, attempting to caress his face like its basic instinct to her, but he's quick enough to avoid her touch. “I’ll be in the laundry room if you need me. There's tons of clothes I need to fold.”
She offers you one last smile before she leaves the two of you alone. Adrian looks very much shocked still, standing by the entrance of the dining and kitchen area like he just experienced the most traumatizing thing.
“Look, I only said all that girlfriend stuff because I needed an excuse to justify all the…you know, Vigilante duties.” He whispers that word like it's top secret information. Evidently you don't believe that for a second.
“You shouldn't be such an asshole to your mom,” is all you offer back, halfway done with your lemonade. “She doesn't deserve it.”
“She's a nightmare."
“She's the sweetest lady I've ever met.”
He hesitates for a second, looking like he's not sure if he should even ask this. “Did you guys get along?”
You don't know why you're getting a bit nervous at the idea of his mom liking or disliking you. It's probably very difficult for that woman to think anyone is unpleasant company, but there's always that possibility. Still, being liked by her shouldn't mean as much as it apparently does.
“I’d say she liked me, yes. And she's very nice in my opinion.”
Adrian nods, and for a second you think he'll offer you one of those ear-to-ear grins, but all he does is give you a confused look. “So, what are you doing here?” His straight posture, the arms across his chest, the slight crease in between his brows. It all screams defensive.
“I just wanted to talk to you about…well, everything.”
“What else is there to talk about? I think we were both very clear earlier.”
You can't help but smile softly. “I don't think I was. And you weren't saying much either. You were just agreeing with me and getting defensive.”
“I don't get defensive.”
“You look defensive now.”
He thinks about it for a second before letting out a quick scoff, his arms falling awkwardly to his sides as he's now painfully aware of his physical reaction to this conversation. “Okay. So, what? You're here to psychoanalyze me or something? I really don't know what you want from me.”
Oh, if he knew…
“I just want to talk. Please?”
“Yeah, right. I mean, you did plenty of talking with Peacemaker today, but sure. We can talk.”
Now it's you who looks absolutely confused. The look on your face makes him immediately cross his arms again. “What the fuck does Chris has to do with anything?”
“I saw you two at his house,” he starts, tone almost accusatory for some weird reason you still can't figure out. It’s also very interesting the way he randomly decides to reveal that he was spying on the two of you. “I wanted to check if he was okay, so I went to visit him and that's when I saw your car in the driveway and you…hanging out in there.”
The way he says ‘hanging out’ gives you a few clues as to what's going on, but even then you're left absolutely confused because it just doesn't make any sense. It's probably the most insane claim he's ever done, and that's saying a lot.
“I’m sorry, are you jealous?” you ask almost immediately. “And why the hell are you spying on people like that? You could've just knocked on the door.”
“Yeah, well, I didn't want to interrupt your one-on-one time!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” you insist, growing incredibly frustrated. You're still not entirely sure if he's jealous because Chris wanted to hang out with someone other than his ‘best friend’ after a moment of crisis, or because you went to Chris’ and that somehow means you two have something going on. Perhaps it's both. Either way, it's absolutely insane.
“Just what I saw through the window! Look, I’ve seen enough love triangle movies to know what is going on, alright?”
“Oh, you’re basing your logic on movies now,” you snap back at him, still in complete disbelief that he would actually think you’re romantically involved with Chris in any way. He doesn’t seem to be backing down from his initial stance, still awfully defensive, which makes you let out a frustrated sigh. “You think after everything we– that I would just–”
Your broken sentences manage to create some level of lucidity in between all of his delusions, his expression softening just enough as a mixture of curiosity and regret appears, perhaps just then realizing that he’s reaching a bit too much with his conclusions.
And you know you shouldn’t blame him. It’s you who’s been playing with his mind, after all. Perhaps after all the plot twists you’ve thrown at him, you’d also start imagining secret love stories within the friend group if you were in his place. You know you have to be more reasonable. But he wasn’t being reasonable a few seconds ago, and if he’s stubborn, you might just be ten times worse.
“You know what? I think coming here was a huge mistake,” you say rather suddenly, since neither of you are saying anything. You stand up, carrying the empty glass to the sink. “Tell your mom it was lovely to meet her, and that I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry. I’m sure you’ll make something up.”
He doesn’t dare to say anything, which only makes you even more frustrated. Why are you the one always having to do shit? You fuck up, you try to fix it, you ruin it again. It’s always you, never him. He just adjusts to whatever it is that you’re impulsively trying to do.
Again, you should try to be more reasonable. He did try to confess something to you last night, just for you to surprise him with another sudden change of plans. Yes, you get that. But you’re fucking impossible, and that reasoning just goes over your head in the heat of impulsiveness.
So he just watches you, even when you’re stopping dead in your tracks to look at him for one final time, almost as if you wish he would stop you. “We were talking about you, by the way.”
It’s pathetic and so unnecessary, but it comes out of your mouth before you even have time to regret it. Like a final twist to the knife before finally walking away, out of the house and right towards your car.
Driving back home with tears running down your face and partially clouding your vision wouldn’t be the most reckless thing you’ve done lately and you really don’t want to be out here any longer so, the second you’re inside your car, you turn on the engine and immediately escape from this complete disaster.
previous part | next part
— taglist (if you want to be added just let me know!): @singlethreadofivy
summary: it's been a while since you last saw the group and a lot of things have happened since then. you've discovered a few things. for example, the fact that you seem to be incredibly attracted to one of your friends
pairing: adrian chase x fem!reader
word count: 11.5k (oh boy)
tags: 18+ content minors dni, friends to lovers, alcohol consumption (they're drunk but not enough to not know what they're doing btw), there's plot in this, adrian is a giver and a pleader, he whimpers too, kissing, dry humping, nipple play (very brief), fingering, unprotected piv (don't do this), hickeys, a sprinkle of angst and fluff ig
note: this was the first peacemaker related fic i ever wrote so i'm super excited to share this one!! i wasn't even expecting it to be this long but i got inspired i guess
part two | part three
a comment and/or reblog is always appreciated!
main masterlist | dc masterlist
This really shouldn't be happening.
You're not quite sure if it's the amount of alcohol you've consumed tonight, the ridiculous amount of time that's passed since the last time you had sex with anyone, or the recently-acquired perspective after not seeing your friends for a few months. Even when you’re not certain about which of those things are to blame, there's one thing that you're painfully aware of. A realization that you honestly can't believe you're having right now.
Adrian is fucking hot.
Was this thought always in your head and you just never acknowledged it? No, it can't be, right? He used to annoy the living shit out of you. Probably the most irritating, weird, questionable dude you've ever met in your life. And yet, you're practically unable to take your eyes off of him for some strange reason. He went from okay to becoming…the hottest guy you've ever seen in your life?
How does that even work? It’s Adrian, for fuck’s sake! The guy who can't stop talking about owls over the phone and refuses to get the hint when you haven't replied to his twentieth text in a row. The one who's obsessed with killing people but will lecture you for two hours if you step on a bug by accident.
But recently, you've noticed other things. Like the fact that he got a new haircut and gained a little more muscle apparently. Or how good his hand looks when he's holding a beer bottle and how easily he can wrap his fingers around it because apparently his hands are big. It makes you wonder how they'd look around something else, like…your neck, for example.
Fuck.
“Are you okay?”
You didn’t notice Harcourt walking towards you, so you definitely weren’t aware of the fact that she’s been observing you long before she even dared to speak, her eyes drifting you where you were looking– at who you were looking, to be more precise. Arms crossed over her chest, she looks back at you with the faintest smirk on her face, awaiting any sort of answer from you.
“Me? I’m great,” you reply nonchalantly, looking up at the night sky as if to distract yourself from this potentially incriminating conversation. It also helps to avoid looking at Adrian again, who keeps dancing with the others, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you right now.
“Really? Cause you’re a bit…I don’t know, quiet,” your friend points out, standing right next to you as she also rests her back against the edge of the brick wall. “Like you’re all lost in your thoughts for some reason.”
Her disguised accusation makes you scoff, faking confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ems.”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. So, how long?”
You almost choke on your beer. How long? How long what? Your mind drifts to the most inappropriate places, feeling your face burn in embarrassment because why are you even going there in the first place! That’s clearly not what Harcourt is asking. Not like you’d have an answer if that was what she wanted to know, because you’ve never actually seen–
“Oh my God, what the fuck?” she exclaims, frowning with pure disgust adorning her features as she shakes her head due to the image engraved in her brain. “I meant how long have you liked him. Jesus Christ!”
Feeling even more embarrassed, you struggle to find words at first. “Yeah, I figured that was what you were asking. Obviously. But I don’t– I really don’t understand why you’re asking me that.”
Harcourt takes the opportunity to include Chris in the conversation, since he walked away from the other three who keep dancing around and laughing their asses off to grab another beer. “Hey, could you please tell her how obvious she’s being?”
“You mean, the way she’s staring at Adrian like she wants to rip his clothes off and fuck his brains out?” he asks casually, which almost makes you want to jump off the roof right now to avoid further scrutiny.
“I am not looking at him like that!”
“You kinda are though,” he argues, offering you a shrug because he’s really not trying to crack a joke or anything, which makes your situation worse. It means he’s being truthful. You really are staring at him like a fucking creep. “We all noticed.”
“Except Adrian, of course,” Harcourt clarifies, watching as he just keeps moving his hips along with the rhythm of the music while having the time of his life. “I don’t think he’ll realize unless you say something.”
That suggestion horrifies you, looking at the two of them like they lost their mind. “Why would I say something to him?”
“Because he also looks at you like he wants to take your clothes off and fuck your brains out?” Chris replies, as if that piece of information should be obvious at this point. You turn to look at Harcourt, who nods with that same ‘you should know this by now’ look on her face. “He’s had a crush on you since, like…I don’t know, the first time he saw you?”
You can only laugh at that. “He doesn't have a crush on me, he's just…very friendly.”
“Yeah, right,” Chris chuckles sarcastically, almost half way done with his beer already. You guys have been drinking way too much tonight. “The screen saver of his phone is a picture of the two of you at that weird Star Wars thing you guys went to!”
“Okay, so what? Your birthday is his fucking password!”
“But he doesn't get a boner every time he watches me killing bad guys, does he?”
Harcourt can't help but look disgusted once again. “Ew. How the hell do you know that?”
“Because he shares way too much information with me that I really don't like knowing,” he replies, slightly frustrated at the fact that he's practically Adrian's personal diary at this point. “Besides, it’s kinda obvious when you look–”
“I’m sorry, I never had the urge to look at Adrian’s crotch after a mission,” she cuts him off immediately, visibly in disbelief as to why this is even part of the conversation. “Maybe that’s why I never noticed.”
“I don’t like looking at his dick either, but after he told me I got curious! Nevermind! My point is, that fucking creep is obsessed with you.”
You would never admit it out loud, but part of you always knew. You’re not that dumb as to not notice the way he acts around you. How he laughs a little too loud at your jokes, or the fact that he seems to remember absolutely every single detail about yourself that you’ve ever shared with him. The time he went absolute killer mode because a butterfly tried to kill you right in front of him. Not to mention the many times you’ve caught him staring at you.
There's a brief pause in the conversation before Harcourt turns to look at you, shrugging. “Looks like your feelings are reciprocated.”
You point a warning finger at her, which makes her smirk instantly. “I don't have feelings for him, okay? It's just…I don't know, I probably feel a little attracted to him, but that's it.”
Is that it? You’re not exactly sure. It’s like the amount of beer you’ve consumed tonight opened a little box you’ve kept locked and hidden at the back of your mind. Sure, Adrian might be a little too much sometimes, but there’s something…endearing about him. It’s actually entertaining to hear all about his last hyperfixation, and it’s almost adorable to see how excited he gets when he rambles on and on about it. And…okay, no. That’s enough. You can’t be thinking shit like this.
“Alright, cut the bullshit,” Chris says rather suddenly, standing right in front of you, demanding a definitive answer. “Do you want to fuck him, yes or no.”
“I–”
“Yes or no. It's a yes or no question. Not ‘I’ or ‘maybe’ or ‘let me think about it’. All you have to say is yes or no. For example, ‘do you like apples?’ yes. ‘Is Nick Jonas the hottest brother?’ no, we all know it’s Joe,” he insists, speaking so incredibly fast that it's almost making your head spin. “Don’t think too much about it, just answer the goddamn question. Do you want to fuck Adrian, yes or no.”
“Yes! I mean– shit.”
He offers you a satisfied smile and a friendly pat on your back. “There's your answer.”
“I should probably warn you not to have sex with him, cause that could end up being a complete disaster,” Harcourt starts, trying to offer some sort of reason, but she's just too drunk to care at this point, “but honestly, just go for it. Have fun. Just…you know, he might become even more obsessed with you.”
You stay quiet, because you don't want to admit out loud that the idea of him potentially getting more attached to you after tonight isn't necessarily a thought that bothers you as much as it should. Besides, it’s not like fucking him means that your friendship will be over. Is it really that terrible if you take it one step further? It's not like you can't stay friends. He'll understand that dynamic.
“Let's pretend this entire conversation didn't happen, shall we?” is all you have to say after that entire interaction, leaving the empty beer bottle you've been holding at the table to grab another from the boxes that Adrian brought tonight.
Leaving Harcourt and Chris alone, you walk over to where Adebayo is standing with her phone, struggling with her balance just a little as she goes through her playlist to find a song. Next to her, Economos is trying to snatch the phone away from her hand.
“Trust me, you'll love this one!” he insists, but Adebayo snatches his hand away. “Come on, we agreed that each one gets to select a song!”
“Yeah, the ones with actual taste!”
He stops his attempts at getting the phone, looking very much offended. "That's so uncalled for.”
“Oh, my favorite person ever!” She smiles at you as soon as she sees you approaching them, her voice revealing just how drunk she is. “Do you want to dance? I think we should dance together.”
“That's exactly what I was thinking.”
“You could definitely dance to my song if you give it a chance, you know.”
“No, dude, we don’t want to dance to old people music,” Adebayo jokes, letting out a soft chuckle at his reaction.
“Aw, leave him alone,” you join in on the joke, patting John’s back sympathetically. “He's young at heart. A lot of twenty-something teenagers have severe back pain these days.”
“Fuck both of you,” he snaps, but he's unable to hold back his laughter. “You don't even know what song I had in mind.”
“Alright, fine. Surprise us.”
Adebayo hands him the phone, and just a few seconds later a Britney Spears song starts blasting. John hands her back the phone with a satisfied grin before walking off to grab a beer. The two of you exchange a look, but don't comment on it. Instead, you start dancing together without a care in the world.
Chris and Harcourt are talking by themselves at one corner of the rooftop, but you don't have enough time to focus on them because your attention drifts to Adrian and Economos as soon as you hear the latter shouting when he's being drenched in beer.
“Dude! Now it looks like I peed my fucking pants!” he says, obviously annoyed, pointing at the wet patch on his jeans.
Adrian can't help the scandalous laugh that escapes him. “It does look like you peed yourself!”
Economos thought it would be a good plan to get some well-deserved revenge, pouring beer all over his friend as retaliation. Adrian, of course, couldn't care any less. If anything, he seems to enjoy being drenched in alcohol.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Adebayo chuckles, giving you a mischievous look before she rushes to grab a bottle of beer.
You immediately decide to join them, mimicking your friend's actions. As soon as you turn around to face the group again, right after grabbing a new beer, you're completely frozen in place, unable to function properly due to the sight in front of you.
Adrian’s shirt is discarded on the floor and he's already taking his shoes off. It just keeps getting worse (better) when you watch him hurriedly work on getting rid of his pants too, seemingly wanting to get as less beer on his clothes as possible.
It's both a torture and a gift to be able to see this. Him, almost naked at this point, drenched in beer. It's like you could see every drop of the golden liquid dripping down his torso. Every muscle of his body glistening. And the sight of him parting his lips and sticking his tongue out if hopes of some of the beer landing in his mouth? Holy shit.
How have you not noticed all of that before?
You remind yourself you can't be staring at him like that, so you do your best to ignore the sinful thoughts that invade your mind as you join Economos and Adebayo. All of you pour the three bottles over him, unable to contain your laughter at the end result. He's absolutely drenched. You try to keep yourself from trailing your eyes all over his body, finding it extremely difficult.
How come it's so incredibly hot up here on the roof all of a sudden? You feel like you're burning up the more you focus on not staring.
“Could someone get me a towel?” Adrian asks, which makes the scene even more comical as he tries to wipe his glasses clean with John’s shirt. “Hey, Harcourt, I think I might need to use your shower.”
“You guys are unbelievable.” She shakes her head when her eyes land on her almost naked friend, absolutely covered in beer.
“Where did Chris go?” Adebayo asks with obvious confusion, visibly disappointed that he left so suddenly without even saying goodbye.
Harcourt lets out a tired sigh, shrugging. “He said he wasn't feeling well.”
“Oh, really?” you inquire, and she immediately turns to look at you. It's like she knows you're trying to get back at her for her previous investigation regarding your own situation.
“Yes, really,” she insists coldly, almost warningly. “Is there any beer left or did you waste all of it on this?” she asks shortly after, hinting at Adrian.
“I brought enough to last us like a week, don't worry,” he replies, proud of his calculations on how much alcohol he was supposed to bring tonight.
“Great,” she replies dryly, taking her keys out of her pocket to throw them at him. Adrian effortlessly catches them in the air. “Go take a shower.”
“Thank you– oh shit, I almost forgot my clothes.”
“I can take them downstairs, don't worry.” You don't know why you decided to speak up at that very moment. Maybe your drunken brain saw it as an opportunity, or perhaps you were genuinely trying to be helpful. Because there is a chance that you're offering to help out of the kindness of your heart, right? Not because you're awfully horny and you just want to be alone with him. “I mean, since you're covered in beer.”
Adrian looks at you, a bit stunned at first. “Oh…okay, yeah. That'd be helpful. Thanks!”
At that very moment, you're experiencing an even worse version of the walk of shame in front of your friends as you follow after him. Harcourt and Adebayo are trying very hard not to smirk when you look at them, while Economos is looking in between you and Adrian as if he's trying to make sure he's getting the vibes right.
“Have fun!” you hear Adebayo as the two of you are about to leave the rooftop, unable to hold it back any longer.
“What?” Adrian asks, sounding genuinely confused as he turns to look at you for an explanation. “Why would she say that?”
“I have no idea,” you lie, shoving Adrian towards the door to encourage him to keep walking, fearing any of them might want to say something else.
Hopefully no neighbor has the misfortune of witnessing an almost naked guy covered in beer walking around the apartment complex. You don’t think you’ll be able to live with that kind of embarrassment as you have to walk past them with an apologetic smile on your face.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
You should've left Adrian's clothes on the bathroom counter and gone back upstairs with the others, but you're apparently too far gone at this point, because you decide to lay down on the couch while you…wait for him? Is that what you're doing?
You just lay there in complete darkness, hearing the sound of water coming from the shower and his occasional singing. It's only when both of those sounds stop that you debate whether or not you should even be here. There's still time for you to get out of the apartment and he’d have no idea that you've been here the whole time. Perhaps this is stupid. Pointless. Dangerous. Perhaps you should just go upstairs.
As soon as you stand up from the couch, the door of the bathroom opens and you're frozen in place when you see Adrian at the doorway. Relief washes over you when you realize he's wearing his jeans.
He offers you a confused, yet somewhat pleasantly surprised look. “You're still here. I thought you went upstairs already.”
“Oh, I was just–”
“Luckily I didn't walk out naked! I was about to, but this isn't my house so…that would’ve been a bit distasteful, I think,” he says before you can finish, offering you a casual smile as he walks closer to you. “I’m sorry. What were you going to say?”
“Wha– oh! Yeah. I just stayed here to rest for a bit.” It's the first lie you can come up with at that moment, hoping it's convincing enough. “Too much beer, I guess.”
“Well, you can always take a shower. It helps to sober up completely.” You watch as he walks towards the bag he brought for the night. It looks unnecessarily heavy, so you can only assume he packed it full with things he probably won't even need to spend the night at someone else's house, but he still decided to bring them ‘just in case’. As soon as he gets up from the ground after retrieving his deodorant and toothbrush, he lets out a little groan. “Wait, no…nevermind. Still drunk.”
You laugh shortly, taking a seat on the couch again as you just watch him walk back to the bathroom. “We’ve been drinking a lot tonight.”
“Yeah, but it was worth it, right? I mean, it's been a while since the five of us got together. It's only fair that we get absolutely hammered.”
He goes back inside the bathroom, but he leaves the door open this time. You have a fantastic view of his back while he brushes his teeth, so you just sit there and enjoy the show.
You notice he focuses on something on the wall before he exits the bathroom, and you only realize what it was when he’s already putting Emilia’s bathrobe on, barely bothering to tie a loose knot at the front before walking back towards the living room.
“What a shame Chris wasn't feeling good tonight,” he comments out of nowhere, sounding genuinely concerned. “I need to text him and see if he's okay. Maybe he needs his best friend there with him, you know?”
“I think Eagly is probably at the house, so…he'll be fine,” you reply jokingly. If you had to guess, he probably left after whatever unpleasant conversation he had with Harcourt. It's the only explanation you have as to why he left without saying anything and why Emilia looked so distant (more than usual, at least) all of a sudden.
“His human best friend! I don't think Eagly is able to fluff his pillows and tuck him into bed.”
“Yeah, and I don't think Chris would enjoy it if you do that.”
“No way, he adores it when I take care of him! It's like our thing,” he insists, like Chris genuinely appreciates it when he acts like a clingy best friend– which probably happens all the freaking time. “Wait. You're not jealous, are you?”
The question stuns you for a few seconds, blinking up at him as you try to come up with an answer. Why the fuck would you be jealous? And why does a seemingly innocent and stupid question get you all defensive for absolutely no reason? Like he's calling you out on something he shouldn't when, in reality, he's just being his random self asking random questions you shouldn't take seriously.
“Why are you wearing that?” you ask, attempting to change the subject entirely as you finally address the fact that he’s wearing Harcourt’s robe.
It looks good on him. Very good. Tiny, tight, hot…
Stop it! It's your friend's robe, for fuck's sake! Don't you dare think it looks hot on your other friend!
“I figured it'd be more comfortable to sleep in this rather than my shirt,” he replies casually, doing a little spin to show you how it fits him from all angles before he takes a seat on the couch next to you. “So? You didn't answer my question.”
“Do I even have to? I mean, why would I be jealous about you tucking Chris into his bed?” you ask back with a playful grin on your face.
“I don't know, that's why I was asking,” he shrugs, seemingly entertained by the conversation as much as you are. “In case you are jealous but just don’t want to tell me, I could tuck you in and fluff your pillows too, if you want.”
Again, perhaps the alcohol you've consumed tonight is the one to blame for the fact that you can’t seem to keep your mouth shut as soon as a thought pops in your head. Or maybe it's the fact that you're desperate for absolutely anything at this point. Whatever it is, you can't help yourself.
“Oh, really? And that's all you'd do?”
You notice the way he looks at you like he might have a clue of what you're saying, but still looking a bit confused. A bit mortified too, perhaps. “You mean, like…giving you a blanket or something?”
“Or…” you test your luck even further, inching just a bit closer to him on the couch.
“Or…leaving a glass of water on your nightstand?”
His reply makes you giggle, shaking your head at his naivety. “No, Adrian. I meant other things.”
“Other things?” he repeats, and you can see his Adam's apple move when he swallows thickly, sitting completely still. “Like– uh, I can't really– can't really think of anything else at the top of my head. Weird,” he rambles nervously, letting out a soft chuckle as he looks back at you. “You might have to give me an example.”
You really try to keep it together. To maybe build this up a little more before fully going for it, but you can't really hold back from him much longer. There’s just something that keeps pulling you in towards him, no matter how much you try to fight against it.
It's obvious that he won't dare to say or do anything unless he's absolutely certain that you mean what he thinks you mean, so you know you have to make the first move.
Adrian's breath catches in his throat when you dare to move closer– too close. Before he can fully process this is actually happening, you're straddling his lap like it's the most casual thing ever. Like you've been on top of him before. Like this isn't about to give him a fucking heart attack.
The fact that his hands immediately find your hips is encouraging. “Maybe I can show you what I mean.”
He looks up at you like his entire life depends on whatever it is that you want to do next. “Yeah, that sounds…that would be great,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips with a little more intent.
Adrian stays completely still at first, letting you take the lead. When your face moves closer to his, you notice the way he leans in, thinking you're going to kiss him, but you don't. Not right away at least. He stops leaning in as soon as he realizes you're actually just trying to tease him, a soft smile appearing on his lips because he enjoys that you’re doing that.
You don't want to torture him for too long, so you’re leaning closer a few seconds later, chosing to press your lips against his neck first. The contact almost makes him shiver, already earning the tiniest of sounds from him.
He allows himself to enjoy your affections, tilting his head to the side to expose more of his neck to you. Another sound escapes him, louder this time, when you drag your tongue against his pulsepoint, arms wrapping around your hips to press you impossibly close to his body.
“Fuck, this is– you're…so fucking hot…” you hear him mutter, the excitement and eagerness in his voice evident. “I’m, like, really turned on right now,” he adds shortly after, like that's somehow a bad thing.
You have to move back from him after he says that, offering him a reassuring smile. “That's kinda the point, Adrian.”
He smiles back, visibly relieved after hearing that. Feeling slightly more confident on what he should be doing, you watch as he delicately traces your jaw with his fingers before his hand eventually rests at the back of your neck. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, already looking like it might genuinely crush him if you say no.
But of course you won't say no to that. Instead, you lean down to crash your lips against his in a kiss that’s slow, tentative and incredibly sensual at first…until the first roll of your hips. As soon as that happens, your lips part in a breathless gasp and he urges you back into the kiss– all tongue, teeth and longing now. Like the two of you were waiting for this very moment to come for a very long time, matching each other's urgency.
His grip on you is strong enough to keep you close to him, but not as tight as if to restrain you from moving on top of him. If anything, he seems like he wants you to keep moving. You grind down onto his crotch again, denim against denim. It doesn't feel nearly as good as it could if there were less clothes involved, but at least it's something.
Just a few seconds later, still making out with you, he switches positions so you could be laying down on the couch– Harcourt's couch, you think, as your brain suddenly remembers where all of this is taking place.
“Is this okay?” he asks when you're underneath him, slightly out of breath. “Sorry. I won't be stopping all the time– trust me, I really don't want to stop. Ever. Like, I would be doing this all day if I could, but I don't know if you like to be on top all the time or what.”
“It’s okay,” you reassure him, getting comfortable on the couch. “Don’t overthink it, just…it’s okay.”
He nods. “Alright, yeah. Cool. Just checking.”
Adrian immediately crashes his lips against yours again. It's like he’s unable to keep his hands still. They move all over your body– hair, boobs, waist and thighs primarily, trying to explore as much of you in the least time possible.
You can't help the little sound that escapes your lips when he kisses your jaw, quickly moving down to your neck. One of your hands tangles in his hair, his curls still damped from the shower. Your fingers gently pull in silent encouragement and he's immediately rolling his hips down to meet yours with a necessity that almost has you gasping for air.
“You have no idea…” he starts, lips brushing against your pulse point as he moves yet again. Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, urging him to keep grinding against you as much as he wants. “No idea how many times I’ve thought about this moment. Holy shit…I might be having one of those dreams again.”
The comment makes you giggle a little, not expecting that confession. “This isn't a dream.” It's a bit difficult to maintain a conversation under the current circumstances, so that's as much as you can say for now.
“Yeah, I really hope it isn't. And if it is, I hope I don't wake up any time soon.” You thought that was the end of it, but of course he won't shut up that easily. His hips roll down to meet yours again, a soft moan erupting from both of you. “I was dreaming about you last night but my stupid alarm woke me up. So annoying.”
“Well, unless you’re dreaming of fucking me in Harcourt's couch, I’d say you're very much awake right now.”
You're growing a little impatient, both hands traveling down to grab the robe in an attempt to slide it off of him. He understands your intention immediately, moving away just enough to help you with that task.
Before you're able to take a single peak at his body again, he leans down for another kiss, this one a lot shorter than the previous ones but just as intense. “Oh, I could have sex with you anywhere, to be completely honest,” he admits with an innocent smile. “Well, we’ve technically done it everywhere already. In my dreams, I mean. This one time we–”
“Adrian,” you cut him off, smiling softly. “As much as I’d love to hear all about your wet dreams about me, the others could enter through that door any minute now.”
“Right. Yeah, perhaps we should speed this up,” he agrees, although you can easily tell how disappointed he is when that realization sinks in.
“Don’t pout at me,” you warn him playfully, right before gently shoving him away to take your shirt off, throwing it carelessly to the ground. His eyes immediately trace down your form, glued to your chest with absolutely no attempts of being subtle. “Can you help me?”
There’s no need to ask twice. Adrian moves his hands to your back, easily undoing the clasp of your bra before hurriedly removing it from your body. It’s like he’s seeing heaven when the piece of clothing is finally off of you. “They’re even better than I dreamed of,” he comments, almost in disbelief as he gently squeezes them with his hands. As if he’s trying to figure out if this is actually happening. If he really is this lucky to be able to touch you.
His evident appreciation makes you feel like you’re on fire, back arching off the couch as he kneads your breasts with more intent now. It doesn’t help that he has this smug little grin on his lips when he realizes you’re enjoying what he’s doing.
“Fuck, they’re perfect,” he whispers, adoration evident in his words, leaning down to press his lips to your cheek, hips pressing to your own just as he’s pinching one of your nipples between his fingers. The sound that escapes your lips makes him smile from ear to ear. “Do you like that?”
“Yes,” you mutter, another sound interrupting you as your back arches again when you feel him pinch your hardened nipples again, “obviously.”
“Not obviously,” he argues in a soft voice. “I like hearing you,” his tone gets just a little lower now, enough to make you feel goosebumps when his breath crashes against your skin, “especially those pretty sounds you make when I touch you. I want to hear more of those, actually. I wonder how much louder you can get.”
He sits up, looking back at you with an eager smile as he quickly works on getting rid of your jeans. You can’t help the little gasp that escapes you when he pulls them down your legs in one swift move, your panties along with them.
There’s something incredibly gentle in his roughness though, as if he’s trying to do everything for you. Like he’s analyzing what’s okay and not okay just by looking at your reactions. Gathering information to know what you want from him. You don’t really know how to feel at the idea of him studying you so closely right now, bringing some unexplained vulnerability that’s both scary and exciting.
The way his eyes trail down your naked form, silently appreciating every inch of you, is almost making your brain short-circuit. It’s just too much. It makes you feel like you want to hide yourself from his worship, while simultaneously wanting him to keep looking at you like you’re the most mesmerizing sight he’ll ever see in his entire life.
Adrian leans back down, seemingly unable to remain away from you for too long. He keeps one hand pressed on the armrest at the back of your head to keep his weight from crushing you, his other hand trailing down between your thighs.
You let out a little moan when his fingers brush against your slick folds, back arching up to him as you look into his eyes. His brows furrow just enough, expression conveying how much it turns him on to touch you like this.
“Fuck, you're so wet,” he mutters, almost in disbelief as his fingers begin tracing gentle circles on your sensitive clit. “I didn't know you liked me this much.”
“Shut up,” you reply, slightly breathy, letting out a soft chuckle.
Another moan escapes you. It encourages him to keep going, especially after your nails dig on his bicep. The eye contact is absolutely insane, like he's unable to look away from your face as he watches the consequences of his actions etched across your features. Your moans increase with each move of his fingers, grinding your hips against his hand in an effort to increase the pleasant sensation that runs through your body.
The second you feel two of his fingers sliding inside you, a deep whimper erupts from you and he groans in appreciation. His lips find your neck again when you throw your head back against the cushions. You feel him suck on your skin, which only makes you that much desperate, mind practically numb at this point.
“You like this too?” he asks, almost playfully as he curls his fingers inside you, his palm pressing against your clit as he speeds up. “It sure looks like you are enjoying yourself.” He moves back, just enough to look down in between your bodies, letting out a low groan at the sight of his fingers buried deep inside you. “Holy shit. You're so– so amazing. So pretty. Perfect. Look at me, please…”
You comply with his request, eyes locking again as he quite literally wrecks you with his fingers. It's surprising to meet this side of him. The right mix between needy and demanding. Like he's not scared to take what he wants from you, but still making it look like you are doing him a favor.
How come you never realized all of this potential existed?! All the time you wasted, when you could've been fucking the living shit out of him.
“Adrian,” you mutter as soon as you remember you're not exactly alone tonight. The rest could walk in any second now, and you really don't want them to see you like this. His name sounds more like a plea than an actual warning, though, so he doesn't really take it into consideration as he keeps fingering you with such vigor. You actually congratulate yourself for not coming undone yet. “We have to– fuck!” you try again, voice at a slightly higher pitch than usual, your lack of breath evident.
“Isn't that what we're doing?” he asks, and you can't really tell if he's joking or not. “You said we had to be quick, so I’m…you know, quick,” he adds not long after, like he has no issue having a conversation right now. He sounds like he could casually start talking about the weather right now. “Which is, like, super annoying, by the way! I kinda wanted you to ride my fa– holy fuck, do you hear the mess you're making?”
“Y-yes…kinda your fault…”
“You’re welcome,” he smiles proudly. “Hey, you never said if you liked this or not.”
Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head when his fingers curl inside you again, legs slightly trembling as your orgasm approaches. “Does it…fucking look like– oh! Please don't stop!”
Eyes shut, your hips grind more insistently against his hand as you chase your much needed release. Part of you would love to stay with his fingers inside you all night, testing how much your body can handle before you're begging him to stop, but you know that's not possible. At least not tonight.
You feel him kiss the top of your head, rhythm steady. “You're close? Fuck, please tell me you're close.” The needy whisper against your temple makes you clench around his digits, and you can tell just by the sound he makes that it drives him absolutely insane. “Ohmyfuckinggod that's so hot. Please…please let me feel you. I need to feel you clenching like that again, please…”
His words are just too much, adding to the intense pleasure his fingers are providing. Your orgasm hits you like a fucking tidal wave. Bright white shines behind your eyelids, legs trembling and nails clawing at his arm as you try to hold onto any sort of stability you could manage to find in a moment like this. His movements slow down gradually, allowing you to climb down from your high while peppering your face with soft kisses, occasionally whispering one or two praises against your skin while he gives you time to recover.
“I have to say, that has to be the hottest thing I've ever seen in my entire life.” The first thing you see when you open your eyes it's that adorable ear-to-ear grin of his. A smile that absolutely doesn't reflect the way he just fingered you. “You are the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
He pulls his fingers out of you and, again, his smile really doesn't match his actions at all. How dare he offer you such a cute smile before taking them into his mouth, drinking in your arousal like it's the most delicious thing he's tasted? It’s fucking diabolical of him.
The sound of appreciation and delight that vibrates on his throat when your juices invade his mouth makes you clench pathetically around nothing, body already begging and aching for more despite the limits you’ve been pushed to already.
Of course he doesn't protest when your hands move down to his jeans, continuing to lick his fingers clean before he takes them out of his mouth. “This is so much better than my dreams already, although in them I had the time to do a lot more things for you.”
Still a little out of it from your (no exaggeration here) life-changing orgasm, you let out a soft chuckle at his words. “I’ll sit on your face next time, okay? Stop whining.”
You can see the way his face lights up at that, looking at you like he's trying to figure out if you're being serious or if you’re just joking around. “There’s a next time?”
His question is as endearing as it is nerve-wracking. You weren't planning on saying that out loud– why would you even say shit like that out loud. The last thing you want is to come off as desperate or something. But Adrian doesn't seem to be thinking that you're desperate. If anything, he seems relieved to hear that you're open to doing this again rather than it just being a one-time thing that was only possible due to a couple of Bud Lights.
Noticing you won't answer his question right away, he immediately starts talking again. “I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to a next time either. No pressure, of course, but…you know. It could be fun. And friends have fun together, right?”
Friends. Yes, exactly! Thankfully he sees it that way too. No need to complicate the friendship with silly little things like this, right? Friends fuck all the time and their friendship stays intact. Why couldn't the two of you be that type of friends?
You look up at him, your fingers gently tugging at the waistband of his jeans as a silent way of letting him know you want them off immediately. “We can have fun together,” you reply, agreeing with his previous statement.
Adrian looks over the moon right now, his mouth finding yours in an instant. You keep an arm around his neck to prevent him from moving away, moaning into his mouth. He kisses like he's been deprived of any sort of intimacy for way too long and it drives you absolutely insane. If you knew he kisses like this, you would've done something with that information a long time ago.
As the two of you make out, he gets rid of his pants and boxers and, almost instantly, your available hand searches for him. He lets out a breathy moan against your lips when your hand wraps around his length, which encourages him to kiss you that much harder.
You stroke him a few times, noticing the way he can't help but thrust into your hand, his sounds muffled against your mouth. The size of him is surprisingly pleasant– nothing that would make you fear for your life, but certainly one to remember.
Again, if you knew this piece of information before…
He moves back from the kiss just enough to look at you, lips slightly swollen and glistening. “As amazing as your hand feels…I would– uh, I need to be inside you. Like right now, or I’ll lose my mind,” he whispers, growing incredibly desperate. “Please?”
You smirk at his evident eagerness, enjoying how he curses under his breath when you stroke him just a little faster. “It's really hot when you say ‘please’ like that.”
Lips just inches away from yours, he moans in a way that feels almost painful. It’s needy and desperate. “Please, let me be inside you. I’ll fuck you however you want, I promise. Whatever you want, just…oh my–”
He hides his face in your neck when you finally show him some sort of mercy. You don't let him thrust inside you just yet, but you guide him close enough so the swollen tip of his cock could dive into your folds, sliding deliciously over your clit in a way that has both of you gasping for air.
“Yes…fuck.” His voice is this quiet, needy whisper. Pathetic, almost. His body tenses just enough, his sanity threatening to snap with each teasing circle you draw around your clit as you use him to masturbate. “That's so hot, I…holy shit, you feel– so good.”
It's like you completely forgot you're fucking on Harcourt's apartment at this point. You could stay all night teasing him like this, just to get more of those desperate pleas and breathy whimpers. To see just how much he can take before bursting into your hand because he’s just so turned on he can’t help it.
“You feel good too,” you offer him. “And I bet you'll feel even better when you're inside me.”
“Don't– if you talk back to me right now I might…fall in love. Just warning you.”
You laugh, not really taking his words seriously. “Don't fall in love with me.”
“Don't tempt me then.”
Neither of you say anything else regarding that. Instead, you finally align him with your entrance and he just immediately thrusts into you. Sharp, intense and impossibly deep. It makes you gasp at the immediate intrusion, but you gladly take every inch of him, accommodating to his size.
“Sorry. I’m sorry…couldn't wait.” His breath tickling your neck makes you shiver, your mind going absolutely blank. All you can focus on is the way he's ball's deep inside you and he just refuses to move. “You feel fucking incredible, just like I imagined. Oh my fucking– thank you.”
He finally moves, sliding out of you just to fill you up with the same violent urge as before. “Thank you,” he whispers again, the hand at the back of your head grips the armrest tight, the other glued to your hip as he keeps you in place. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
Each thrust is accompanied by a soft gratitude escaping from his lips before his teeth sink on the side of your neck, just enough to get you to moan out a bit louder for him. Your legs are hooked to his hips, hands pressed against his back.
He sucks on your neck a little too hard, making you let out a little whine at the feeling, but he quickly soothes the spot with his tongue. “You better don’t leave a mark,” you manage to say, evidently out of breath. He doesn’t respond. “Adrian.”
“Shhh,” he eventually replies. You can’t see his face but just by the tone of his voice, you can tell he’s smiling. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You fucking–”
He doesn’t let you finish. He refuses to hear more of that as his thrusts speed up to a point where you even forget how words work. It’s like you can’t quite figure out what language you speak, or what ‘speaking’ even means. Instead, you’re reduced to a moaning and panting mess underneath him.
Adrian holds you close to his body, as if he’s hoping you two could somehow merge into one if he tries long enough. Your nails claw at his back and your whole body starts to tense, announcing your inevitable orgasm.
The sound of his skin colliding against yours echoes across the entire apartment, and you’re pretty sure everyone in this building is already aware of just how good Adrian is fucking you right now. Even when you try to quiet your moans, it’s simply not possible. Not when he’s hitting that particularly sensitive spot inside you with expert precision while repeatedly moaning into your ear in a way that’s downright disrespectful.
You can almost feel him twitch inside you when your walls begin clenching around him. “Fuck, do that again,” he grunts urgently, hips almost faltering. “Do– please, do that again.”
As soon as you clench again, he thrusts into you even harder. You didn’t even know it could get any better, but here he is proving you wrong. “Adrian, I’m gonna–”
“I know, I know,” he cuts you off, almost soothingly. “Let go for me…let me fucking feel you– god, please, let me feel you.” He sounds so incredibly desperate, you think his words alone would be enough to make you come. “It’s okay…I got you. I got you…”
Your entire body trembles with the intensity of your release. The sound that leaves your mouth is absolutely sinful, nails mercilessly clawing at his back and eyes closed shut. The fact that he doesn't slow down one bit just adds to the tortuous pleasure, not giving you any time to climb down from such powerful ecstasy.
“Fuuuuck,” he grunts, fingers digging into your hip as he tries to keep you in place to keep up his pace. “You feel so good…so fucking tight. I could fuck you like this every day and never get– get tired of it…shit, I think I’m gonna cum too. It's– you want me to pull out?”
“No, no…don't pull out,” you reply in an obvious fucked out voice. At first that was all you were going to say, but then you remembered how much he seems to enjoy it when you talk to him. “I want you to cum inside me. I need it– need you.” Almost as if you're fearing he'd move away, you wrap your legs around his hips to keep him close, despite the soreness in your muscles. “Please?”
That was his downfall. He's done. Maybe he could handle your breathless moans and the way your walls squeeze the living shit out of him because you're way too overstimulated, but there's absolutely no way he'll be able to control himself when you ask him to cum inside you. A man can only take so much.
His orgasm is as painful as yours, and you can only whimper as you feel him twitch deep within you, shamelessly filling you up. He gives you a few more sloppy thrusts until he's as much of a panting mess as you.
You offer him the softest of moans when he moves just a little, and you can tell the minimal shift of your bodies also affects him when he curses under his breath, trying to stay as still as possible until both of your bodies have relaxed enough.
A smile appears on your face when you notice his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. This is probably the hottest he’s ever looked. The most adorable too. “Was that better than it was in those wet dreams of yours?”
“You have no idea,” he replies almost immediately, which makes you laugh. “Was it– like, did you enjoy it too?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you repeat his words, smile widening just a little when you see the excitement on his face.
“Okay, great. Good. How bad would it be if I was here thinking this was the best sex of my entire life and you absolutely hated it? So, if you were to rate this from zero to ten–”
“Ten.”
“Really?” Another laugh escapes you when you see how much your answer surprises him. “That was quick! But wait, was it really that good or you’re just being nice to spare my feelings? Because I’ve seen online that girls are really good at faking it.”
“When have I ever been nice to spare your feelings?”
Adrian seems to think about it for a few seconds before he seems satisfied with the answer. “Yeah, fair enough.” There’s the briefest pause before he speaks again, his face inching closer to yours. “Next question. Would it be totally outrageous if I kiss you right now? As friends, of course.”
“You're such an idiot.”
“Hey! An idiot that almost made you scream your lungs out, mind you. I think Harcourt's neighbors are gonna hate her. So, no kissing then?”
You roll your eyes at his insistence, but you’d be lying to yourself if you say that you wouldn’t like the idea of kissing him right now. He's proven to be a good kisser and his mouth feels very nice against yours. Not to mention you already had sex so, really, what harm could a couple of kisses do now?
If everything stays in friends territory, there’s really no issue.
So, of course, instead of trying to get him to stand up, you place a hand at the back of his neck to bring him closer. All the initial pent-up tension is out of the way now. The kiss is a lot slower, but mind-numbingly sensual. Just the right amount of intensity and tongue. A+ kiss.
His fingers are tracing lazy patterns above your hipbone, but as soon as you feel his hand gripping your hip again, you immediately move away from the kiss. “Nope. It's enough for one night.”
“But we can be extremely quick,” he replies in a hurried whisper, trying to kiss you again.
“The others could walk in here any minute now,” you insist, gently trying to get him to stand up. “Come on.”
Adrian groans as a complaint, but makes the rational decision of standing up, giving you enough space to sit up. The first thing you do is recover your panties from the ground, putting them back on before gathering all your clothes and the backpack you brought with yourself for the night.
Without exchanging any other word, you hurry to the bathroom to get ready for a much needed sleep. Your legs feel sore and your mind races with thoughts of what just happened tonight.
You just had sex with one of your closest friends and you liked it, although ‘like’ would probably be the understatement of the century. It was so good, you fear you might be coming back from more a little sooner than you initially anticipated when you were considering the possibility of this potentially becoming a recurrent thing between you.
Holy shit, you just had sex with one of your closest friends and you absolutely loved every second of it!
As soon as you see yourself in the mirror, your eyes widen in shock when you spot two marks on your neck. They're barely there, but you know they'll just get worse overnight. Part of you wants to be upset, but the other is somehow excited to have a few souvenirs to remember this night.
You don't have much time to look at the hickeys, though, because your phone starts buzzing with an incoming call.
“Yes?” you ask as soon as you answer.
“Are you two done fucking? We're going downstairs,” Harcourt replies with a not-so-pleasant voice, which is classic coming from her. “We’d rather avoid getting scarred for life.”
“We– uh, hold on.” Denying it was useless at this point, so you just abandon that plan right away. “Adrian, are you dressed already?”
“Ew.”
You see him walk towards the bathroom, already in his jeans and Emilia's robe back on. “Yeah. Why? Do you want to have sex again?”
“Ew!”
“No. Ems says they'll be here in a minute, so she wanted to make sure we are…decent. All clear, you prude.”
“Thank god!”
As soon as she says that, the call is over. You place your phone on the bathroom counter before turning around to see Adrian casually standing by the doorway. “Do you mind? I need to pee.”
“Oh, sure,” he says with an apologetic smile, quickly closing the door to give you some privacy.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
You’re very thankful that you decided to use the bathroom before the rest came downstairs, because as soon as the front door of the apartment opens, John runs to the bathroom and locks himself in there for what feels like hours.
“Come on, man! Open up!” Adrian exclaims for the millionth time, insistingly knocking on the door. “How do I know that you're not passed out on the floor choking on your own vomit?”
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Economos mumbles from inside, which only encourages Adrian to knock even louder.
Meanwhile, the rest of you are in Harcourt's kitchen. She's having her last beer while you're reminding a very drunk Adebayo to drink her glass of water before going to sleep.
“Trust me, you'll thank me tomorrow,” you say, offering her a smile as you hand her the glass.
She takes a sip, obeying your instructions, before she gives you a confused look. “I can't believe you fucked Adrian tonight.”
“I second that,” Harcourt agrees almost immediately.
“Hey, it was technically your idea.”
She looks absolutely horrified that you're saying that. “How was that my idea when you were already thinking about it before I even brought it up?”
“Wait, you told her to do it?” Adebayo asks, visibly lost. “But even if she did, you could've just…you know, not fuck him.”
Harcourt smiles victoriously. “Exactly.”
You're speechless for a moment, looking in between the two of them. “Whatever. I won't have this conversation with you if you're going to be judging me all the time.”
“Oh, no. No, no. No judgements. If you're into him that's completely fine– in fact, I’m happy to hear you got dicked down,” Adebayo rambles a bit with her words. “It's just…surprising, that's all. But you look cute together and all that! Your babies are going to be beautiful.”
“He's not my boyfriend. Or the father of my future children. We’re just friends.”
“Oh, please, that's bullshit and you know it,” Harcourt laughs, shaking her head. “I’m sure he has a list of baby names on his phone already.”
“Yeah, so does Chris, probably.”
Harcourt shoots you a death glare while Adebayo bursts out laughing, slouching over the counter as she tries to keep it together. “Holy shit, your taste in men is immaculate.”
She keeps laughing uncontrollably, and even when you want to stay pissed at Harcourt for all her comments, you really can't keep a straight face because your friend's laugh is really contagious.
You notice Harcourt having the same struggle, and she eventually gives in. “What the fuck is wrong with us?” she asks, a soft chuckle escaping her.
“I have no idea. But hey, good sex is good sex. That's all that really matters.”
She sighs, but still raises her beer in your direction. “Cheers to that.”
As soon as Adebayo recovers from her fit of laughter, you're once again placing the glass of water on her hand, inviting her to drink up. “These are absolutely insane, by the way,” she comments playfully, her finger hinting at the side of your neck where the purple marks are.
You can’t help but look annoyed again. The hickeys were probably the first thing the two of them pointed out to poke fun at you. “Really? We’re doing this again?”
“It’s very…teenagery,” Harcourt offers with a smirk. “But cheers to them too.”
The conversation ends when Adrian is back from the bathroom. “Hey, girls! So, Economos is already passed out in the bathtub. He looks like a corpse, but I can assure you he’s very much alive. Like, if you focus long enough, you’ll notice he’s breathing. He does need a pillow or something though.”
Harcourt takes the last sip of her beer before leaving the empty bottle on the counter. “I got it. You three figure out how you’ll be sleeping here in the living room.”
“Oh, couch’s mine!” Adebayo immediately stands up from her seat, stumbling towards the couch before she plops down on top of the cushions, seemingly ready to sleep now. She’s already putting a blanket over herself, before you can even tell her that she’ll be sleeping on the couch. Perhaps she’s too drunk and tired to even care if you do tell her.
Adrian turns to look at you now, a bit uncertain with the proposition he’s about to make. “We can sleep in the recliner together.”
You immediately shake your head at that idea. “Definitely not. We’re not sleeping together. You take the recliner and I’ll sleep on the other sofa.”
“In that case you sleep in the recliner,” he argues back. “That sofa looks way too small and uncomfortable.”
“I can sleep anywhere, really. It won’t be an issue.” When you see he opens his mouth to insist, you immediately cut him off. “You won’t win this one, dude. I’m serious. You take the fucking recliner.”
He stays quiet for a few seconds. “You know, you look oddly adorable when you get bossy.”
“Don’t say that,” you sigh, walking towards the living room. As if you could avoid that interaction just by walking away a few steps.
“What? It’s a friendly compliment!”
“Is it?” you question him, and he just shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Perhaps it isn’t a big deal. Perhaps this is him being ‘just friendly’. Perhaps it’s your own brain the one having a hard time differentiating what’s friendly and what’s not, overthinking the situation. Shit. Are you the one complicating things now? Whether it’s him stepping out of line or you not knowing where that line even is, you decide to continue. “To me friends don’t cuddle up on a recliner all night, so that’s out of the picture.”
He shrugs, a bit confused by the sudden distance he feels between the two of you. “Okay, that’s fair,” he offers softly, like he’s trying not to worsen the situation, even when he doesn’t know exactly what went wrong here.
Another brief silence follows before you look back at him again, your icy words leaving a bad taste on your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t– I just want to make sure we’re on the same page about this.”
“I mean, we’re friends,” he states the obvious, taking a seat on the recliner as he looks back at you. “Right? That’s all we ever will be. Friends.”
“See, that’s my fucking point,” you argue, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “It feels like you want me to make the decision for the two of us.”
He stays quiet, which isn’t exactly helping your racing mind. “I think you're looking waaaay into the situation.”
“Really? So what if I were to tell you that I want us to be more than friends? What would you say to that?”
He scoffs, like the idea of you two being anything but friends is insane to him. “Uh…I’d say you're fucking crazy because that is not happening!” You almost want to roll your eyes at the disgusted look on his face because it looks like he's overreacting on purpose. Then, his expression shifts to one of genuine curiosity and a hint of excitement. “Wait. Do you actually want us to be more than friends?”
“No, you fucking idiot! I don't want us to– whatever. We’ll have this conversation tomorrow. I don’t want to wake Ads up.”
“Thank youuuuu,” she mumbles from the couch.
Harcourt is back in the living room just to say a quick goodnight before going to her bedroom. You don’t even want to look at Adrian anymore as you start turning off all the lights to finally get some sleep.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
You’re not sure how much time has passed. Maybe a few minutes, or possibly hours. You did manage to fall asleep at one point, but now you’re fully awake with your arm almost completely numb and your neck hurting a little because this sofa is painfully uncomfortable. Your head hurts a little too, but that might be just the effects of the alcohol dying down. Nearby, you hear Adebayo’s soft snoring.
Rolling around a few times, you try to find a comfortable enough position to go back to sleep, but none of them are good enough. There’s always something wrong about your posture, and it stings just enough to let you know that if you allow yourself to fall asleep like that, you’ll regret it in the morning.
You consider your options. The floor or going back to the rooftop. Maybe try to find Adebayo’s keys and go sleep in her car. All of those seem a lot better than the recliner.
There's no fucking way you're touching that fucking recliner. It pisses you off just thinking about it. But your anger is not necessarily directed at the furniture, or even towards the person currently sleeping on said furniture.
If anything, you're pissed at yourself for being such a bitch to him earlier. You didn't mean to be so mean with him, especially after the special moment you shared earlier that night. You're still not entirely sure what made you snap like that, but you do know that you regret it profoundly.
After a few more attempts at trying to find a decent position to sleep in, you seemingly give up on that and decide to stand up, going to the kitchen for a glass of water. You stay there in the dark, facing the sink, and even though you tried to be as quiet as possible, you soon realize you’ve woken Adrian up.
You only realize he’s awake when he wraps an arm around your waist, almost fearing you’d walk away from him if he didn’t hold you in place like that. The robe is open, because you can feel his chest pressed against the fabric of your shirt, and it fucking burns. It’s like that’s the only thing you can focus on.
“Take the recliner,” he whispers. It almost gives you goosebumps.
“The sofa’s fine.”
“I could hear you rolling around for minutes. Seriously, take it.”
There’s a silence that follows. He doesn’t move back from you and you stop arguing about the recliner because his arm around you feels a little too nice, so you just figured that if you stand there long enough, you’ll get to enjoy his touch for a bit before having to go back to sleep.
Not even a few seconds later, you feel his lips on your bare shoulder, his grip tightening just enough. “Adrian…” you mutter, as if that warning could get him to stop because you are not able to find enough self control to push him away right now.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he mutters back, but still presses his lips against your skin again. “Can’t help it…”
You turn around before he can do anything else, your body still glued to his. A bit of light comes from the window, so you’re able to make out his features despite the darkness surrounding the two of you.
This is very dangerous territory, but you really can’t find enough strength to care about that when he’s looking down at you like he’s silently begging for something. Anything. Whatever you’re willing to give him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats eventually, because he knows what’s happening and he knows he shouldn’t. But just like you, he doesn’t seem to care much about the consequences. In fact, he wants all the consequences. As many consequences as he can get out of this situation. He’s fine with that. “I know what you said earlier. And I know you probably want to punch me in the face right now– which is fine, by the way. I think it’d be quite the privilege to get punched in the face by you. Not like I want you to punch me in the face, but…well, maybe I do. I don’t know. I mean, if the punching’s coming from you, then I wouldn’t really mind because, like, it’s you. What I mean is–”
You kiss him before he can continue, grabbing his face to bring him down to your height. He gladly accepts it, both arms tightly wrapped around you now. It’s almost scary how much sense this all makes– the way he holds you, his tongue brushing against yours, even the weird flutter in your stomach.
The line you wanted to mark from the very beginning is practically nonexistent at this point and a terrifying realization sinks in. What if Adrian isn't the only one wishing for something else to come out of this situation?
What if there's a part of you that doesn't want to be just friends either?
Now, this really shouldn't be happening.
You’re absolutely fucked.
When the kiss ends, he has this big grin on his face. It’s just the cutest thing. Has his smile always been this cute? “That was better than a punch in the face,” he offers cheerfully, still trying to keep his voice down so he doesn’t wake anyone up.
“I can always punch you if you ask nicely enough,” you offer back as a joke, but your smile fades a little when you remember your behavior earlier. “I’m sorry for being such a bitch to you before. It was totally uncalled for.”
“It's okay. Although…maybe another kiss might make me forgive you even more.”
That comment brings a smile to your face, and even when you want to devour his mouth again, there's something within you that still tries to hold back. So, all you give him is a kiss on the cheek. “Is that good enough?”
“Everything that comes from you is good enough– all of it. It's perfect,” he clarifies. You think you might die at that very moment because fuck, the way he's looking at you when he says that. No one has ever looked at you like that.
You try to ignore the fact that your face is burning right now. “Let’s get some sleep, okay? We can unpack all of this tomorrow.”
“Okay, but please go sleep in the fucking recliner.”
“Or…we both sleep in the–”
His eyes light up immediately. “Yes,” he replies way too quickly, almost fearing you’d change your mind if he takes too long agreeing.
He goes back to the living room, laying down on the recliner as he waits for you. At first you hesitate a bit, fearing the thing might lose balance or not be able to hold both of your weights. Recliners don’t really feel like the most stable of furniture. But you eventually do join him, and aside from a few weird sounds that freak you out as you get comfortable, it seems to work just fine.
You rest on your side, snuggling closer to his chest while Adrian wraps an arm around your shoulders to keep you close. The last thing you remember before falling asleep are his fingers softly massaging your scalp and a short kiss at the top of your head.
What-fucking-ever. You’ll figure this mess out tomorrow.
—summary: you despise adrian, and adrian adores you. it's as simple as that. until he saves your life.
—pairing: adrian chase x female!reader
—word count: 4.3k
—warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), smitten!adrian, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, adrian being THE consent king, some porn with some plot, body worship, pussy pronouns, praise kink, sub!adrian, adrian being a slut for the reader as he should be, blood, killing, shooting, mentions of injuries, yk usual peacemaker stuff
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
The first time you saw Adrian Chase, you thought it was a joke. No, not a joke in the sense that it wasn't real, but a joke that fate had pulled on you. The man in the Vigilante suit, who sang hair metal ballads in the car and dropped facts about owls mid-mission, was your new teammate.
Peacemaker trusted him, and you trusted Peacemaker, so naturally you really had no choice but to work with him.
His first reaction? Big, bright eyes flashing through his mask, and a fall to his knees at the sight of you snapping some criminal's neck.
Your first reaction? A sigh and a look that promised doom.
You, who were used to discipline and seriousness, couldn't understand how someone like him could be part of such an important operation. He had literally been one of the people who had saved the world from being dominated by a bunch of alien bugs.
He, for his part, looked at you as if you were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.
He smiled at you in that silly, genuine way that got on your nerves. He talked nonstop about things you didn't care about, his life as a vigilante, his intimate friendship with Peacemaker, his passion for birds.
“Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?” he asked you one day while you were on patrol. “They can turn them like 270 degrees in a circle without moving their shoulders. Can you imagine if I could do that?”
You ignored him and kept looking through your binoculars. “I'm not in the mood to talk about birds, Adrian,” you said, your voice as cold as usual.
He didn't give up and tried to rotate his neck, very awkwardly due to his mask. “I could just rotate my neck like this and—”
“Adrian, please shut up,” you interrupted him, finally turning your head so you could look at him. “We have work to do. Stop being a fucking freak for a minute.”
He fell silent, and for a moment, you felt a little bad. But then you thought about all the times he had pissed you off, and you got over it.
Still, it was strange.
Despite your constant rejections, your constant unkind looks, he always came back. He always smiled at you. He always offered you one of his homemade cookies —which, much to your chagrin, were incredibly good.
He extended that extra special treatment to you and only you.
Adrian treated you as if you were the most important person in the world. And that, in a twisted way, made you feel like you were the freak in the situation. He adored you.
Although, deep down, you found him ridiculously cute. He was damn attractive when he shut his mouth and obeyed you in everything.
You would never accept it, of course.
Chris, on his part, tried way too hard to make you like him. Every time you guys hung out, he would mention how good of a friend Adrian was, how good he was at killing people, as if that would somehow impress you—which it did, of course—and how big his dick was.
He literally just mentioned it like that, without further explanation or any context, as if it were a piece of information you would be interested in knowing.
He took special care to pair you with Adrian for assignments, leave you alone together, send you to buy food for Eagly together. He was a kind of fucked-up Cupid.
“I don't need to know that,” you would say with disgust, trying very hard not to envision Adrian's dick.
And Chris would just nod his head, leaning in close to you as if he were revealing a top secret, “You need to know, dude. Honestly, I don't think Adrian likes sex that much. But his dick is big, I can assure you that.”
You didn't even want to know how he even knew that.
You didn't even like Adrian that way.
At least that's what you thought.
Until now.
You were on a regular night of surveillance; preventing a crime of some criminal gang that you had been tracking.
Everything was going well until the hallways filled with armed men, and a flurry of bullets struck near you.
Before you could react, one of the masked men shot you in the shoulder.
You feel a sharp pain that shoots through your entire arm, and then blood began to flow.
“Shit!” you cry out, retreating.
Adrian, who had insisted —begged— to accompany you that night, turn around when he hears the scream. You can scarcely see how his eyes panic, desperately searching for you through all the chaos.
He moves faster than you had ever seen him move before.
Then, he throws himself on top of you, covering you with his body, and drags you to a safe corner behind a wall of boxes.
“You're bleeding!” he gasps, his voice tinged with panic.
The pain makes you grit your teeth and the way he looks at you knocks you off balance. “I'm fine, it's just a scratch.”
“It's not fucking a scratch!” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his suit to cover the wound. “You got fucking shot, Lynx!”
The use of your vigilante name makes you finally look at him, dragging your gaze away from your bleeding wound. You can see the concern in his eyes through his mask, and he doesn't have to take it off for you to know that his lips are pursed in a pout.
His touch is gentle and careful, which surprises you. The adrenaline prevents you from thinking clearly. You'd never imagine that Adrian would be so... gentle.
While he is bandaging your wound, another man peers down the hallway. Adrian pushes you further back.
“Stay here!” he whispers, and without a second thought, he stands up to confront him.
The shooting intensifies and then you hear the sound of a chainsaw igniting, followed by a flood of screams of pain.
Just a couple of minutes later, Adrian appears in your field of vision, his suit covered in blood.
He looks so fucking hot that you couldn't even suppress the thought, in all the haze of hurt you are feeling.
“We have to get out of here,” Adrian claims, returning to your side. “you need a doctor.”
You shook your head, the pain throbbing in your shoulder. “My car is a couple of blocks away. We can go there, but no doctors.”
He looks at you disapprovingly for a moment before sighing and help you up, supporting your weight against him. Together, you sneak out of the market, leaving the entire criminal gang slaughtered behind and the owner of the store with a horrified look on his face, calling the police.
When you reach your car, you struggle to open the door. Adrian gently pushes you aside and does it for you.
You sit in the passenger seat, feeling the sting in your shoulder with every movement.
“Where are we going?” Adrian asks, starting the engine right after you toss him the keys.
“My house,” you reply. It is the closest and safest option, although the idea of being alone with him makes you uneasy.
Adrian already knew your address, of course; he had been there several times, showing up with his homemade cookies, sometimes with new weapons to show you, and other times with clues about some criminal you were hunting.
The journey is silent, except for the sound of the engine, some Frank Sinatra album playing on the stereo and your ragged breathing. Adrian glances at you from time to time, his eyes displaying full concern once he takes off his mask and throws it on the back seat. You don't dare look at him directly, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion.
“Frank Sinatra?” he inquires a in a teasing, incredulous tone, without looking at you. This time, it is you the one staring at him, at his side profile, the line of his strong jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes barely brush his cheekbones with each blink. Looking at the undercut of his hairstyle makes your stomach turn. He certainly is so cute. “The most ruthless assassin I know listens to Frank Sinatra?”
He looked odd without his glasses, maybe even more gorgeous, which was ridiculously beyond belief that it was possible for him to be.
“I'm not a ruthless assassin,” you mumble, looking away from him and feeling your cheeks flush, suddenly hot all over. You assume it is because your body is starting to healing itself. Or at least that's what you want to believe. “And Sinatra is a classic.”
“He is, I guess.” Adrian snorts softly, looking at you for a couple of seconds before shifting his gaze back to the road ahead. “For old people.”
“What?” you ask, looking at him again, your eyes trailing over the bend of his nose from his side profile, feeling a heat spread up from the lower part of your belly as you picture all the things you could do with that nose. You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your trance and snap back to reality. “I’m not old.”
A smile curls on his lips as he turns his head to look at you again, his eyes gleaming under the subdued lights inside the car. His gaze is soft, and caring, and warm.
But even so, Adrian seems a little flustered and nervous, overwhelmed by your presence right next to him, your scent, your breath, your voice. You.
When you arrive at your house, he helps you walk up the stairs at the entrance, holding you firmly. Once inside, he guides you to the sofa, always holding you close to him and handling you with care, touching only the necessary parts. He does not allow his hand to wander.
“I'll go get the first aid kit,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.
You lie back on the sofa, feeling tired and in pain. He returns with the first aid kit and kneels down in front of you, carefully opening the supplies.
He removes the makeshift bandage from his suit, his gaze fixed on the wound.
“I'm sorry,” he utters softly, with evident guilt in his voice. “If only I had been quicker...”
“Don't be silly,” you interrupt him, trying to keep yout voice quiet. “It wasn't your fault. And in fact, you prevented any more bullets from hitting me. So...” your voice trails off and you blush lightly, “you saved my life, Adrian.”
He looks you in the eyes, and for the first time, there is not a trace of his usual antics. Only concern and a tenderness that makes you feel vulnerable.
And he doesn't encounter the usual coldness and detachment in your gaze; no, this time he finds softness and closeness.
“And it's already healing. So don't be dramatic,” you add, trying to brush off the real gravity of everything you just said to him.
“Sometimes I forget you have those creepy powers,” he says softly, looking up at you from his spot right in front of your knees. “It’s so fucking cool... and scary as shit. And hot.”
Still, Adrian disinfects the wound with steady but gentle hands, bandaging it again with clean gauze. Every touch is delicate, every movement calculated. His closeness, his scent, his gaze, the soft expression on his face... everything blurs your mind and leaves you dizzy.
You feel vulnerable, but strangely safe by his side.
When he finish, his hands go down to your knees and linger there. The sheer heaviness of his touch and the way he looks at you as he kneels in front of you makes you gulp.
At that moment, you just know that his feelings for you are real. He really likes you. And he had put himself in danger to protect you.
A cold fear ran through you as you thought about what could have happened.
Suddenly, you realize you don't want to live in a world where you couldn't hear his off-key singing or his comments about birds.
“There you go,” he finishes treating your wound with a smile, his fingers caressing your collarbone before he pulls away from you.
Driven by a feeling you've never experienced before and profiting from his closeness, you take his chin in one hand, look him straight in the eyes, and kiss him.
Surprised, he just stands very still for a moment, then closes his eyes and kisses you back with a passion that makes you feel like you had never kissed anyone in your life.
Adrian kisses you as if he had been waiting and dreaming for this moment his whole lifetime.
When you separate from each other, Adrian's breathing is heavy, and yours isn't much better.
His thumbs caress your cheeks and his eyes drifts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, with a silent question. He don't need to say it out loud really.
Adrian leans up again, close to you, this time deliberately slowly, his lips brush yours, his nose affectionately caressing yours, before deepening the kiss.
His kiss is hungrier now, more desperate. His hands moves from your cheeks to your waist, barely lifting himself up a little so he could be closer to you.
Both of you know it.
It isn't just a kiss; it is a declaration, a release of all the tension that had built up between you through all this time.
“This is only because you saved my life,” you whisper in between kisses, attempting to convince yourself more than him.
Adrian is ecstatic, kissing you as if there were no tomorrow, hungry and desperate, like a lion that had just been released from a cage.
A smile curved his lips, reddened from so many kisses, murmuring against your mouth, “I'll save you every fucking day then, if this is how you'll repay me.”
You try to suppress a smirk, your arms around his neck pulling him up, closer to you. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Shut me up,” he challenges you.
And you shut him up with a kiss, letting yourself be carried away by the thrill of the moment and your instincts, your body acting on its own, controlled by a carnal desire that you had tried so hard to suppress.
Until now.
“Let's go to my room.”
Adrian obeys instantly, picking you up as he stands up and carrying you to your room, without even taking his mouth off yours. It is the perfect excuse to press you against him, his hands running over your thighs and backside, grinding against you with every step he takes.
“Can I touch you everywhere?” he asks, desperate and pleading, detaching himself from you for just a moment, his hands holding you under your thighs, pressing you against him and making you feel the prominent bulge in his crotch.
“I thought you already are,” you reply, panting for air, your hands around his neck, your fingers lacing through his hair.
His voice lowers sheepishly, very uncharacteristically in him, “I'm a gentleman. Consent is very important.”
You offer him a little sincere smile, kissing him again, “Yes, Adrian. You can touch me everywhere.”
He gently lays you down on the bed, positioning himself directly above you, his lips moving down your jawline, pressing a wet trail of kisses across your neck.
“Fuck yeah,” he hisses against your skin, right after placing a love bite near the junction of your neck and shoulder—the one uninjured. “You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”
His mouth suck, his teeth nibble, his lips press kisses, claiming your skin as his own.
“You feel much better than any dream.”
“Adrian,” you moan out his name, arching your back as you feel his mouth reach your collarbone.
He pauses for a moment, lifting his head to look at you, allowing you to see his fully dilated pupils. “Can I take this off?”
You nod instantly, biting your lower lip.
His hands settle on the fabric of your suit on your chest, frantically opening it and tearing it apart, always careful not to cause further damage to your wound.
That makes you gasp.
“Adrian!” you disapprovingly shout his name.
But he is mesmerized by your tits, which bounce free once he ripped your suit open, your nipples perking up at the feel of the cool air in the room.
“Motherfucker,” he curses, leaning down further to kiss one of your breasts, making you sigh. “You're not wearing a bra under this suit?”
“No panties either,” you confess with a hiss, closing your eyes when you feel his wet tongue leisurely flick one of your nipples.
“You're such a freak,” he whispers against your skin, mesmerized. “You act like a good girl, but you're so bad, hm? You do bad things like this and still act like little Miss Perfect.”
You bite down on your lower lip, holding back a moan as he sucks on the nipple, his fingers playing with the other, giving both of your tits his undivided attention.
“Adrian...”
“If you keep saying my fucking name like that, I'm gonna cum,” he rasps against the warm skin between your breasts, moistening it with his saliva.
He begins to descend further through your body, kissing your stomach, marking your skin with kisses, bites, and hickies. He is opening your suit as he roams your body, igniting your skin and sending shivers throughout your spine.
Adrian pulls your ruined suit down over your legs so he could remove it completely, taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss your knees and ankles before moving back up.
“Did you know this would happen?” he asks against the skin of your inner thigh, forcing your legs apart when you try to close them, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the way he looks down at you, adoringly. “Or you'd go for someone else?”
You try to smile through all the desire, offering him a crooked, lazy smile, “Don't be jealous.”
He gaze at you with eyes hazy with desire as he pulls himself up and begins to take off his suit with trembling, clumsy fingers.
“I'm not fucking jealous,” he mumbles, watching the way your eyes drift down his body, passing over the width of his shoulders, his pecs, his abs.
“You're staring,” then he remarks the obvious, trying to conceal the way he puff out his chest to look even bigger. With the movement, a silver chain hanging around his neck shimmered under the dim light of the room.
“So are you,” you snap back in a broken whisper, feeling your cheeks flush.
And of course you are cheking him out.
He is fucking ripped.
And so big that even his bulge under the fabric of his white briefs looked massive once he strips off the lower part of his suit.
He is so hard that it looks painful.
So what you had been hearing was real, so fucking real.
“Can I eat you out?” Still, he asks, eager to make you feel good, as he shook his head, causing a couple of curls to fall messily across his forehead. “You're so fucking beautiful, holy shit. I need to taste you or I'll actually have a stroke.”
Adrian return to his position between your legs, his hands delicately caressing your thighs as he waits patiently for your response, your consent.
You look down at him with half-closed eyes, your head clouded by the desire to reach any kind of pleasure.
He is carefully placing your legs on his shoulders, staring in awe at your pussy, dripping wet and so ready for him, when you click your tongue, “Can you stop talking and just get to it, Chase?”
“So mean even when I got you fucking-- dripping for me,” he quietly says, looking up at you once more just before nestling between your legs and leaning close to your cunt, his warm breath and the raspy tone of his voice makes you clench around nothing. And he just gawked, smiling as joyfully as if he were standing at the gates of heaven, wide open for him, “Pussy is so pretty too, look at her— fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby"
The pet name makes you swoon and fucking fold.
“Adrian—”
Your voice chokes off as you feel his tongue trace your slit, scooping up all the arousal that is leaking out of your hole and savoring it as if it were the most delicious meal he had ever tasted in his entire life.
The sounds of his mouth slurping and licking your pussy flood the room, so filthy and messy that it makes you feel a heat wave from head to toe.
You can't control the way your body yields to him, as if your whole life had been longing just for this moment, as if tailor-made for him.
A righteous and sloppy suck on your clit has you promptly reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess.
One of your hands lands on his head, fingers sinking into his curly locks and pulling them, drawing a hoarse groan from deep within his throat.
The vibration against your cunt has you rolling your eyes back.
“You smell so good,” he hums into your splashing pussy, which is throbbing harder and faster, your heartbeat pulsing right against his lips. He can feel it. “Cum on my tongue, baby. I want to drink everything this pretty pussy has to give me—”
But your hand on his head tugs him back, detaching him from your clenching hole.
He looks up from between your legs with squinted eyes, his lips, drenched with your own arousal, curl into a pout.
He looks so pussy drunk and pathetic for you that you could cum just by watching him looking like that.
“Oh, baby, don’t be mean now—”
You interrupt him, your thumb lazily stroking curls away from his forehead, “I want to cum around your dick, Adrian.”
Your words leave him dumbstruck for a few seconds. And the next second, he's peeling off his briefs as fast as a flash, and the next he's climbing on top of you, nice and slow.
He leans down to kiss you, preventing you from staring in awe at his dick, now held in his own hand, so hard and angry red that it has you drooling, “Holy motherfuck, that has to be the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.”
“Put it in, Adrian,” you whine, begging for him, squeezing your eyes closed and arching your back for him, looking for any kind of friction that helps you gett off, “Please, baby—”
The pet name rolls off your tongue so naturally, lace with so much pleasure and warmth that it had an immediate effect on Adrian, who fucking whimpers, kissing your lips sloppily.
Even so, he has the strength to stop and look you in the eyes, all flustered, “I didn't bring any condoms— fuck”
“No? Why?” you ask in a choked, whiny voice.
He looks at you with a face that conveys puzzlement and hopelessness, “Because I’m on patrol. I’m supposed to be fighting, not fucking—”
You interrupt him again, kissing him once more and staring straight into his eyes, “Fuck me raw, Adrian. I don't care. But fuck me now.”
And he can actually feel himself melting against your body, you can sense how he's trembling right under your fingertips, squeezing his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours.
He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin, pumping himself as he lines up the plump tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing it along the wet folds.
“I'll be gentle,” he promises, breathing shakily, though his hips tremble as if he might lose control at any second.
“Don't be,” you correct him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me. Hard.”
The growl he lets out when he hears you has something animalistic, primitive about it. Adrian finally pushes himself inside you with a slow but powerful movement,deeply carving a way into you.
“God, you're so tight...” he cries out, his eyes tightly shut, as if the pleasure is too much to process. He's only halfway inside your squeezing pussy. “So fucking warm— I'm gonna cum, damn it—”
“Don't even think about it,” you cut him off, digging your nails into his shoulders to force him to open his eyes and look at you. “Hold it for me, yeah?”
Your words set him on fire. Adrian begins to move, erratically at first, then with more force, each thrust slamming you against the bed. You you scratch his back, pull his hair, grasping any part of him you can hold on to, as the wet sound and rhythmic thrusts fill the room.
“So pretty...” he hiss in a broken voice, choking on his own whimpers and kissing you between each word, his hungry mouth tracing your neck and jaw, drooling on your skin. “So pretty for me— fuck, sweetheart.”
He's so dizzy with you, overwhelmed that everything is you, everything around him. Adrian is in love, thrusting into you with a force that makes you gasp, moving with raw desperation, as if his whole world depended on making you feel good. Your moans mingle with his panting, with the dull thuds of his skin against yours, with the creaking of the poor bed shaking under you.
Your legs squeeze him closer to you, trapping him inside, and when your nails dig into his back, Adrian almost splits the air in two with his broken moans.
“Can I— Can I cum n-now?” he asks like the good boy he is.
“Do it,” you whisper, already losing yourself on the edge of climax. “Cum for me, baby”
“W-where?”
“Inside,” you whine, frantically gasping for breath, feeling like the world is shrinking and slipping away from you with every thrust Adrian pushes into you, the tip of his cock hitting that spongy spot over and over. “Mhm! --Fill me up”
The rhythm becomes wild and brutal until your orgasm overwhelms you, making you cry out his name against his mouth. Your walls squeeze him tightly and Adrian can't hold back any longer, spilling inside you with an agonizing moan, torn apart by pleasure.
The sounds of your two fluids mixing inside you are so obscene that they make you tremble.
Adrian stays right there, trembling, and still cumming inside you, twitching occasionally, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing as if you had been running for your lives.
“Holy fuck, babe,” he groans, cracking his eyes open to look at you, a goofy, lazy smile curving his lips. “We made a fucking mess.”
Very carefully, he pulls out of you and your pussy squelches, gaping and oozing with your mixed cums.
“Look at that” he coos, lifting himself slightly off you so he can look down, gazing at your abused pussy in awe.
“Adrian—”
Too late, he already has one hand reaching down between your bodies, swiping his index finger through your folds, scooping up the fluids and plunging them back into your cunt, making you pant from the overstimulation.
When he makes sure that not a single drop of his cum is wasted outside of you, he brings his hand back up, holding it to his mouth to savor the remains left on his finger, making eye contact with you as he sucks his index finger.
“Delicious” he delights, leaning down to kiss you, making you savor the mixture of the two of you together through his lips.
“You're so weird,” you whisper against his mouth, kissing him again.
Adrian flops down next to you on the bed, letting out a sigh he had been holding in his lungs.
“And yet my cum is still inside you,” he replies, smiling contentedly. His smile suddenly fades, as if he's come back to reality. “Wait, can you get pregnant from this?”
You snort softly at his worried face, your hand gently brushing his still-flushed cheek.
“People usually get pregnant like this,” he nuzzles close to your caress, looking at you in awe as you talk. “That’s why you have to go to the pharmacy and buy me the Plan B pill.”
“Did you know that swans mate for life?” he asks afterwards, out of fucking nowhere, pressing a soft kiss on your fingers cradling his cheek as he snuggles closer to you. “And that they die of love if their partner dies?”
“What’s your point?” you inquire back, looking at him with curious, gentle eyes.
It's the first time you are showing genuine interest in his bird facts. And he is so happy he could burst with excitement.
“We're like swans, babe,” Adrian replies in an obvious tone, affectionately intertwining his feet with yours. “Well, at least I feel like a swan. If you left me after this, I'd kill myself.”
summary: your boyfriend's secret is revealed when he saves you from creepy men on the street, but his rescue might be a bit overkill (literally) ⊹ 4.1k
warnings: mentions of sex/allusions of adrian and reader being intimate, relationship insecurity if u squint (bc secrets), catcalling, being followed, unwanted touching (brief, nothing explicit), fight scene, blood, injuries, knives, death/murder (adrian being adrian), spoiler free!
note: happy peacemaker thursday :p not my usual content but ive fallen in loveeee w adrian chase & couldn't resist! huge enormous thank you to @sunnliqht for reading my drafts and brainstorming with me and giving me the courage to write for adrian, ilysm!
· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·
The city is eerily silent tonight. A low whistle of wind is the only sound sweeping through the abandoned streets of Evergreen. You stand underneath the overhang in front of the restaurant, tapping your foot anxiously as you look out into the night.
You should be home by now, tucked into your cozy bed. Maybe reading a book or streaming some brain-rotting television on your laptop. Not standing in the cold, alone, well past midnight, and still outside your godforsaken place of work.
But you just had to pick up the extra hours. When you could’ve passed on the extra cash and found an alternative way to save up some money. Couldn’t you have skipped out on grocery shopping this week? Gotten by on cup noodles and anything edible you could swipe from work? You do have exceptionally tasty mozzarella sticks at Fennel Fields, and a slightly off-putting line cook who’d be willing to look the other way for you. Not that your boyfriend slash coworker—who has made it his mission to protect you from any creepy customer or sleazy staff members—would be too fond of that plan.
The rest of the staff at Fennel Fields couldn’t believe it when you gave Adrian a chance. “Him, really?” they all asked. Dorky, socially inept, thickheaded Adrian? The one who still lives with his mother?
Despite what they all might think, you wouldn’t change a thing about him. Adrian drew you in with his sparkling positivity and ability to make you laugh. Not to mention, with a face like that and a physique so solid, he’s pretty easy on the eyes too. But what really stands out above it all, is how special he makes you feel. Adrian doesn’t seem to like a lot of people—doesn’t even seem to care about them at all. But you? Somehow, you’ve become his exception. And not just that, you’ve become the single most important thing in his life. He’d move mountains if you asked him to. He’d paint the sky with a billion new stars if it would make you happy. He’d watch the world burn as long as he could keep you safe from the flames.
So yes, he might be a little goofy, and as awkward as he is blunt, but no one has ever loved you as fiercely as he has. And you love him too, with your whole heart.
If Adrian had it his way, he’d have had you home hours ago. He would have been your ride, with your shift originally set to end around the same time as his. When you told him that it wouldn’t be necessary anymore, he didn’t seem too happy about it.
You slid up next to him as he was bussing down a booth, his flexing biceps briefly drawing your eye as he scrubbed extra hard at some sticky mess left behind by the previous guest’s toddler. You tapped his shoulder twice, smiling sweetly as he dropped the rag to grant you his full attention.
“Hi, babe!” he said, bright and chipper as ever. That many hours into a shift, you didn’t know how he managed to stay so joyful.
“Heyyy,” you replied, stretching the word awkwardly as if to soften the news. As if that ever works, particularly on him of all people.
Adrian did manage to pick up on something, though, even if he wasn’t sure what. And it wasn’t because he read your tone or noticed the slight grimace on your face. But because he’s made it a point to memorize some of your quirks. An active effort on his part to understand you better, maybe even be a better boyfriend because of it.
He noticed that you were rocking back and forth on your heels. Which meant you were about to say something hard or awkward or unpleasant or serious—he hasn’t quite nailed down the specifics. But he knew it was something.
“What is it?” he asked, tilting his head.
“A couple of people, uh, called out tonight. So I picked up the closing shift.”
Adrian frowned. “But we were supposed to go to your apartment and fool around ‘cause your roommate won’t be home.”
A surprised squeak slipped past your lips, and you glanced around to make sure no one was listening.
“I told you that you could come over and watch something on Netflix!” you corrected sharply, your cheeks heating up. The relevance of your roommate’s presence was simply to say you wouldn’t be bothered if you watched TV in the living room.
Although… you weren’t not planning on, well, fooling around with him, as he put it.
“Yeah,” Adrian said with a shrug, as if you just said the same thing as him. “My good friend Chris told me when a girl says ‘watch Netflix’, she never means ‘watch Netflix’, she means fucking.”
“Adrian, what did I tell you about talking about sex at work?” you asked exasperatedly.
“That I shouldn’t do it,” he answered, seemingly proud that he remembered, but his pride was short-lived. His eyebrows shot up, and his lips curved into an O shape as he realized he had just broken that very rule.
You shook your head at him, equally fed up with his antics as you are enamored by how adorably dumb he can be sometimes.
“Anyway,” you stressed, trying to steer the conversation away from such a very personal topic. “I just wanted to let you know there’s been a change of plans. It’ll be late, but maybe we can hang out after I close.”
Adrian turned very stiff, and his signature grin was wiped off his face. “I can’t,” he deadpans, with no other explanation.
Oh. Right.
There was one thing that bothered you about Adrian—his secrets.
He couldn’t come over after your shift because he had the ever mysterious “stuff” to do later. Or did he have a “thing” planned? Maybe it was another undisclosed “errand” he needed to run. Whatever it was, it’s not something you got to know about. Last time you pressed, he bluntly explained that “it wouldn’t be a secret if I told you” with an amused lilt in his voice as if you just asked the silliest question. As if keeping secrets from your girlfriend was perfectly normal.
You decided to drop the topic altogether, or else you’d spend the rest of your now very long shift in a sour mood because of it.
“We’ll see each other tomorrow, or something, then. We’ll talk about it later,” you muttered, pressing your lips into a tight line as you tried to walk past him and go check on your tables.
“Wait,” he said, catching your wrist. “How are you getting home if you’re not leaving with me?” Adrian asked, but he continued rambling, not even giving you a chance to reply.
“It can get really dangerous around here, especially at night. It’s Friday, did you know that means the crime rate is higher than usual? In most places it’s Saturday, but in Evergreen it’s actually Friday. You’re not walking home, are you? It’d be really dangerous-”
“I remember, Adrian,” you finally cut in. He’s only told you the same thing a million times before. It’s sweet how protective he is—and maybe a little strange that he knows so much about local crime rates—but you’d like to think you could take care of yourself.
“So you have a ride home, right?” he asked, watching you closely and expectantly.
“Yeah,” you shrugged. “I do.”
It was a lie, but you were certain at the time that you could find one.
Unfortunately, Adrian took you at your word and began happily humming to himself as he continued wiping down that table, because you were wrong. You had asked every one of your coworkers and damn near every contact in your phone, but to no avail.
So, here you are. Working up the courage to head off into the night with Adrian’s words still ringing in your ears, reminding you how high the crime rate is on a Friday night like tonight.
You briefly consider calling your boyfriend, admitting to him with your tail between your legs that you lied, and asking him to come and get you. But, he’s busy with who knows what. And you don’t think you’re ready to find out if, when presented the choice, he’d choose you or the nondescript “thing” he always has to do.
With one final deep breath, you shake off your nerves, and you head out. Away from Fennel Fields and towards the direction of your apartment.
It’s not a terribly long walk, you think, trying to convince yourself that you’ll be fine. But every sound makes you jump. And every hoot from some faraway owl makes you think of Adrian, stirring up a weird sense of guilt for lying, and because he’d probably be so mad if he knew about this.
You try to stop thinking about Adrian. He’s made you all paranoid. Over nothing! You’re halfway to your apartment now, and you’re doing just fine, aren’t you?
But just as you finally begin to let your guard down and start to think Adrian has you worked up for nothing, you hear a low whistle a few feet behind you.
Turning your head and looking over your shoulder at the two burly men is a mistake. You watch as their lips curve into matching sinister smirks. The one with the scraggly beard puffs out a cloud of cigarette smoke as he nudges his friend—equally ugly and severely more bald—and the pair step away from the bar they just emerged from to follow you.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath, picking up speed as the men call out to you, making lewd comments. Their words about your body and attire are crude and punctuated by loud, obnoxious laughter that’s only growing closer. You speed up, nearly into a jog, which only seems to amuse them more.
“C’mon, doll, where ya runnin’ off to?” one of them calls after you, his voice gravely from years of smoking.
“Come here, sweetheart, we just wanna talk to ya,” his counterpart adds.
“Fuck off!” you shout impulsively, trying to make yourself sound as intimidating as possible, but your voice wavers, which only serves to goad them on.
“Feisty one, eh?” one of them laughs, and the hair on the back of your neck stands at how close the voice sounds.
“Yeah, pretty little thing, too. Bet we could have some fun. What do you say, doll?” the man with the cigarette murmurs, close enough for the reek of smoke to hit your nose. Unshed tears sting your eyes as fear bubbles up in your stomach at the realization that they’re right behind you. You really wish you had listened to Adrian. You really wish he were here.
You’re about to break into a run, but Cigarette Breath’s rough fingers close around your wrist, yanking you towards him. The two men put their hands on you like they’re entitled to it, despite your shriek and sharp protests. You feel a hand squeeze your hip, another tugs at your hair.
But, as you’re winding up to put up a fight, to punch and claw your way out of this, you’re suddenly set free. The bald man has stumbled away from you, hunched over and clutching his jaw, moaning in pain. And the other?
Locked in a chokehold by none other than the masked crime fighter Vigilante.
“Don’t touch her, motherfucker!”
You gasp, stumbling back and almost tripping over the curb. Despite the sheer size of the man in his grasp, Vigilante easily overpowers him. A sharp kick knocks him to his knees with an awful snap. Another lands square in his face, scattering his blood and teeth across the pavement.
You clap a hand over your mouth. The logical side of your brain screams at you to run. Most people would be running for their lives in fear at the mere sight of violence like this. But with the ghost of the man’s unwanted touch still on your skin, you only feel your fear dissipate when he goes down.
Vigilante turns his head at the sharp snick of a switchblade opening. The other man holds it up defensively, and Vigilante waits. Bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he’s excited to see what the man does. The man lunges. Vigilante blocks and dodges, as if the moves are second nature. He grabs the arm with the knife, twists until something breaks, and the man lets out a strangled cry. Vigilante snatches the knife and drives it forward without hesitation, slamming the man against the brick wall that lines the sidewalk, driving the blade deeper.
The man gurgles, trying to speak as blood spills down his chin.
“What was that, Baldy? You want me to stop? Ohhh, so you do know what no means? Too late!” Vigilante says, twisting the knife before letting him slide to the ground into a heap.
“Oh fuck!” you cry out, finally realizing what you’re bearing witness to as you look into the man’s lifeless eyes. You turn around so that you don’t have to see any more of it.
Vigilante doesn’t seem to notice your panic, humming as he removes the blade from the man’s body and wipes it clean on the leg of his suit before pocketing it. Switchblades are illegal in this state after all! It’s imperative that he keep it from falling into the wrong hands.
“Hey-” Vigilante starts, approaching you, but a groan from the bearded man catches his attention as he makes a pathetic attempt at crawling away. Vigilante pulls out a knife of his own, throwing it with perfect precision to put an end to any further interruptions. The sound of the blade piercing flesh makes you flinch.
“Hey,” he tries again, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder.
You jump what feels like several feet into the air, scrambling to put some distance between you and him.
“What the fuck. They- they’re…” You run your hands down your face, holding them in front of your mouth as you grapple with what just happened, shaking your head.
Vigilante tilts his head, perplexed by your reaction. “Wait, why are you still freaking out? They’re gone?” he asks, as if he truly doesn’t understand why killing someone—someone bad—in cold blood would stir this kind of reaction.
“Gone?” you repeat, gaping at his nonchalance towards the brutal deed. “You killed them!”
Vigilante scoffs, crossing his arms like a scolding parent. “Well, if you didn’t want to see murder, maybe you shouldn’t have been walking around by yourself on a Friday night.”
You stare at him—really looking at him for the first time. Vigilante is infamous in this town, the star of every breaking story on the news each night, but you’ve never seen him in person before. Let alone this close. You can just barely make out a pair of eyes scowling at you behind his red visor.
“What?!” you finally shout. Is this guy serious?
“I’m just saying! It’s dangerous, hasn’t anyone ever told you that!” he responds in clipped syllables dripping with barely restrained irritation.
Your fingers press at your temples, trying to stave off the headache building from this unbelievable conversation and scarring event. “Why are you mad at me?!” you ask, flabbergasted. Did he forget that you’re the victim here?!
“I’m not mad!” he shouts, poorly concealed anger evident in his tone, balling his hands into fists as his sides like only someone who’s mad would do. “I’m just sure there are people out there who care about your safety who wouldn’t want you walking around by yourself at night!” He points at you accusingly, “Maybe they’ve told you that before. Maybe you should’ve thought about them before you came out here!”
Something about his voice makes you freeze. You squint at the masked man, trying to get a better look at the sliver of his face that's only partially obscured by his visor. That familiar cadence, his petulant stance, the stubborn refusal to admit that he’s angry when it’s so obvious that he is. He’s acting a lot like…
“Adrian?” you ask, your voice trembling with the weight of the accusation.
Vigilante stiffens, standing tall like every muscle in his body was just strung taut at the sound of that name.
“Who-? Who’s Adrian? I don’t know any Adrian, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, because that would jeopardize my secret identity,” he rambles, and every word only convinces you of it more.
“I think I’d recognize my own boyfriend’s voice, Adrian Chase!” you raise your voice.
“Shhh! Fuck—stop! Don’t say that so loudly!” he pleads, stepping towards you with his palms raised in front of him, urging you to stop.
You pace back and forth, each breath labored, pressing your palm to your forehead as you try to keep yourself from absolutely losing it.
“I don’t understand why you’re still freaking out! Okay, yes, I know I’ve been lying, and I feel really bad about that, but-”
You come to an abrupt stop. “It’s not about that, Ad—Fuck. You kill people!”
You can’t believe the words that are coming out of your mouth. Or how easily they do. This situation has stress pressing down on your chest, mingling with your shock and a spark of anger. But your fear? Conspicuously absent.
Why aren’t you afraid?
“Bad people!” he defends himself.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, pacing again as you grapple with the fact that your boyfriend’s moral compass is seriously fucked.
A petulant, grumbly little sound rumbles from Adrian’s chest because he thought you’d be more cool about this if you ever found out.
“Last week, when I was on the news for busting that drug ring and killing all those guys, you said the world was probably better off without them, though,” he says, trying to reason that you’re more okay with this than you’re letting on.
“Yes, but I- fuck, that wasn’t real. I don’t know if I meant it!” you shout, heart hammering. “It was some story on the fucking television, so far removed from my reality.”
“It actually didn’t happen that far from your apartment,” he can’t help but correct, not quite grasping that you’re not talking about literal distance. His voice softens, “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You don’t really live in the best area. Have you considered moving?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you shout.
“Okay! We’ll talk about it later,” he mutters in the same snappy way he might speak during any ordinary argument.
“Oh my god,” you whine, burying your face in your hands, wondering how you could possibly process this life-altering revelation while your boyfriend acts like this argument is as trivial as whose turn it is to wash the dishes (answer: always Adrian’s).
Adrian frowns. Seeing you upset makes his stomach twist. It pulls at his heartstrings like nothing else ever could. Literally.
A moment later, his gloved hands wrap around your wrists, and you don’t flinch or pull away this time. Even if you are freaked out, you’re still not afraid. Because it’s not just the brutal Vigilante standing before you. It’s Adrian. Your Adrian. And you’ve always felt safe with him.
You suck in a breath when that’s who you see after you let him tug your hands away from your face. Not a dangerous man hidden behind a black and teal mask, but the face you’ve fallen in love with, with his mask off and wedged between his arm and his body.
“Adrian,” you murmur, the sound almost a helpless whimper, as your gaze bounces back and forth between his familiar green irises.
“They were going to hurt you,” he says quietly, features twisted in grief, the mere thought of harm coming your way hitting him deeply.
You start to turn your head, to look at the culprits, but his fingers catch your chin before you can look. The last thing you need to see is the broken, bloodied mess he left those men in.
“Hey, don’t look at that,” he says in a surprisingly gentle, surprisingly calm voice. “I’m sorry you had to see it, but I would do it again. They were bad men. They’ve probably hurt other people before. But I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
You swallow hard, letting Adrian’s words sink in. If you’re honest with yourself, maybe you do believe the world is a better place without men like that.
And Adrian? Well, he just wanted to protect you, didn’t he? It’s sort of like last week when Adrian scooped up a little spider and carefully released it outside because you were scared of it. Except that instead of the spider, it was two men who would have done a lot more than just scare you. And for that, maybe they did deserve the higher punishment he dealt them.
The line between the masked crime fighter on the news and your sweet, loving boyfriend starts to blur. Leaving you with one man who’s fiercely protective and driven by justice. And is that really such a bad thing to be?
You step a little closer, and he tentatively slides his fingers from your chin to your cheek, cupping your face. You lean into his touch.
You’re not really sure yet how you feel about your boyfriend being Vigilante and running around, murdering criminals. But in this world, there are certainly worse things to be.
You think about the men he killed tonight. The men he saved you from. That icy feeling of fear finally creeps back in, prickling up your arms and settling in your chest over your pounding heart. It’s not what Adrian did that scares you, but rather what could have happened if he didn’t.
You might even consider yourself grateful that he was here to save you.
Slowly, you snake your arms around his middle, inching forward until you’re close enough to tuck your head under his chin.
Adrian lets out a big sigh of relief, wrapping the arm that isn’t holding his mask around you, too.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently, wondering two things. Whether you sustained any physical injuries before he got to you (he might have to figure out how to kill those guys a second time if you did). And if you’re going to accept this part of him. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you don’t.
“Yeah,” you exhale, and then so does he once he realizes he was holding his breath. “It’ll all be okay,” you say, more a reassurance to yourself than anything else. “Can you take me home?” you murmur into the hard shell of his suit, wishing it wasn’t in the way. All you want now is to climb into bed with him, curl into his side, and find comfort in his warm skin pressed against yours—a closeness he allows only with you.
Adrian’s usual cheeriness is already bubbling to the surface. “Yeah,” he says happily, more than ready to get you off the streets as he untangles your bodies from each other.
He puts his mask back on, hiding his identity again before leading you away with a firm hand pressed to your back.
He leaves the bodies there. This street is poorly lit and lacks surveillance. This won’t come back to him, except maybe as idle speculation. More importantly, it won’t be traced to you either.
A silence settles between you as you walk, and in true Adrian fashion, he can’t resist breaking it.
“Can we circle back to you moving into a safer neighborhood?”
summary: you and adrian get trapped together on a mission. he's convinced he's bleeding out, you're convinced there's something strange seeping from the airvents. you learn very quickly that your hatred for him is not as nearly powerful as your desire. (7k)
pairing: adrian chase / f!reader
contents: fem!reader, enemies to lovers, idiots in love, grumpy x sunshine, sex pollen galore cw for lots of swearing, mentions of blood and gore, smut!! ft. unprotected sex, injured sex, mutual dubcon? because of sex pollen?, sub!adrian 18+ MDNI!!
They called it The Veil.
They said that, whatever this strange chemical was, it corroded the brain like a virus. They said that it forced the infected recipients to act upon their darkest compulsions. Sometimes it was murder. Sometimes it was sex. Other times, it was something totally innocent, but always a little psychotic in its way.
The drug wasn’t deadly by any means, but inconvenient enough to give its creator, whom they called The Architect, some kind of voyeuristic high.
That was all Amanda Waller thought to tell you on the matter before sending you off on a borderline suicide mission. You’re almost sure she only gave it that stupid case file name because she had no idea what the hell she was talking about, or exactly who the hell she was dealing with. Which is precisely why your task force was sent to handle it.
“It’s a lot simpler than I thought, actually. She only wants one vial to test it, so…” Harcourt sighed deeply from the head of the long table. “In and out, fast and easy, and especially no mess… It needs to be like we were never there at all, understood?”
Adrian scoffed a breathless chuckle from beside you. “Well, I’m the man for the job, then— ‘Cause I know all about in and out, fast and easy… Am I right, guys?”
He glanced around the table, looking very obviously for approval. His smile flickered when he found no one was laughing with him. He cowered under your stoic gaze, swallowing hard and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s a… It was a sex joke…”
“Yeah,” you deadpanned with narrowed eyes. “I think we got that.”
Adrian thought it was kismet when the two of you got paired together, seeing as it was your first mission as a quote-unquote couple since the drunken makeout you shared in Harcourt’s bathroom some weeks ago. He was like a stray puppy that way — you fed him once, and he kept on coming back because he assumed that meant you actually wanted him.
You just thought it was a pretty genius move on Harcourt’s part, really. What better way to ensure a swiftly done mission than to put you in a tin box with the most annoying man on the face of the planet?
But what Waller failed to brief you on was that The Architect was a total fucking psychopath, far beyond usual supervillain standards. The layout of his warehouse was nothing like the one Economos had found — it was more maze-like, and descended nine floors into the ground, not quite unlike a replica of Dante’s fucking Inferno.
It wasn’t until you and Adrian were ambushed by a series of armed guards that you realized that The Architect wanted to be found. He wanted Economos to locate the warehouse, and he wanted Harcourt to think the mission looked easy. The Architect was looking for someone to play cat and mouse with, and you fell right into his trap. Like a total fucking idiot.
You and Adrian seek sanctuary in what seems to be the storage area. The windowless room is filled with cardboard boxes, all packed and organized on metal shelves against the wall that rise to the ceiling. It’s lit by a single white-green fluorescent light that clicks and buzzes every so often. The heavy door shuts behind you and locks with a heavy ca-chunk.
It does not open again.
Dead guards litter the hallway outside, and both of you wear the woes of battle over. The left side of your face is burning and throbbing with it. Metallic blood pools in your busted mouth and seeps from your bruised nose. A kick to the chest from a man twice your size has left you wheezing, and your ankle still throbs from where you’d stomped at him until his handsome face turned into a mangled, unrecognizable mess.
You’re still not sure how much of the blood stained on your jeans and fitted black t-shirt is actually yours.
Adrian got the worst of it, though — all of that and then some.
Along with various raging scrapes and blossoming bruises, he sports a number of lacerations on his lean body from a psycho wielding an army knife. Most of them are surface-level, and hardly any of them will require stitches. Save for the one just under his ribcage, maybe, that weeps and trickles like a waterfall of deep red crimson.
“Fuck!” Adrian whimpers as he stumbles to the opposite side of the room, wrenching off his mask with one hand and clutching his wounded side with the other. He leans his swaying body against the metal wall and slides slowly until he’s sitting down. Then he winces, swallows hard, and pulls his gloved hand away.
The leather of his suit is torn around the cuts on his torso. The teal blue stripes are tinted a darker purple from the blood. The deepest puncture at his side pounds like a heartbeat, and the sight of his open flesh makes his head spin.
Adrian cradles himself there once more and squeezes his eyes shut when the dim room starts to spin around him.
“Holy fuck!” he bellows in pain.
“Can you shut up!” you shout from the other side of the room, dragging in another rasping inhale. “I’m trying to hear!”
You turn away to press your ear back to the vault door. You find nothing but an eerie silence on the other side, save for the faint rattling of dying guards. It’s quiet. Too quiet. A quiet you’ve learned to be wary of — it’s hardly ever the end of a thing, but typically the beginning. The calm before the storm.
You just hope the rest of the team had heard your calls for backup before your comms got smashed to pieces.
Adrian winces and swallows down his strangled whimpers of pain. Being stabbed hurts, of course, but not quite as much as you being angry at him. He thinks it must be in his blood to obey you. The blood which rushes from his body like an open faucet now.
“Sorry. I’m just—” He drags in a wavering breath through his gritted teeth. “I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding out over here…”
“You’re not bleeding out,” you scoff, spitting dark blood from your mouth onto the tile floor below. “Jesus, you’re so dramatic…”
Adrian finds a strange comfort in your innate insensitivity. He always has. Every time you’re mean, it always feels a little like you’re flirting. Each of your hurtful jabs has a funny way of finding him like kisses on the cheek.
“Yeah… You’re probably right…” he sighs and tries to catch his breath. The air feels weirdly thinner now, though, and he convinces himself that the oxygen is running out accordingly. “Oh, fuck…”
Your head whips over your shoulder at his trembling tone. “What?”
“‘M gonna pass out…” Adrian slurs, squeezing his eyes shut when his vision starts to blur.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” you snap and storm the short distance towards him, the best you can on one good foot.
Adrian can hear the sound of your heavy boots against the metal ground, but they sound muffled and far away, like he’s hearing them from underwater. And when you crouch down beside him, you feel much further away than that, too.
He can still smell you, a delirious combination of rich copper blood and musky vanilla perfume, but he can’t see you behind the black evading his vision.
“Oh, fuck,” he echoes. “I can’t see…”
“Open your eyes, you idiot!”
Adrian realizes his eyes are closed, and they snap open in an instant, round and slightly glassy. He finds you much closer than he’d expected, kneeling at his side and looking almost worried behind the bruises and cuts stamped to your skin.
His gaze darts wildly around the room. Everything in it feels light years away, like he’s seeing it all in some kind of movie theater in the very back of his mind.
“I can’t see!” he insists dramatically, anyway.
You huff and roll your eyes, reaching over his battered body for the top pocket of his suit — careful to avoid his many injuries when you retrieve his glasses for him there. You shove the thing back over his face, stamping a bloody thumbprint on the bottom of the right lens. The left one, wounded in battle, is now cracked and splintered in the middle.
“Better?” you monotone.
Adrian opens his eyes wide only to squeeze them shut again in an utterly stupid-looking cycle, like he’s trying hopelessly to re-orient himself. His chest heaves under his fitted suit, each breath trembling through his gritted teeth. He’s very visibly hurt. The foreign look of panic pinching his face makes your chest ache with a distant worry.
“I swear to god, if you pass out in here, I’m leaving you,” you tell him.
His breath catches for a moment. His green-eyed gaze glimmers with uncertainty when they lock with your unsmiling ones. “…Seriously?” he murmurs.
You cave almost instantly at the look of puppy-like hurt twisting his features.
“No…” you sigh, still scowling, even as Adrian musters a trembling smile that looks more like a wince. “But if you die on me, Vij, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand?”
He goes to make a joke — about how in love with him you are despite always being so mean — but the words get lost somewhere in his throat before he can. He hardly notices when his eyes flutter shut and his heavy head starts to loll to his shoulder, until you grab him firmly by the jaw.
Adrian blinks like an owl when you grip his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “I said, do you understand?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but then he pauses for a few moments more.
“…Do you hear that?” he slurs.
“Hear what?”
“That.”
You hold your breath and strain your ears. Only then do you hear the quiet hissing sound coming from far away — not outside, but in here. It rumbles faintly in the walls, like an old A.C. clicking on with a heaving whoosh.
When your eyes flit up to the vents, you find a strange mist seeping from the rusted metal slats. Fine scarlet particles billow in wispy clouds on either side of the room.
The Architect surely knows you’re in here. You figure he must’ve been the one to lock the door behind you. Now, he’s just experimenting with you — like rats in a maze, or bacteria in a petri dish. You wonder if it was his plan all along to trap the two of you in here. You wonder if he’s watching you now, from some camera hidden in the walls.
Adrian’s glazed-over eyes swim with terror. “…What the fuck is that?”
“Cover your nose,” you tell him, wide eyes trained on the slowly sinking fog.
“What?”
“Cover your nose!”
You shield your bloodied one in the crook of your elbow. Adrian tries to follow suit, but finds his limbs have gone strangely heavy. His hands feel like they’re made of brick. “I can’t feel my arms—” he tries to whine. The complaint gets lost in his mouth when you cover it with your free hand.
His round, panic-stricken eyes flit between your worried face and the crimson mist rolling along the pristine metal floor. It feels strangely cold when it meets the exposed skin of his face, billowing in threadlike clouds over his legs and feet. He tenses and waits for it to burn, for it to pierce through his suit and skin like acid. It never does.
Feeling a little safer than before, he goes to take a much-needed breath in. He finds you’re holding him much too tight for that. Your scraped hand deprives his nose and mouth of any air, even when his lungs begin to scream for it.
He tries to tell you this, but the words turn to mush as they rumble against your palm.
“Shut up and wait,” you spit in a muffled scold.
The heavy red mist turns pink when it dissipates, then evaporates entirely a few dragging moments later. You wait a lingering beat after that, just to make sure it’s really gone, before letting either of you breathe again.
Adrian takes in a deep, ragged exhale that rattles through his aching chest. His pulsing rib cage stings when his stomach heaves, and he winces accordingly. He needs to catch his breath, but it hurts too much to do so — and when he holds it, his body only screams for it more.
You watch him writhe with an unenthusiastic stare. “You okay?”
His only answer is another gasping breath.
You sigh and stand to walk away. “Yeah, you’re okay…”
Adrian scoffs bitterly at your limping figure, holding tightly to his wounded side. “Trust me. I think I’m far from fucking okay—”
“You’re fine.”
“I got stabbed—” he shouts, then cuts himself off with a groan when he tries to sit further up. A wave of white-hot pain spreads from his ribcage to the entire left side of his body. He bites back a strangled cry and slouches slowly against the wall again. “And also, I’m pretty sure my lung collapsed after that asshole kicked me in the back…”
“So, you should probably stop talking then, huh?” you huff and press your shoulder into the heavy metal door.
“But I love this back and forth we have going, don’t you?” Adrian pouts. You roll your eyes and say nothing. He doesn’t let the silence linger for long. “Is that stuff gonna kill us, you think?”
“No,” you answer instantly, then doubt your confidence a second later. You exhale a wavering breath that you feel rattling in your lungs. “I— I don’t know. It’s still in the air, but it’s not as— as strong so… I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t feel it,” Adrian says, almost optimistically so. “Do you feel it?”
You think for a moment, then shake your head. “No…”
“Yeah, I… I kinda feel good, actually.”
Your eyes narrow in a disbelieving squint. “I thought you were bleeding out?”
Adrian tilts his heavy head to his shoulder and lifts his trembling fingers. The sight of his open flesh doesn’t get any easier. It’s still raw and still weeping, though a little bit less than before. The stinging pain has ebbed some, too, replaced now with something slightly more numb that he can feel radiating up and down the length of his body.
“Yeah, I think I still am…” he nods with a faint grimace. “But it— It feels a little different now, though…”
“…Different how?”
“Different… tingly,” he answers. “Like, you know how, back in the day, when you’d turn on your television and the screen would feel a little furry?”
“No?”
“Well, that’s what it feels like.”
You open your mouth to make fun of him. It’s instinct to at this point. But the words get trapped in your throat when you realize what he means — this strange tingling sensation that starts at the tips of your fingers and toes. It rolls through the opposite ends of your body, like your veins are made of live wires, until it meets finally in the pit of your stomach.
A warm feeling swirls there. Not painful by any means, or entirely foreign for that matter, but the chemically produced reaction still frightens you a little.
“Oh, fuck…” you waver under your breath as you limp towards the shelves at the other side of the room.
The fear flickering across your face fills Adrian with an immediate worry. It’s easy not to be scared when you’re around, ‘cause you never get scared. Ever. So, naturally, you’re sudden panic strikes him hard in the chest.
“What is it?” Adrian wonders aloud, wide eyes following your form behind his dirtied glasses.
You say nothing as you tear into the sealed packages with your bare hands. The sound of dull pops and harsh rips fills the quiet, windowless room. You find nothing in these boxes other than neatly packaged vials, filled with the same scarlet substance from before. You toss each one to the floor with an impatient huff — on an evident mission that Adrian doesn’t quite understand.
“What are you doing?”
“If The Architect stores his stuff in here, maybe he keeps the antidote in here, too.”
Adrian’s face screws. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense,” he tells you, not argumentative by any means, but trying to be constructive.
“I don’t see you offering up any ideas!” you shout back.
The venom in your tone makes him flinch. “I’m fucking dying!” he reminds you.
“Oh, my god,” you scoff a wheezing breath. “You’re fine—”
The argument dies in your throat when the familiar whoosh-ing sound returns. It’s followed quickly by a faraway hiss, and then by wisps of red fog from the vent above your head. You rush instinctively back to Adrian when the thin mist makes its swift descent, all but stumbling over your twisted ankle and toppling into his wounded side.
His pained scream gets buried in the skin of your palm.
Your face twists into a sympathetic wince behind your elbow. You can feel each of his distressed whimpers rumbling against your hand.
You try to ease some of your body weight off the boy below you. Your knee brushes against his parted legs as you try to rise into a crouched position. You freeze when you feel something hard between his thighs.
Adrian tenses, too, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses. He cowers under the glare you give him.
You don’t say anything until the red fog has dissipated into pink mist, and then finally into nothingness. Then you jerk away from him like he’s burned you.
“Are you hard?!” you exclaim, voice ringing through the metal room, as you stand upright on your sore foot.
“No!” Adrian shouts back, features screwed in a feigned offense. Your scowl never wavers. He swallows hard and shrinks under your towering form. “Yes…”
“What the fuck, Adrian?!”
“You know I like it when you’re mean to me! It’s not my fault!” he defends in a feeble whine. You roll your eyes and stumble away from him with a deep huff. Adrian’s face twists, mourning the closeness between you. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m not thinking straight! It’s the blood loss!”
“I can’t believe this…” you scoff.
“Aw, honey…” Adrian coos sympathetically. “I’m gonna be okay—”
“What? I’m not talking that, Vij!” you argue, spinning on your good foot to face him as you gesture wildly with your hands. “I’m talking about how we’re trapped in here, breathing in some goddamn chemical we weren’t properly briefed on! We don’t even know what’s going to happen to us down here! The Architect is probably watching us right now!”
“We’ll be okay, honey—”
“Stop calling me that!” you shout.
“But you like it when I call you honey.”
“No, I don’t!”
(You do. But that’s not the point.)
You take in a wavering breath. Your lungs fill with something heavier than air — something warmer and fuzzier, something that feels like static. The feeling makes you suddenly lightheaded, though that’s probably just all the shouting. (Adebayo always blames your frequent headaches on your quote-unquote yelling problem.) You figure that, along with the borderline beating you took no more than ten minutes ago, must be the culprit.
So you limp to the opposite wall and slide yourself into the furthest corner from Adrian, aching for a little bit of distance now. You bend your knees to your chest and tilt your head back until the crown of it meets the metal shelves behind you.
“You just stay over there, and I’ll stay over here, and…” you sigh a rasping breath. “The others will find us soon, and we’ll figure it out…”
“Well, it’s not like I’m going anywhere, right?” Adrian scoffs, then winces at the ache it puts in his side. “Ouch…”
You keep your eyes closed and your breathing steady, trying to keep the panic at bay while you wait for the strange feeling to subside. Only it never truly eases. It just keeps on building. Like a Fourth of July sparkler set aflame behind your ribcage, that flickers and fizzles without end.
You squeeze your eyes shut and pretend you don’t feel any of it.
“Is it starting to hurt for you?” Adrian’s voice pierces the heavy quiet, face screwed behind his crooked glasses.
“No,” you lie through your teeth.
“Yeah, me neither…” he says with a disbelieving waver, blinking hard to clear the haze. He finds your scraped features twisted into a pained sort of look as you swallow down tiny whimpers, bruised hands balling into trembling fists at your side. “…You okay?”
“I don’t know,” you pant, finding it suddenly very difficult to catch your breath.
Adrian perks with concern almost instantly as he shifts on the wall to sit further up. The worry pinching his chest hurts him far worse than the fresh wound at his side. “Are you in pain?”
“Just— Stop talking—” you tell him, much softer than the usual bite you use with him.
“‘Cause you look like you’re in pain.”
“I’m not, alright? I can just…”
You realize you’re holding your breath and opt to take in a much-needed inhale — a horrid idea in retrospect. ‘Cause it’s not the scent of dust and old metal that pervades you then, but something muskier, like oaky cologne — and something distinctly salty, like sweat and skin.
Everything smells like Adrian, and your lungs fill with it.
“It’s the chemicals, I think,” you tell him, jaw clenched tight. “I feel like I can smell you.”
“Sorry…” Adrian hums with a sympathetic wince. “I think that’s just me, actually… I ran out of soap this morning, so I had to use shampoo instead, and I don’t think it worked very well—”
“Adrian…” you caution in a strangled voice.
It’s the first time you’ve ever used his real name, and the notion isn’t lost on him. Instead, it finds him like a punch to the gut — a distant pounding he can feel in his most sensitive depths.
“Do you feel that, too?” you ask him.
He thinks for a moment and tries to guess what you might mean. The swimmy head? The sparkling chest? The swirling stomach? The throbbing between the thighs?
“Yeah…” he answers, quavering voice filled with a palpable panic. “Holy fuck— Are they spraying us with that weird chemical shit to make us horny? Are we gonna have to fuck each other to get out of here? You know, like those guys did in Saw?”
“What?” you snap. “Nobody fucked in Saw.”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure they did—”
“Adrian…” you repeat in that same pitiful tone that makes him dizzy. You look like you want to say more, but can’t quite get the words out. Your face just scrunches together until you look like you might cry.
Adrian wants to comfort you. His entire being aches with it, and it hurts far worse than being stabbed. He’d crawl to you if he had the strength for it.
“Can you just—” Adrian swallows hard. “Can you just come here?”
Your heavy eyes flutter open, more glazed over than usual. You stare daggers at the boy across the room anyway. You find him still slouched against the wall, clutching his side and peering at you through his cracked lenses. There’s something strikingly soft in the way he looks at you, despite all the bruises on his face.
“…What are you talking about?” you ask.
“Nothing. Just… Just come over here,” he shrugs. “M—Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
Your eyes narrow into a challenging squint. “You’re such a fucking creep,” you scoff.
“Remember what Harcourt said? About how The Veil makes people crazy until they— act on their impulses or whatever? Maybe it’s like that now! Maybe we just need to be, you know, close. That’s all.”
There’s a hopeful glint in his dark eyes and a pleading twist to his features that makes your aching that much worse. You almost think you could cry if you’d let yourself. Instead, you just squeeze your bent knees together and pray the heartbeat between your thighs goes away on its own.
“I can’t…” you tell him after a few long moments of heavy silence.
“Can’t what?”
“Be close to you.”
Adrian swallows hard. He can’t tell if it’s a flat-out rejection or an attempt at self-restraint. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what I’ll do…” you confess in a pained whisper. “And I don’t wanna hurt you…”
Adrian shakes his head in response. He doesn’t think anything could hurt him more than the distance between the two of you now — not so cavernous in hindsight, but feeling close to it anyway.
“You couldn’t,” he promises, he pleads.
Your skin starts to buzz, like there’s fizzling electricity rushing through your veins instead of blood. You grit your teeth and ball your hands into fists until your nails dig burning crescent shapes into the skin. The pain does little to distract you from the tingling warmth that’s already swallowed you whole — or from the throbbing between your legs that beats out of sync to the thrumming of your pulse.
You wonder briefly if the pounding between your squeezed thighs belongs to Adrian’s heartbeat instead of yours. The thought alone makes the world sway beneath you.
“Fuck—” you hear yourself cry in a strangled voice as your half-numb limbs lift you from the cold, unforgiving ground.
You hardly notice the dull panging in your ankle when you stagger the short distance back to Adrian. You tumble gracelessly into his side, straddling one of his legs between both your thighs, as you cradle his bruised jaw between your calloused palms.
The thought to take a breath doesn’t once cross your mind as you pull him into a searing kiss. Adrian grumbles a quiet moan against you when you lick into his parted mouth without warning.
You exhale a heavy sigh as you relish the foreign flavor of him. You remember the boy tasting once of beer and salty chips and boy — now he tastes mostly of copper blood. Blood and something distinctly sweet, which you chase with your tongue just now.
Adrian keeps his head tipped back and his mouth open for you, letting you kiss him the way you want.
He reaches out for you with numb and heavy hands. His gloved fingers tremble until they find purchase on your thighs, adding to the bloodstains smeared on your dark jeans. He’d pull you closer to him if he had the strength for it, dig his finger into your skin until it left a mark. But now he just holds you there, and lets you make a mess of his mouth.
Your noses smush together at the intensity of your kiss. He can feel each of your exhaled sighs fanning across his cupid’s bow, and you can feel his muffled groans rumbling against your mouth.
You kiss him hard enough to bruise. Adrian finds himself praying that you do. He wants to be marked and stamped and burned by you. He wants a souvenir to remember this by.
But when you lean further into his chest, a white-hot pain sparks across his whole body, stemming from his bloody torso. Only then does he remember the stab wound he sports there. Warm blood seeps and stains the leather fabric of his suit, and Adrian pulls instinctively away with a hiss through his teeth.
“Oh, shit,” you pant. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay—” he shakes his head and leans in for another kiss.
You flinch back before he can. “No, I’m hurting you—”
“I want you to,” he pleads, round eyes darting wildly back and forth between your wet ones, half-hidden behind his glasses. “It’ll make us feel better, okay? I know it will—”
“I am not fucking you in here, Adrian.”
“W-What if it’s the antidote—?”
“No!” you interject with the stubborn shake of your head, voice breaking in a fragile protest. “No. Not like this.”
You’ve spent so much time making him chase you — so much wasted time that’s culminated in this. Some kind of chemically induced hook-up that neither of you particularly wanted or asked for, but was thrust upon you anyway.
You thought that when you finally let Adrian fuck you — because, let’s face it, you were always going to let him fuck you — that it might actually mean something. That he might actually want it.
Now, all you are is a means to an end.
So you’re not sure why Adrian still looks at you like you’re everything he asked god for, anyway.
“Please…” he begs in a broken whimper, bruised features twisting into a pitiful look. His hips shift beneath you, aching and desperate to feel you again, never minding the searing cut pulsing at his side. “Please, I need it— Fuck, I… I’m beggin’ you—”
His words find you like a punch to the stomach. You feel very suddenly like you’ve been starving for decades. The urge to take a bite out of him overwhelms you to the bone. Adrian lays his affection before you like a tablecloth, and what else are you meant to do, other than devour him completely?
You make quick work of undoing his pants, careful not to agitate the raging wound at his ribcage. The faint clinking of his belt buckle fills the quiet room, along with the sounds of eager, panted breaths. Adrian’s wide eyes dart from your bruised face to your impatient hands as they slip beneath the hem of his boxers, colder than silk against his burning skin.
He inhales through his teeth when your fingers brush the coarse thatch of pubic hair above his cock. He’s already half-hard and warmer than velvet when you grip him in a loose fist.
The breath leaves his lungs in a wavering exhale when you drag his cock from the confines of his briefs. It sits heavy on his right hip, glowing a faint pink color at the tip, with a singular vein that trails from the base to the head.
You can’t believe you used to laugh when Peacemaker would call him Thimble.
“I was a late bloomer!” Adrian would always say. “Excuse me for not hitting puberty until my mid-twenties!”
If that was the case, then you figure puberty must’ve hit him pretty damn hard.
You rise slowly to take your pants off and grimace at the distant ache in your ankle. Adrian’s gloved hands reach out to steady you on instinct, though the strength is still slow to return to them. He tilts his chin to keep your gaze when you loom over him, watching your anxious fingers fumble with the buttons of your jeans.
He curls his buzzing fingers around the hem, tugging them down your thighs, along with the black cotton panties you wear underneath. It leaves your lower half totally bare at his eye line. His head swims at the sight of your plush thighs, littered with leftover bruises, and the manicured hair just above your glittering pussy.
You descend slowly back over him again. Adrian swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He rests his tingling hands over your waist to keep you steady as you straddle his lean hips. You prop yourself on his shoulder with one hand and slide the other between your bodies, wrapping a loose fist around his stiff cock.
Adrian’s breath hitches in his throat. Your heavy eyes lock with his lidded ones, half-hidden behind the crack in his lenses, as you drag the bulbous tip between your drenched folds.
His chest deflates with a wavering sigh.
You feel like silk. Softer than silk.
“Do you want this?” you ask on bated breath.
Adrian can’t find the words, so he just nods rapidly in response.
“Tell me,” you command.
“Please,” he begs in a fragile whisper almost instantly. “Please, fuck me—”
His plea trails off into a groan when you pierce yourself on his cock.
A gasp gets caught in your throat when you sink down over him. You relish in the distant burn in the pit of your stomach as you stretch around his cock. The ache washes away as fast as it came, leaving a velvet-coated pleasure in its wake.
Your exhale leaves your parted mouth in a faraway whimper when he’s buried to the hilt. He’s in you and all over you, and still not quite close enough. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible. Enough to make tears burn in the backs of your eyes.
You rock your hips over his lap without warning. Adrian’s kissed lips curl into a tight line, trapping a moan there, as his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back against the metal wall behind him.
“Oh my god…” he murmurs within a dragged-out exhale. The boy babbles to himself while you sway back and forth over his thighs in a slow, methodical rhythm — careful not to hurt him more than you already have. “Fuck me… This is so— so fucking hot. Holy shit…”
Adrian swallows hard and forces himself to keep his heavy eyes open, to watch you as you work yourself over his lap. He tilts his chin to his chest and shifts his hips to have the perfect view of your pussy as it splits open around his cock.
Your inner thighs glimmer with the honey you drool for him. His stiff cock and chestnut pubic hair shine with it, too. The sight of him all slick with you makes him dizzy.
You keep one hand curled around his neck while your other trails between your bodies, down to where the two of you meet. You tilt your heavy head back when your fingertips find your clit, face scrunching when you rub yourself there with a lust-fueled fervor.
A coil tightens in the pit of your stomach. Your pleasure begins to crescendo all at once, and your weeping cunt clenches somehow tighter around him.
“That feel good?” Adrian pants, eyes darting attentively over your fucked-out features, half-blurry behind his fogged lenses. You nod wordlessly in response as a whine sounds in the back of your throat. “Tell me,” he begs. “Tell me I’m making you feel good.”
“Fuck…” you whimper in a strangled cry. “It feels so good, Adrian— Fuck.”
Your hips stutter over his lap, losing their rhythm as your body fights to find its own pleasure. Your drooling cunt pulsates around him, suckling his cock impossibly deeper inside of you. When you duck down to hide your face in his neck, to bury your pathetic whimpers in his sweat-slick skin, Adrian wonders what it’d take for you to stop.
If the rest of the time came rushing in right now to save you, or if The Architect himself barged in prepared to destroy you both — would you keep on fucking him, too far gone on his cock and totally dumb on the pleasure?
The thought makes his stomach swirl. He imagines you riding him for all he’s worth, crying as you squirm on his cock while all your friends watch, seeing firsthand who you belong to. It’s enough to make him burst inside of you.
“Holy fuck, you feel so good…” Adrian murmurs between choppy breaths. “’S gonna— Shit… You’re gonna make me— You’re gonna make me cum if you keep riding me like that… Fuck, yeah, honey… Just like that…”
His praise trails off into a groan.
Adrian tenses beneath you, choking on his moans, as you cum together in a tangled mess of battered limbs and broken whines.
His eyes squeeze shut behind his crooked glasses as his cock spits inside of you, jerking wildly in your fluttering confines. “Fuck—” he shouts in a strangled whimper, blinking away stinging tears as the pleasure erupts so suddenly within him.
Your orgasm finds you much more quietly than his, though it racks through your body in more merciless waves.
Your face screws in a pained look as your jaw clenches, biting back the moans that swell in your throat. The hand on your sensitive clit stills, far too sensitive to touch now, though it’s quickly replaced with Adrian’s gloved one.
The warm, textured leather at his fingertips rubs relentlessly at the swollen button until you’re crying at the overstimulation. The static shocks it sends up your spine contrast heavily with the warm feeling of his cum seeping out of you.
“Adrian!” you gasp as you shake violently in his hold, twitching against his chest.
Adrian grimaces when you press against the fresh wound at his side. It sends a sharp, searing sort of ache up and down the length of his torso. He pulls you closer with his free hand on your thigh, anyway — keeping you close while you moan his name in his ear like it’s the only word you can remember.
Even as your orgasm fizzles slowly out, you’re still left trembling — whimpering pathetic little Adrian, Adrian, Adrian’s into his burning skin.
Your hips come to a slow stop over his lap, too quickly and yet not soon enough. You pick up your heavy head and press your forehead against his own, noses knocking as you catch your breath.
The effects of The Veil ebb like a low tide.
The gravity of the situation hits you like a freight train.
You pull back from him, chest heaving, and lift your hand to set his crooked glasses back on straight over his nose. It’s a subdued sort of affection that he’s never seen from you before now.
“You okay?” you ask, panting.
Adrian says nothing for a moment, as his lips curl into a lazy grin. “Told ya it was the antidote,” he lilts.
Your usual scowl returns to you. You roll your eyes and lift yourself from his softening cock, feeling instantly empty when he’s gone. You can still feel his cum seeping out of you as you slouch against the metal wall beside him — half-naked, leaking, covered in a mixture of his blood and yours.
Neither of you says a word for several long moments. You’re not sure what to say, or how to move on from this — or if you’ll ever be able to.
“So…” Adrian starts, because he’s never met a silence he wasn’t able to break. When the feeling returns to his tingling hands, he tucks his soft cock back into his boxers. “How, uh… How was it for you?”
He tilts his flushed cheek to his shoulder to look at you. His eyes dart wildly over your profile when you keep a thousand-yard stare at the locked door across the room.
“I wasn’t at the top of my game. Just, you know, by the way,” Adrian continues with an awkward chuckle. “‘Cause I’m— bleeding out and all, so… We should— We should probably do that again sometime, right? You know, when I’m not dying…”
He gets no sympathy from you, though he wasn’t exactly expecting any.
He smacks his lips against his teeth when you say nothing, nodding to himself as he turns away. “Yeah, that’s… I think that’d be best, you know? So you can get, like, the full scope of what I’m capable of…”
Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh as you reach for the pile of clothes at your feet. You grit your teeth and power through the ache in your spine as you tug your pants and underwear back on.
“‘Cause I’m usually like a machine, you know—” the boy continues hopelessly.
“Adrian…” you huff with a shake of your head, grimacing when you lift your hips to slide your jeans underneath them.
“Like a sex machine—”
“Adrian.”
He nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a gloved knuckle, blinking hard behind the splinter in the left lens. “Yeah?”
“Please shut the fuck up.”
He frowns. “Is that a no?”
“It’s a ‘please shut the fuck up,’ actually,” you deadpan.
His rosy, kiss-bitten mouth curls into a smug grin. “So then it’s a yes?”
Your head snaps in his direction to flash him a hardened glower. His smile ebbs as he flinches softly beside you. You like him best this way, you think — utterly taken by you, but always a little scared in his way.
“If we somehow get out of here…” you start slowly. “And if somehow Waller doesn’t ship our asses to Belle Reve… Then maybe— maybe— I will think about entertaining the idea of you possibly taking me out on a date… Is that clear enough for you?”
Adrian blinks like an owl. “Not really, no.”
You roll your eyes and turn your attention to the hands buttoning your jeans. “It’s a yes, Adrian…” you murmur shyly, with an audible smile in your voice, though it’s long gone by the time you look at him again. “As long as you don’t die on me in here.”
“You wish,” Adrian scoffs with a lopsided grin. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, honey.”
You shake your head, dismissing the soft way he looks at you, as you stand on a wobbling foot. “Contrary to popular belief, Vij, I don’t wanna get rid of you at all.”
(The 11th Street Kids rescue you an hour or so later, littered in blood and bruises from a battle of their own. They’re only slightly surprised to find you and Adrian in a worse off state, as they survey the windowless room with matching glances of confusion. It smells of dust and blood and very faintly of sex.
“What the hell happened to you guys?” Lee wonders aloud.
“Long story—” you huff.
“—Oh, we had sex,” Adrian answers at the same time, as mindless as ever. You turn slowly to flash him a disbelieving glare over your shoulder, and his proud smile ebbs. “…What?”
Harcourt’s face screws in a look of disgust. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here,” she deadpans and turns on her heel to walk away. You think you hear her murmuring under her breath as she goes. “About fucking time…”)
The boyfriend act, part 20: "The one where they don't know that we know and bla, bla, bla!"
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader
SERIES MASTERLIST
Chapter summary: The first few weeks of your relationship with Frankie are exactly what you dreamed they'd be. Amidst the new bliss, an unexpected proposal throws a fascinating wrench in your plans. Meanwhile, a long closed door swings open once more, and It is Frankie the one responsible for turning that key. WC: 10.4k
A/N: Well, it’s been a long long time. Hope you enjoy this.
Tag list CLOSED <3. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!
Sunday, November 24th
This is a love story.
In the truest, most unvarnished way a love story can be.
Long days, quiet nights. Kisses stolen between soft cotton sheets and over chipped mugs of morning coffee. Only they’re not really stolen anymore; somewhere along the line, a long time ago, every kiss you gave him became his by right.
Oh, it’s so easy to be in love. As effortless as breathing. Your stomach doesn’t twist with nerves, there are no reckless butterflies beating against your ribs. Instead, there’s calm; like a thousand hummingbirds flickering their wings whenever his eyes find yours. And your head drops onto his shoulder because that’s where it was always supposed to land. While nights without him start to feel off-kilter; your bed stretching too wide, too empty for just one body.
Not much has changed since Francisco became your boyfriend. Except for one small, crucial thing: now it’s real.
Every kiss, every hug, every slide of his hand down your back and beneath your shirt. Every walk you’ve taken together, every grocery run that turned into dinner for two. What do you want to eat? he’d asked just days ago, and then spent two hours cooking your favorite dish. He’s not a great cook (yet) but he’s getting better, mostly because he claims he likes watching the way you light up when you taste something he’s made.
Oh, yes, it’s that easy to be in love. To hook your legs around his hips, to sink your mouth into his shoulder and bite like you’re starving. To feel his lips anywhere; on your mouth, on your neck, between your thighs. He knows exactly where to bite, where to kiss, where to taste.
Frankie’s hands are big, and with them he holds you, presses you, smooths over you, moves you exactly how he wants. He knows he can. He knows you love it. He knows just how completely you lose your mind every single time he touches you.
It’s so easy to love him. And suddenly you find yourself wondering how you didn’t see it before. How it’s even possible that in some overlapping moment, at some casual gathering in someone’s living room, when he was sent out for more beer and you just happened to be nearby, or when the two of you brushed past each other in the kitchen, practically shoulder to shoulder… how was it that nothing ever stopped you then, stopped him, long enough to set you face to face sooner?
Oh, it’s so easy to be in love. And so impossibly hard to pretend you’re not.
And when you’re all together and you’ve tucked yourself into some corner, you notice Francisco across the room. And he notices you too, with that particular spark in his eyes that only a secret love can ignite. There’s a kind of intimacy in a look like that, too true to be hidden.
So you force yourself to glance away, to smother the ridiculous smile tugging at your lips, and take a sip of your beer that you hope looks casual.
You were doing fine. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. This whole thing of pretending nothing massive was happening between the two of you. And you’d better keep the facade steady, because Santi was neither too far nor too close. No, he was deep in conversation with Yov, hands flying around, grinning wide enough to make you curious.
You leaned in, trying to eavesdrop, which is probably why you didn’t notice Benny until his hip playfully bumped yours, and he asked:
“So, you free this Friday?”
“Uh, what?”
When you turned, Benny was grinning at you, a couple of strands slipping out from his backward cap.
“This Friday. You free?”
This Friday. This Friday. This Friday. What were you doing this Friday?
“Uh, I think so. Why?”
He leaned a shoulder against the wall behind you. “There’s this new food place near the theater. Pretty great. Thought we could check it out.”
“Oh, yeah? This Friday?”
Benny laughed. “Yeah, this Friday.”
“Sure,” you nodded. “Sounds good. I mean, any plan that involves good food automatically sounds good.”
“Exactly. Can’t go wrong.” His smile deepened as he pushed off the wall. “I’ll text you later, cool?”
“Cool,” you said, taking a sip while watching him walk off toward Santi and Yov.
Benny clapped a hand to Santi’s back, said something that made your brother laugh. You couldn’t catch what it was (were you going deaf?), but then Santi stood and the two of them headed outside. You glanced toward Frankie, only to see him getting up too, drifting out to the backyard with Will. Probably a smoke break. Even though Frankie hadn’t touched a cigarette in days.
Yov had migrated to another corner, laughing with Eliah and Nina, two of her friends fresh off a months-long European trip. They’d come back armed with odd snacks and weird souvenirs, apparently the result of some underground tourism spree. You weren’t entirely sure how legal half their stories were, but they were entertaining enough to make you pull up a chair, stacking questions in your head like Jenga pieces.
For an autumn night, the air was unusually warm. And that was a lot to say for a place like Austin. Still, Santi’s backyard breathed coolness; grass underfoot, tall trees rustling, plants soaking up the moonlight. Frankie sat low in a lawn chair, eyes tilted toward the sky where pale blue was bleeding into night, a quarter-moon slipping into view. And for a second, he wondered why you weren’t out there too.
“I don’t know, I’d go for the catacombs. You ever seen that movie?” Will stretched, his voice coming out warped and goofy.
Frankie lowered his gaze to his friend but stayed quiet.
“Nah, if you’re gonna do underground tourism, you’ve gotta commit,” Benny said. “None of that tourist catacomb crap. You go straight to the depths.”
Will frowned. “A tunnel full of corpses doesn’t count as the depths?”
“It’s too commercial,” Benny countered. “I guarantee there are a thousand other places in Paris way more hidden and cool.”
“You’d need a guide anyway,” Santi added, scratching his chin.
“Oh, come on. You’re telling me none of you would do it?” Will asked.
“I would,” Frankie said, “but I’d also do the other things. You know, as long as they don’t end with me in jail or a coffin.”
“Frank’s always worried about jail time,” Santi laughed.
“I don’t care what we do, just don’t make me get arrested for it,” Frankie joked back.
“Too scared of getting caught, huh?” Will teased.
“Okay,” Santi cut in, gesturing with his hands. “Can we talk about the real issue here?” He jerked his thumb toward Benny, who was already shaking his head. “This idiot trying to date my sister.”
Will burst out laughing, Frankie too, though only for a second.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Will asked.
Frankie’s eyes bounced between Santi and Benny, scanning for some microexpression, some clue, but both men were grinning like they were in on the same inside joke.
“Man, shut up,” Benny groaned, covering his face.
“This bold son of a bitch asked my sister out,” Santi said. “In my own house. Honestly, I thought she’d tell him no. I was sure.”
“You asked her out?” Will sounded more amused than appropriately shocked. “How the hell did that happen?”
Benny shrugged. “Why’s it so hard to believe she’d go out with me?”
“Easy, champ,” Santi said, shaking his head. “It’s just one date. She might never want to see you again after.”
“Wait, wait,” Frankie cut in, stumbling over his words. “You got another sister I don’t know about?”
Santi laughed. “No. Why? You jealous? This idiot asked me if I was cool with him taking her to dinner, and that’s that.”
Will clicked his tongue. “Why would Fish be jealous?”
“I dunno. Maybe because there won’t be room for a fake boyfriend anymore. By the way, how long is that thing supposed to last?”
Frankie pressed his lips together. “Why? Bothering you?”
“Nah, I just think it’s weird, her dating Ben while she’s also fake dating you. I told Ben I didn’t care if he asked her out, but it could get weird, right?”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Benny said easily. “We’re talking about Frankie, right?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Frankie let out a sharp breath. “Since when do you even like her? Did I miss something?”
Benny shrugged again. “What do you want me to say? We’ve always gotten along, I’ve always thought she was really sweet and gorgeous and cool, and the other day I was talking to Santi, worked up the nerve, and he said he was fine with it. She’s an adult, isn’t she?”
“And you asked her tonight?” Frankie’s brow furrowed.
“She said yes. This Friday. Dinner.”
Frankie leaned back in his chair, catching Will’s eyes on him, curious, amused, half-hidden behind the lip of his beer bottle as he tried (and failed) to smother a smile.
You said yes. You actually said yes? How the hell had that happened? What the hell had gone down in the last hour that he’d somehow missed one of his best friends asking out his girlfriend?
Not that Ben knew. Not that anyone in this goddamn house (besides Will) had the slightest clue what the two of you really were. Nobody knew.
And honestly, the secret was starting to crawl under his skin.
“This is freaking incredible,” you said, holding Nina’s phone in your hands, scrolling through one of her travel shots. “How long were you even there? Wasn’t it dangerous?”
“Oh, just a couple of hours. Two, maybe three,” Nina said, brushing it off. “It’s not that dangerous if you go with a guide. They’ve got contacts in the area, make sure nobody bothers you or anything. Though, I’m pretty sure they’ve got a few shady deals on the side. They like respectful tourists.”
“I can imagine,” Yov said. “I doubt they’d be tolerant of much else.”
The sliding backyard door opened, and in came Santi and Frankie, each carrying empty bottles they set down on the little table by the door.
“Why don’t you guys come outside? It’s gorgeous out,” Santi said, dropping his palms affectionately on Yov’s shoulders before bending to kiss her cheek.
Your gaze flicked to Frankie as he drifted closer, leaning in just enough to make it look like he was only reaching for his phone on the coffee table.
“Check your phone,” he murmured, and slipped out toward the hallway.
You grabbed your cell and glanced at the lock screen. Nothing. So you unlocked it and opened your chat with Frankie. Three little dots pulsed up and down, then stopped.
A bubble popped up.
[🩷🥰🩷]: come to the bathroom
You frowned. What was he up to?
[You]: the bathroom?? why?? isn’t that suspicious?
[🩷🥰🩷]: not if you come quick
[🩷🥰🩷]: if everyone heads outside and it’s just you and me in here, that might be
[🩷🥰🩷]: cmon
You sighed, scanning the room. Santi was in the kitchen digging beers out of the fridge, and Yov was still chatting with Eliah and Nina, but they were already getting up, which meant it was only a matter of time before they drifted out to the patio.
Casually, you slipped down the hallway and tapped on the bathroom door.
Frankie cracked it open, pulled you inside fast.
You gave him a once over, a sly smile tugging at your mouth.
“Well, look at you getting bold, Francisco.” Your hands slid over his shoulders. “But we have to be quick.”
Frankie stifled a laugh, catching your wrists in his hands.
“Sweetheart, forgive me, I cannot believe I’m saying this, but that’s not why I told you to come in here.” He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of your lips.
“No? Then what?”
He leaned back a little, studied you for a few seconds, mouth tightening.
“Did you say yes to a date with Benny?”
You blinked at him, stunned. “What?”
“Did Ben ask you out tonight?”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “No. Why?” You shook your head. “I mean, he invited me to dinner Friday, but we’re all going to that, right?”
Frankie’s lips curved, his gaze locked on you in silence until a laugh slipped out of him.
“What?” you asked, genuinely confused.
He shook his head, cupped your face, pulled you closer, and kissed you.
“Baby, I love you,” he said, grinning against your mouth. “But Ben asked you out. And you said yes.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“No, Francisco, he didn’t.” You caught his wrists, smiling. “It’s Ben we’re talking about.”
“Exactly. Ben. The same Ben who just told everyone you two are having dinner Friday. He even cleared it with Santi first.”
Your brows knitted. “No.”
“Yes.”
Your jaw dropped as you stumbled back a step. Frankie laughed, cheeks flushed as he scratched at the back of his neck.
“No way. I thought it was a group thing,” you hissed in a whisper. “I didn’t realize he was asking me on a date!”
“Well, he was. And now you’ve got one. By the way,” he planted a hand on his hip, “I was planning to spend that night with you. You’re unbelievably inconsiderate.”
You rolled your eyes and swatted his arm. “Don’t be annoying. What am I supposed to do now?”
Frankie sighed. “I don’t know. But I told you I should’ve talked to Santi first. If we’d just told him the truth, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” You touched your cheeks, heat blooming there. “I just... God, I don’t know. I panicked.”
“Panicked about what?”
“I don’t know. It’s irrational, isn’t it?” Your eyes locked on his as he pulled you in by the waist. “And hypocritical. I’ve been telling you this whole time I didn’t care what he thought, and now I’m the one freaking out.”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ll talk to him whenever you’re ready.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
You shrugged. “Because Ben asked me out. Because I said yes. Because this whole thing is still a secret, because of me.”
“I’m not mad at you. Couldn’t be. Especially not over this. Santi’s your brother, I’ll talk to him when you’re ready. You’ve been patient with me, haven’t you? All this time. We’ll figure it out. And as for Ben,” he shook his head, “don’t worry. Honestly, it’s kind of fun… even if it made me a little jealous.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Jealous? Don’t tell me, you’re jealous of Benny?”
Frankie hummed. “Partially. Not just that he asked you out straight up, but he even cleared it with Santi so casually. Plus, he kind of admitted he’s always thought you were… well, you know, cute and all that.”
“Yeah? Really? Cute and all that? Tell me.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t provoke me. My ego is already bruised because my girlfriend said yes to another guy.”
You huffed. “Enough, stop it. I’ll tell him I can’t.”
“With what excuse?”
“I dunno.” You ran your hands over his shoulders. “I’ll say I have to help Emma with something… or we could say your mom invited us to dinner and I’m, like, obligated to go.”
Frankie grinned. “You want to use my mom as an excuse?”
“I’m pretty sure she’d be fine with it.”
“Good.” He leaned in and kissed your cheek. “We’ll figure it out, okay? No big deal.”
“Yeah.” You smiled, rising on your toes to kiss him.
Frankie was quick to catch you by the waist, pulling you flush against him, your hands sliding up his shoulders and linking at the nape of his neck. You held him tighter, kissing him deeper.
Outside, voices and laughter.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “What if I make you those brownies you love tonight?”
“With walnuts?”
You nodded. “Obviously with walnuts.”
“We could pick up ice cream, too.”
You grinned. “Yes, I like—”
Three sharp knocks at the door. You froze, heart stuttering, as Santiago’s voice carried through: “Hey, I’m about to burst in here.”
Your eyes went wide at Frankie, and he answered quickly:
“Give me a sec.”
You shook your head, and he mouthed something you couldn’t even begin to decode.
“Why doesn’t he use the upstairs bathroom?” you whispered.
Frankie just shrugged and turned on the sink faucet.
“Mind if I come in?” Santi called, and the door swung open before anyone could answer. “Too late, I’m coming in.”
Frankie went rigid. You bolted for the shower, yanking the curtain closed and freezing like a kid in a game of hide and seek.
“Sorry, man, I can’t hold it another second and I heard the faucet running,” your brother announced. A zipper rasped down. You made a full body cringe no one could see.
“You couldn’t wait, just a sec?” Frankie asked.
“My bad. Hey, have you seen my sister?”
“No. Thought she was outside.”
“She’s not.”
“Huh.”
“Wild about Ben and her, right?”
Frankie chuckled. “Yeah.”
“To be honest,” Santi went on, a click of his tongue and the sound of a zipper going back up, “if I ever pictured her with one of my friends, it would’ve been you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I mean,” the toilet flushed “, it’s ridiculous when I say it out loud. But come on, she’s always had that thing with Ben.”
“Didn’t notice.”
Santi laughed, the rush of the faucet covering a brief lull.
“Yeah, well. I like Ben and her together. I can picture it, you know? Anyway, how’s it going with your mystery woman? Still seeing her?”
“Huh, no.”
“Why not? What happened?”
“We just drifted.”
“Drifted?”
“That’s right. Shit happens, right?”
Santi chuckled. “Yeah, that’s life. I did like her bag, though. That’s all I really know about her. A woman’s purse says everything about who she is, don’t you think?”
Frankie stifled a laugh. “What are you even talking about?”
“You know, that thing people say.”
“Right.”
Santi let out a sigh. “Alright, let’s head back out. C'mon.”
You heard Frankie exhale, then the door clicked shut as they left.
A few seconds later, your phone buzzed.
[🩷🥰🩷]: hallway’s clear
You let out a breath, slid the curtain aside, and slipped out of the bathroom as fast as you could.
Tuesday, November 26th
Fully geared up, Frankie looked downright ridiculous (at least according to Santiago) as he stood with his legs halfway in the water, gripping his fishing rod like a pro. He was wearing a full fishing suit and one of those floppy hats tied under his chin like his grandpa did years and years ago on vacation.
It had been a good day, they’d actually gotten lucky. Frankie had hauled in the biggest catch, which meant he got to be a little extra smug about it while teasing Santiago and comparing fish sizes.
“And they say size doesn’t matter,” Santi joked, kicking at the water to splash him. “Show off.”
“That’s what people say when they’re tryin' to feel better about themselves.”
“Careful with that ego, Fish. Current might carry it off.”
Frankie laughed. “You just sound jealous.”
“Me? Jealous?” Santi tapped his chest. “Not a chance. You should’ve seen the one I caught the other day, when I came out with Will.”
“Didn’t see it, can’t believe it. Sorry.”
“You didn’t see it because god knows where you were,” Santi said, squinting at him. “Probably sneaking around, up to no good. I’m starting to get jealous.”
Frankie lifted the rod, biting his lip as the line went taut.
“No doubt about that,” he said with a small grin. “But I wouldn’t trade you for anyone, or anything.”
Santi’s mouth curved into a half smile. “I’ll trust you on that. Even if I’m no longer your favorite García.”
The tension in Frankie’s line eased as he slowly lowered the rod. He squinted at Santi, sunlight glinting off the water between them.
Santi shrugged, smiling before Frankie could reply. “Can’t blame you, though. She’s my favorite García too.”
Frankie laughed under his breath and glanced down, watching his boots beneath the clear water and his reflection shifting in the current.
“Does it surprise you that we actually get along now?”
“Not really,” Santi said, shaking his head. “You’re both stubborn as hell. Kinda people who either click perfectly or drive each other insane, depending on the day. Except in your case it took years instead of days. So yeah, I’m hoping this peaceful era lasts a little while longer. Think you’ll still be on good terms by the time my wedding rolls around?”
Frankie sighed. “Couple months away… but yeah.”
Santi nodded, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Look, I’ll be honest. I’m glad you two figured your stuff out and that you’re spending time together, whatever that looks like. All that jealous talk it’s just me messing around, you know that, right?”
“Is it?”
“Sure,” Santi said with an easy laugh, eyes drifting toward the sky. “But something tells me that isn’t exactly clear.”
“Maybe not. You can be a little hard to read when it comes to this stuff.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Frankie glanced over at him. “But she and I, we’re really... we're really good friends now.”
Santiago nodded without replying, stepping a little farther to Frankie’s right as he adjusted his fishing rod.
“Seriously, though,” Santi said, “how’s the whole fake relationship thing going? Your mom hasn’t caught on yet?”
“We haven’t given her any reason to,” Frankie said, tilting his chin up and flashing a grin full of teeth. “Every dinner, every family thing; it looks real enough to me.”
“Oh, I bet it does,” Santi laughed.
Frankie didn’t answer, and the lie twisted somewhere deep in his gut, it didn’t have much time left before it came undone.
“Still,” Santi went on, “I’m curious to see what happens when you two break up. Pretty sure your mom’s gonna be heartbroken. Last time I saw her, she wouldn’t shut up about how happy she was.”
“That’s just her.”
“It’s gonna be weird if something happens with Ben.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno. Your mom’s crazy about Ben, she’ll believe anything about him if he starts dating my sister right after the break up.”
Frankie laughed, stepped back, and tilted his head at Santi. “Come on, you’re serious?”
“About what?”
“The whole Benny thing. It’s ridiculous.”
Santi laughed. “Why?”
“Because… because... hell, I dunno.” Frankie shrugged. “It’s just weird. After all these years, he suddenly has to ask her out right in the middle of this whole act?”
“I don’t get what you don’t get,” Santi said. “It makes perfect sense. Ben thought I’d lose it if any of you got near my little sister, and when he saw I was actually having fun with you guys, he figured out I wasn’t.”
“Right. Because you’re so flexible.”
Santi stared at Frankie in silence, his eyes sharp enough to cut.
“I am flexible, Fish,” Santi said, voice gone serious now. “And you’d know that if you came and talked to me face to face. 'Cause on top of being flexible, I’m also your best friend.”
All at once, Frankie felt completely see-through, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that.
Santi’s eyes stayed locked on him, stripped of their usual humor. There was pressure in his voice, and something else too. He just nodded, keeping his gaze steady as he took a small step back.
“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine. I just feel like you’ve been avoiding me lately.”
“That’s not true. I'm... I'm not.”
Santi shrugged. “Maybe. But we don’t talk like we used to. You get weird when I ask questions. You’ve barely said anything about this woman you’ve been seeing—”
“Santi, that wasn’t anything.”
“I know, man, but lately you’ve been… closed off.”
Frankie sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing’s wrong. You don’t need to worry.”
Santi pressed his lips together, studying him for a few seconds. “So you don’t have anything to tell me?”
Frankie bit the inside of his cheek, drawing in a long breath. He looked away, afraid his eyes might betray him, and stared straight ahead with that quiet, gnawing guilt that kept eating at him.
“No.”
Santi nodded once, eyes dropping to his boots half submerged in the water.
“Alright,” he said finally, tilting his head to the left. “Let’s move down a bit. Not much biting here.”
Frankie followed without a word.
Wednesday, November 27th
“Shit,” you muttered, shaking out your hand before sticking your finger in your mouth. The paper cut was tiny, but gift wrap edges were really sharp.
“You okay?” Will asked, leaning one arm on the counter, a frown digging into his forehead.
You nodded, spinning your chair toward the drawer behind you to fish out a band aid. Paper cuts and you had a long, complicated history.
“Just a cut. Nothing serious.”
Will sighed. “Good. So, anything else I should grab?”
“This one’s a great choice,” you said, lifting your brows, “but you could also get White Nights. It’s shorter, and maybe a nice gateway into Dostoevsky. She could start there.”
“Sure. I’ll take that too,” he said, flashing a thumbs-up.
The whole thing had started because Will wanted to impress Rosie, the seventeen-year-old daughter of an old friend. According to her dad, Jack, she was deep in a Russian literature phase; Chekhov this, Chekhov that. Will, eager to secure his title as “the cool uncle who listens,” had asked for your expert opinion. You’d picked Crime and Punishment, wrapped it in black, violet, blue, and white floral paper, and topped it with a neat card that read, For Rosie, from your uncle Will. Then you did the same with White Nights, only this time you chose white and sky blue paper sprinkled with tiny soft petaled flowers.
“Great, amazing. How do I even begin to thank you for your help, darling?” Will said, leaning further over the counter as he held out the cash.
You took the bills with a grin. “Well, I can think of one way. How about you help me with your bro's situation, huh?”
Will laughed. “Oh, Jesus. What’s that about? What did Fish say? You should’ve seen his face when Santi brought it up the other night.”
“Oh, he thinks it’s ridiculous.”
“And yet you agreed to it, by the way.”
“I didn’t know it was a date! The way he worded it, it didn’t sound like a date!”
“This is gonna be fun,” Will said, eyebrows raised, his mouth curling into a grin. “It’s not easy to make a Miller fall out of love, I can promise you that.”
“Will, come on,” you groaned, tilting your head back. “Tell him something, say I’m not his type, I dunno. Tell him you’ve got an emergency and need help that exact day.”
“That exact day, at that exact time and precise moment?”
“Please.”
“Yeah, no, not happenin',” he laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go on that date.”
“You seriously didn’t know anything about this?”
“No, I swear,” he said, both hands raised in mock innocence. “Had no clue.”
“Oh,” you laughed, covering your face with both hands.
When you peeled your eyes open, you saw the front door swing and the little bells above it chime. You smiled when Emma walked in, arms full of a heavy-looking brown paper bag.
“Bill sent this,” she said, lifting the bag just enough. “Well, we... I grabbed a coffee and he insisted I bring all this to make the day better. Isn’t that cute?”
She came around to Will’s side and set the bag on the counter. Then she looked at him. He was frowning.
“Hi, Will.”
“Emma,” he said, “what’ve you got there?”
“Cinnamon rolls, blueberry buns,” she opened the bag a little so he could see, “Nutella croissants. Want one?”
“Sure,” he said, turning to her. “I didn’t know you were still in Austin.”
“Yeah, I’m coming back little by little.”
“You don’t live in Dallas anymore?”
Emma shrugged. “I do, but I’m thinking of moving back.”
“Oh. How’s Luca?”
Emma gave a small smile and a short sigh; you watched her, suddenly still.
“Fine. In Dallas.”
“Doesn’t he miss you when you’re away so much?”
“I don’t think so,” Emma said, smiling.
“Really?” Will returned the smile. “What kind of man doesn’t miss his beautiful wife when she’s away?”
“Ex wife, actually.”
Will raised his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t tell me. Need me to break his legs?”
Emma laughed, and you noticed the faint blush on her cheeks. “No, won’t be necessary. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ah,” Will lifted his brows. “So it was friendly, or you’re the one who did something bad?”
“Will,” you said through laughter.
He shot you a playful grin, shrugged as if to say what do I know, and turned back to Emma.
“Nobody did anything bad,” Emma said, shaking her head. “I mean, sure, there was a little bit of cheating involved, but who’s judging, right?”
“Right. And I won’t ask for details because I’m a gentleman,” he said, gesturing with a hand. Emma laughed immediately.
“That’s sweet,” she said, grabbing the paper bag from Bill’s café. “Well, I’ll go set this up. Will, are you staying? I can grab you a coffee.”
Will glanced at you for half a second, silently asking if it was okay to stick around, but turned back to Emma before you could answer. She was already heading into the back office, humming a familiar tune, but you couldn’t quite place it. Or maybe it just felt familiar because Emma had been humming it for days.
You turned back to Will, smiling. “You staying?.”
“Of course,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Can’t imagine saying no to that.”
You nodded and slipped both gift wrapped books into one of the shop’s paper bags, setting it beside you and mentally reminding yourself not to forget to hand them to Will.
“Hey,” he murmured then.
You looked over, frowning.
He tilted his chin toward the door Emma had disappeared through a second ago. “You think I’ve got a shot?”
“With Emma?” you whispered back, considering it for a beat. “Well, she always had a thing for Benny.”
“Ben? My brother Ben?”
You nodded. “Yeah, but you two kinda look alike,” you said, laughing.
“Oh, so by association I’m her type, that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly.”
Will laughed. “Oh, fuck you. I thought I actually had a chance.”
You raised your hand, leaning a little closer. “Kidding aside, if I were you, I’d casually ask her to dinner and take her to Rufino.”
“The steakhouse?”
You nodded. “Of course the steakhouse.”
Will huffed a laugh. “I’m gonna fall in love.”
You rolled your eyes. “You men are ridiculously easy.”
“But you’re not,” Will shot back. “So, can you put in a good word for me with Emma? Tell her what a great guy I am?”
“I don’t know, Will. What’s in it for me?” you tilted your head, smirking. “Because I can think of one amazing thing you could—”
“Nope,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not standing in the way of true love, sweetheart. You’re going on that date with Ben.”
“Then I can’t help you. Sorry.”
Will huffed. “What if you just fix all this by being honest with everyone? What’s Fish think? You could clear up a lot just by telling the truth, I’m just saying.” He lifted his shoulders.
“Soon. Frankie wanted to talk to Santi a while ago, but I asked him not to.”
“Why?”
You sighed. “I got scared, I dunno.”
“You do know your brother’s not a monster, right?”
“I know, I know. We’re probably blowing it out of proportion, but… I don't... yeah. It just feels weird. I mean, once everyone knows, it’ll be official and real and—” You stopped mid sentence, pressing your lips together.
Will watched you quietly for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. “Hey. It’s okay. I get it.”
You said it without thinking, the words were out before your mind had even caught up.
You were scared. Just a little. You loved Frankie, loved him truly. You loved being with him too. But there was a kind of safety in the bubble you’d built together, in the secrecy of it all. Because as long as it stayed just between you two, as long as it wasn’t official, it was still yours and his alone.
But once Santi knew, once your mother knew, everyone… it would become real. Big. And that terrified you. Terrified you more than you’d expected.
“Will, you still want that coffee?” Emma’s voice broke through your thoughts as she appeared at your side.
Will nodded. “Yeah, come on, I’ll walk with you.”
Emma smiled and looked at you. “You want anything, babe?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
Frankie remembered that last year with Rachel through a bitter haze. There weren’t any bright spots he could point to; no truly happy memories, maybe just brief flickers of softness that burned out as quickly as they came. A moment here, a day at most, before something (an argument, a careless word) set everything off again.
Like that summer day, unbearably hot Sunday, when they’d been getting ready to go to Will’s place and a fight started.
Rachel rarely came to those gatherings, she said his friends and she had nothing in common and was convinced none of them liked her. And Frankie knew there was a little truth to that, but he also knew his friends would never turn their backs on the woman he loved.
That morning, she couldn’t find her denim shorts. Or said she couldn’t. Frankie was sure it was an excuse. And what started as a simple search for a missing piece of clothing spiraled into a shouting match about effort; how little of it each of them apparently put into the relationship. Rachel slammed the bedroom door, said she was staying home because she’d probably have more fun alone. Frankie slammed the front one in return, hands shaking as he drove to Will’s, still hearing the echo of hers behind him.
Where were you then?
Oh, he remembered.
When he arrived, you were sprawled across the hammock in Will’s backyard. Barefoot, hair fanned out behind you. He didn’t go straight to you, of course. He went to where the rest of the guys were gathered, but he still heard the annoyed huff you let out as he passed.
He turned, impatient. “I’m not in the mood for you today.”
You shifted, squinting up at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m. Not. In the mood. Today.”
“Okay? And what exactly do you want me to do about that?”
He didn’t answer, just clenched his jaw and shook his head.
“What happened?” you asked then, voice sweet like honey. He knew it was fake as hell. “Trouble in paradise?”
But some battles aren’t worth fighting, and Frankie decided that day you weren’t one of them. He didn’t even know why the hell you were there. He was tired of seeing you everywhere. Tired of the way you seemed to materialize at every get together the guys organized. He’d convinced himself you were some sort of clingy, honorary little sister who refused to leave Santi alone or worse, that your brother just kept inviting you out of pity. Maybe he just loved you because that's what brothers and family do. But c'mon, everywhere? All the damn time?
Yeah, he really thought that. And later, when he came home to find Rachel asleep in bed with the TV still on, the only thing that crossed his mind was: this sure as hell isn’t paradise.
But it was love, in its own twisted, stubborn way. So he stayed. He undressed, took a shower, and lay down beside her, watching whatever mindless show was playing until it was time for dinner.
When Rachel finally stirred, she said:
“I found my shorts.”
“Where were they?”
She smiled at him. “Under the bed.”
He didn’t smile back. Just looked at her in silence for a moment. Because he’d searched that whole damn room. Even under the bed. There hadn’t been anything there.
No, it wasn’t paradise.
And he couldn’t believe that after all this time, it had found its way back to him.
Worse; he couldn’t believe he was the one opening the door.
A few hours later
His house felt different with you in it. It was strange.
The light looked softer somehow, the air held new scents; your shampoo, your perfume, clinging to his pillows, his couch, every t-shirt you borrowed and neatly folded back on his bed. Sometimes the place smelled like strawberry tea, sometimes like your coconut vanilla lotion. And he fucking loved it.
Beyond that, Frankie was pretty sure Bingley preferred you. The kitten spent every second of your visits trying to sit on your lap, near you, or, ideally, on top of you. And Frankie couldn’t blame him. You know, people say pets resemble their owners, and well, he was also spending most of his time trying to be close to you.
And his kitchen looked different now too. The change had happened quietly; new pots, a little more order, a shelf full of spices and ingredients he never would’ve bought before, back when takeout counted as cooking. But he liked food, and so did you, so he’d been trying.
The past few weeks he’d been making all sorts of dishes you definitely praised more than they deserved, though he appreciated it anyway. He wasn’t exactly a chef, but he held his own, and he knew, without a doubt, his mother would be proud.
But tonight he got home late, and you’d beaten him there with the plan to make dinner, since, as you’d said over the phone earlier, it was your turn.
So Frankie opened the door and found you in his kitchen, slicing vegetables, murmuring to Bingley, who sat patiently at your feet waiting for divine intervention in the form of falling food.
You were wearing that black miniskirt he liked so much. Your hair was clipped up, and your long sleeved black top rode up just enough to reveal a thin line of your waist.
You’d just closed the bookstore not long before. You’d called him while doing it, chatting casually about how Will had asked Emma out while they were getting coffee.
“Oh, he was so nervous,” you’d laughed through the phone. “Got all shy and everything. And Emma said she said yes because he invited her to the steakhouse.”
“So your advice worked then,” Frankie had chuckled, looking out the window of his car, parked outside the café he’d just left. The first thing he wanted to do was call you, as if that could take the edge off whatever restless feeling was sitting in his chest.
“Of course it did! I know my best friend. Plus, I told Will Emma used to have a crush on Ben. He said he’d make sure to defend his title as the better Miller.”
“He’s so cocky.”
“I think they make a cute couple. I never really saw it before, you know? Will’s always going on about his dates… You don’t think he’s a player, do you?”
“Will? Nah. He’s intense, not a player. He’s been like, like looking for love or whatever since I met him, but he acts like he doesn’t care. Why?”
“I dunno. I don’t want him to toy with Emma. I told him if he hurts her I’ll break his fingers. I actually told him that before he left.”
Frankie laughed. “You’re going to break his fingers?”
“Yep.”
“That’s my girl. Couldn’t expect less from someone who throws darts like you.”
You huffed. “Get over it, sweetie.” You laughed. “See you in a bit? I’m heading to your place.”
“Yeah, I’ll grab dessert and come by.”
“Okay, see you soon. I love you.”
“I love you more, baby. See you soon,” he said, and waited for the click.
He rubbed his eyes. Tired, irritated, a little stunned. And had no idea how he’d stop that prickly mood from following him home. How was he supposed to act like the last two hours hadn’t felt the way they did?
But then, he got home, opened his door and found you in his kitchen: happy, gorgeous, impossibly sweet. The edges of his irritation, the ones sharp as splinters, simply stayed where they belonged: outside.
“What do you think, huh? You like veggies?” you asked, crouching down to offer Bingley a tiny piece of carrot.
He stretched his neck, narrowed his eyes in deep concentration, sniffed for a few seconds, then decisively turned away.
“I’m afraid he’s not vegetarian,” Frankie said from the kitchen doorway. He crouched to scratch the kitten gently between the ears.
“Hey.” You turned around, arms already reaching for him. “How are you?”
Frankie pulled you in, and a sigh slipped out of his chest.
“What happened? Something wrong?”
“No,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to kiss you. “Just a long day.”
“Mm. Are you too tired?”
Frankie smiled, lifting his brows in a teasing way. “For what?”
You scoffed. “Dirty. I meant if you’re too tired, I can hurry with dinner. The meat needs a while to cook, but I could—”
“No.” His arms tightened around you, kissed you on the cheek. “Let it cook. I’m sure we can find a way to pass the time.”
You laughed, your cheeks heating against his mouth.
“There are other things to do besides the meat, you know? The veggies, the sauce—Francisco!”
A surprised gasp and a breathless laugh escaped you as Frankie’s hands slid to your thighs, lifting you easily and setting you on the counter.
His hands clamped your thighs and the skin under his fingertips felt warm, exactly the kind of place that begged to be bitten.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and a small, surprised sound slid out of you when his mouth hit yours.
Frankie threaded a hand up to your throat, thumb pressing the hollow where your words had been. Instinctively your legs closed around him, your hips tipping forward as you nipped his lower lip.
You broke the kiss and he grinned. “Already biting? What’s that about, hunger?”
“Could be.” You slipped your fingers under the waistband of his jeans.
He hauled your skirt up over your hips, his palms hot on your skin, and kissed you with contained hunger, his hand roaming down from your neck, mapping you without rush until he reached the edge of your panties. His fingers toyed with the fabric; pinching, pulling, teasing, then followed the trail with his mouth: jaw, neck, that spot he always found. He bit, just enough to steal another sound, smiling into you.
And then, quick as a snapped string, he pulled, and the fabric gave.
“Francisco!” you laughed, between shock and a sigh.
He looked up with a crooked smile and those dark, pleased eyes. You were flushed, breathless.
“I liked those panties,” you said, palm at the nape of his neck, fingers tangled in his hair.
“I’ll buy you more,” he promised. “Every color, every shape, type and fabric you want.”
Frankie's hands were back on you, pulling you further onto the countertop. The ripped fabric drifted to the floor, useless now.
Both his hands settled on your thighs in one swift move, drawing you closer still. He knew the feel of your bare skin against his well-worn denim was a spark, a building heat. He also knew you loved it. He could feel the need growing with every second as he nudged his hips forward and used his hands to ease your legs apart.
Your fingers were lightning quick, slipping back under the waistband of his jeans, and Frankie barely stifled a groan as your hand found him. With a quick, unsteady move, he brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting them, before trailing his hand down between your legs.
Wet and hot; you were instantly ready under his touch as he stroked you top to bottom, and any thought of drawing this out vanished in that moment. He gently pinched your clit, a gasp escaped your lips, and he stroked it with his thumb like an apology.
A quick grin touched Frankie’s mouth. He took your legs, moving back just enough to feel your hand slide out of his jeans, and he rested his fingers on one knee, lifting your leg as he ducked down and nicked your thigh with his teeth.
Instantly, he felt your hand settle on his head, your fingers tugging hard in his hair.
Oh, you were desperate, weren't you? He could hear your ragged breath, see the tremor in your legs and hands. What was the point of making you wait another second?
He shifted, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses up your thigh until he reached your center, tasting you everywhere. Every inch of your skin, every last, slick centimeter of your wet cunt. The closed-mouth kisses gave way to a sudden, absolute need to devour you whole. His mouth opened, his tongue testing and sampling, sucking and reveling in every gift you were giving him.
You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, and Frankie grinned against your skin, relishing just how undone you were.
He moved his head, burying himself deeper and deeper, his tongue reaching as far inside you as possible, drenching himself in you as his heart beat a frantic rhythm against your core.
Fuck. He needed you now, this second. One more moment like this, his jeans digging into his hard dick while his mouth was lost in you, and he’d be finishing right there.
He pressed one last kiss to your heat and hauled himself up, breathing hard. He grabbed your waist, pulling your body flush to his while you framed his face and delivered a demolishing kiss. Your tongue tasted every corner of his mouth as if you were trying to savor every piece of yourself he'd just consumed.
Frankie moved with animal speed, the zipper of his pants rasping down, while your hand was there alongside his, yanking the elastic band of his boxers down, too.
You pulled your mouth from his, spat into your hand and Frankie watched, his breath catching in his throat, as you brought your hand down. You enclosed him at the base, your fingers hard and possessive, tracing the length of him up to that throbbing, swollen head.
You jerked him off, milking him just enough as he pulsed hot and heavy beneath your skin. Then, you dragged his head to your slick, waiting entrance. The tip of his cock pressed in, and you wrapped your thighs high, grinding your hips and shoving him home.
Inch by glorious, agonizing inch, you were a hot, wet velvet glove, fitting him so perfectly it was a physical punch to his gut.
Frankie let out a loud, hungry sound, burying his face in your shoulder as he heard your small, satisfied sigh. He paused, his brain trying to catch up to the sheer rightness of it. Then, his hips took over, moving with a brutal, hungry rhythm driven by nothing but the need to sink deeper, and deeper, and fucking deeper. You were fucking drowning him in your heat, and you moaned into your neck, clawing at his hair and digging your nails into his shoulders.
You wrenched back, eyes wild and teary and lust-drunk, mouth swollen, and braced your hands behind you, but Frankie’s eyes snapped instantly to your fingers, which were just brushing the handle of the knife on the counter.
Before you could think, he had his arms around your waist, hauling you off the granite and dropping you to the hard floor, following you down.
“On your back, spread wide,” he commanded, his weight immediately covering you.
Frankie felt the cold and unforgiving floor dig into his knees, and he didn't waste a second before pounding you hard against it. His hips slammed into yours, and your body dissolved, bucking and melting beneath him.
He had one hand braced above your head and the other hooked under your knee, spreading you wider as he drove into you again and again. Your hands were frantic, stroking him, gripping his neck, touching your own face as your chest heaved and ragged, broken cries tore from your throat.
Frankie bit down on your jawline, then pulled his mouth up to yours, silencing your cries with a wet, consuming kiss. A then, a little tear welled in your eye, tracking a path down your cheek. He finally broke the kiss and his eyes fixed on it; fuck, already crying from it. He cupped your face and kissed the tear right off your skin.
The salty taste dissolved on his tongue, and he smashed his forehead against yours, his hand still holding your face firm, his cock fucking you with increasing, frantic desperation.
“Baby I—I…” A shuddering breath cut you off. “Yes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me, Francisco, don’t fucking stop—oh my god,” you gasped, digging your fingers into the nape of his neck, biting your lip hard as your breath stuttered and your body went completely rigid beneath him.
Your mouth opened in a silent scream, and Frankie felt you tense and clench around him, that sweet, squeezing pressure. He knew he was about to lose it.
He brought his hand to his mouth, slicked his fingers with spit, and drove them down to your clit, tracing hard, tight circles for just seconds until your back arched and a desolate, tearing sound broke from your throat.
Frankie’s eyes squeezed shut, a deep, raw sound rumbling in his chest as he felt his own body tightening. His strokes turned wild and erratic as you came, squeezing down on him harder and harder.
He buried his face in your neck, letting himself shudderingly release deep inside you. His body went still, every inch vibrating with the intense climax as he poured his load inside of you.
Everything in his mind was a dizzying, spinning blur, everything. But the only real clear thing he could see was you.
Frankie emerged from the bathroom, his hair damp, wearing only flannel pajama bottoms. He scooped up Bingley, who was trotting beside him down the hall, and carried the kitten to your side in the kitchen, where you were putting the final touches on dinner.
Music was playing; Talking Heads’ This Must Be the Place drifted softly as Frankie watched you ladle the steaming food onto a plate. You neatly arranged the vegetables on one side, the meat next to it, and a portion of salad on the other, then picked up a small white pitcher and poured the sauce you’d made.
This moment, this song in particular, you; it all reminded him of one specific evening, before you were this, before all this, but not that long ago.
No, it wasn't ages ago. It was relatively recent.
God, if anyone had told him four months ago that he’d be standing in his kitchen tonight, about to eat dinner with you after making love on the floor and doing all kinds of disrespectful things, he never would have believed it.
But it was true, and he was deeply grateful for it.
You were wearing nothing but one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of panties, and your hair was pulled up into something like a delicate, neat bun, secured with a pale blue claw clip. A few damp, fragile tendrils rested on the nape of your neck, and Frankie felt the instant, quiet need to kiss you there. So he did.
He gently set Bingley down and approached you from behind. His hands slid around your waist to your stomach, and his lips settled for a soft kiss on the back of your neck.
You tilted your head back and laughed softly, and he felt your skin pebble with goosebumps beneath his lips.
“Are you hungry?” you asked, craning your neck as his mouth trailed down to your shoulder.
“A little. A lot. You? That smells amazing.”
You were just finishing the second plate, and Frankie released you so you could maneuver easily.
“Yes. Look,” you said, turning around, holding the plate up slightly, proud of your creation. “What do you think?”
You had the biggest, happiest smile on your lips, and Frankie mirrored it instantly just looking at you.
“That looks and smells incredible,” he said, stepping closer, taking your chin in his hand. He kissed you once on the mouth, then a shorter one, and relieved you of the plate.
The table was already set. Frankie placed one plate at his spot and the other at yours. He poured a glass of wine for you and one for himself, plus a glass of water for each of you. In the background, Talking Heads kept playing.
“What do you want me to tell him?” Frankie asked you a few minutes later, smiling as he wiped his mouth. “Everyone thinks this makes sense. Do you?”
“Tell him I’m bad news, that I’m crazy,” you laughed.
“You’re a little crazy, but I don’t see the problem. Benny won’t either. Besides, baby, he’s known you for years.”
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“It means I’m sure he’s already got his own idea of you, and nothing I say is going to change his mind. Although,” he raised one eyebrow, “I do have one idea.”
“What is it?”
“The truth. I could tell him we’re dating, that I’m in love with you, and that asking you out is therefore ridiculous. I’d only tell him, though. Not Santi.”
You sighed, resting your chin in your palm. “Frankie, I feel so awful.”
He frowned, concerned. “Why? What’s wrong?”
You looked at him in silence for a few seconds. “I know you want to talk to him. I know we have to. I want to too. Just... I feel bad for not letting you do it yet.”
“You don't have to feel bad about any of this, okay? We'll talk to him when you're ready. I can go solo, or we'll face him together. Whenever, however. It's entirely up to you.”
You sighed, a dramatic pause, and nodded. “In the meantime, though, I still have this date with Benny.”
“You could tell him you came down with something. Something inconvenient and highly infectious. Diarrhea, perhaps.”
“Francisco,” his name came out of your mouth, sharp and laced with theatrical disapproval. “I can't tell him that.”
He laughed, utterly charmed by the scandalized look on your face. “So what’s the plan, then? You’re really going to spend your Friday night with another man?”
You snorted. “Well, what am I supposed to do? Besides, Santiago’s been really pushy about this whole situation. What is even his deal?”
“I dunno. You heard him in the bathroom the other day, didn't you?”
“I did,” you agreed, eyes fixed on your plate. Then, you snapped your head up to meet his gaze. “So, why does he keep bringing up the mystery woman?”
“The time he came over, remember? Right after we, you know, spent our first night together. He clocked that I was with someone, and I admitted that yeah, I was, but I never gave him a single other detail.”
“Ah.” You pursed your lips, studying him for a long, silent moment. “And how exactly did he figure out you were with someone?”
Frankie shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth. “He saw your bag.”
“What bag?”
“You know, your bag. It was just sitting on the sofa.”
You knit your eyebrows together, and Frankie’s chewing slowed down as his entire focus shifted to decoding the sudden intensity in your expression.
“What?” he asked.
“How did the bag look like?”
Frankie thought for a beat. “Um, red, it's like a deep red, really nice.”
“With the little silver star keychain?”
“I think so, yeah.”
You suddenly sat bolt upright. “Oh. And you told him you were with a woman?”
“It was kind of obvious, wasn’t it?” He offered a wry, sideways smile. “It was early, plus I guess the whole morning after vibe was… present. I told him it was someone I’d met at the bar the night before.”
Silence descended again. You just stared at him, various micro expressions flitting across your face.
Then, abruptly, you broke into laughter. “No way.”
“What is it?”
“No. Way,” you repeated, clutching your cheeks. “Oh my god!”
Frankie smiled, completely bewildered. “What? I don't get it.”
“Frankie. Francisco, baby,” you said, reaching across the table and laying your hands over his. “He knows.”
“What thing? Who?”
You made a well, obviously gesture with your hands. “Santiago!”
“How? Because of your bag?”
“Okay, wait,” you swept a hand over your forehead. “This felt strange to me, and it did feel weird, I mean, the way he said it.”
“What did he say?”
“When Santi was at my place a while ago, he was leaving, and just, right before he walked out the door, he looked at my bag and made a comment about it. It was so weird because he never comments on anything unless he’s mocking it or trying to annoy me. But he did it, before he left,” you motioned with your hand, “he stopped, looked at my bag, and said, ‘Oh, that’s a nice bag.’”
“Was it the red one with the silver keychain?”
“Of course it was the red one with the silver keychain!”
Frankie leaned back abruptly. “No, no way. There’s absolutely no chance Santi figured it out just from that.”
“Francisco, come on, think about it. He goes to your place, he knows you’re with a woman, right? He knows that bag, the one on your sofa, belongs to that woman. And then he comes to my house and he sees it; same keychain, same color. Everything. Besides, for god’s sake, Emma and I both have that keychain! What are the odds it belongs to anyone else?”
“What if it was Emma’s?”
You laughed. “Then he would have said something. He would’ve asked me, ‘Hey, is your best friend sleeping with Frankie?’”
Frankie shook his head, instantly rejecting the hypothetical idea. “Right. Right. I didn't think about that. I…” He shook his head again. “So, if Santi knows, he’s been pretending he doesn’t this whole time?”
“Ooh, I know him so well,” you grinned, your cheeks flushing, “Now it all makes perfect sense!”
“Wait… just hold on,” he adjusted himself in his seat. “If Santiago knows, he’s been messing with me all this time. That’s why he’s been asking me those questions about this mystery woman. He...the other day, yesterday, when we went fishing, he was acting strange, asking a lot of probing questions, and I just thought he was being annoying—”
“He is being annoying.”
“But only because he knows!”
“Frankie, don’t you see? If Santi has known since that day he came to my place... that’s weeks ago, and we weren't even together yet. That means all this time he’s been… Oh.” You stopped dead, staring past him.
“What?” Frankie glanced over his shoulder. He turned back to you. “What happened?”
“Everyone knows.” You looked back at him, eyes wide. “Everyone. Will knows because of us,” you said, raising your index finger. “If Santi found out because of my bag, well, I guess Yov probably knows, too.”
“And Ben?”
“Ben asked me out... out of the blue?”
Frankie stifled a laugh. “And everyone seems to be suspiciously happy about it, right?”
“Exactly,” you smiled, nodding.
He shook his head. “I knew this whole thing was bizarre, I knew it right from the start! I mean, nothing ever happens, and suddenly he asks you out?”
“Aha!” You tapped your hand gently against the table. “And Santi’s so supportive, right? He’s all happy and encouraging.”
“Because they all know.”
“Because they all know,” you repeated. “Oh my god,” you laughed, covering your face. “This is ridiculous.”
Frankie leaned back, an incredulous laugh shaking his frame.
“Well, then it’s all sorted out,” he said. “What’s the point in racking our brains over how to tell them the truth? We just need to talk to—”
“No,” you cut him off. “No, Francisco, are you kidding me? Don't you see?”
His smile widened. “See what?”
“This is... this is perfect. This is... exactly like that episode of Friends.”
“Which one?”
“The one, the one where, you know, they don't know that we know they know we know?”
Frankie frowned. “Did we watch that together?”
You grinned. “We are watching it tonight. And I’ll tell you something else,” you leaned forward across the table, and Frankie couldn't help but mirror your grin, “I am going on that ridiculous date with Ben and I am going to pretend to like him until the poor guy can’t take it anymore. I guarantee you this whole scheme is Santiago’s.”
“You think so?” Frankie laughed. “You think he’s doing all this just to see how far we’ll go?”
“Obviously. That fool was raised on Friends with me, for heaven’s sake. How did I not realize this was a whole setup before now?”
“Baby, Ben isn’t going to hold up. I know him. If you make him uncomfortable, he’ll be so fucking obvious.”
“Even better. So, here’s the plan: I’ll go on the date, I’ll give the performance of a lifetime, and I’ll make him confess. He won’t last more than an hour without spilling everything, I promise you,” you pointed your finger for emphasis.
“Will has to be in on this.”
“You think? He told me he had no idea. And he's on our side.”
“Bullshit,” Frankie laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “That night at Santi’s house, the fucker was dead silent. Will never shuts up. If anyone’s messing with us, it’s him. And he was quiet as hell. He knows. Trust me.”
You laughed again, music to his ears. “We are going to make this backfire on them, you can count on it. God, I’ll be right back. I need my phone.”
You got up to grab your phone from the kitchen, and Frankie pulled his out of his pocket, turning on the screen. He had a new text message from Santiago, asking what he was up to this Friday.
Of course, the Friday of your date with Benny. Now everything was painfully obvious.
He replied with a simple, ‘still figuring it out,’ and chuckled to himself.
Then, he saw the other unread message.
[Unknown Number]: it was nice seeing you today, texting you during the week x
Without a second thought, Frankie deleted the message.
Eddie with shy virgin girlfriend please please please
This is living in my mind rent-free
Nsfw if possible, taking away her v-card
Munson Curse - Eddie Munson
words: 4.6k
warning: of course it’s smut 18+
This need was a living thing inside Eddie Munson.
It coiled in his gut, a restless serpent, every time he looked at you. It was there in the faint, possessive tap of his rings against the lunch table when you smiled. It was a low, constant hum beneath his skin when your shy, nervous laughter met one of his jokes. It was a physical ache, a sharp, sweet throb that echoed in time with his heartbeat when you’d bite your lip, your eyes darting away from his intense, adoring gaze.
You were perfect. To him, you were a creature of sublime, impossible perfection. The way your words came out soft and halting, the way you’d fiddle with the sleeve of his battle jacket when you wore it, drowning in the denim and the scent of him. The way your innocence wasn’t a fragility but a quiet, unshakeable strength that left him in awe. And it made the need so much worse. Or maybe, so much better.
He was a man of appetites—loud music, chaotic campaigns, wild gesticulations. But you… you were a quiet craving that had become a fundamental necessity. He needed you with a desperation that sometimes stole his breath.
He saw the effect he had on you. He wasn’t blind. When his eyes would darken, the usual mirth replaced by a raw, hungry intensity, he’d watch a pretty pink flush creep up your neck. You’d duck your head, a failed attempt to hide from the heat of his want. He loved it. He loved knowing he could make you feel that, even if you didn’t fully understand the language his body was speaking.
And when you were in his arms, pressed together in the shadowy confines of his bedroom or on the worn couch in the trailer, the need became a tangible, pressing thing.
Making out with you was his favorite form of worship. His hands, usually flying through the air to illustrate a dramatic D&D story, would be impossibly gentle. One cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair, while the other splayed across the small of your back, holding you close. His kisses started soft, coaxing, but they always deepened, fueled by that bottomless need.
And you could feel it. Pressed against you, the hard ridge of his erection straining against his jeans was an unavoidable truth. A gasp would catch in your throat when you shifted and brushed against it. You’d freeze for a second, your body going rigid with a mixture of shock and a thrilling, terrifying curiosity.
Eddie would always break the kiss then, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants that fanned across your feverish skin.
“Shhh, sweetheart,” he’d murmur, his voice gravelly with restraint. “It’s okay. Just me. Just how much I want you. I’m not gonna do anything. I promise.”
He’d wait. He’d promised you, promised himself. He would wait until you were shaking with the same need, until you asked him with words or with your body, until every last shred of your sweet shyness was burned away by a fire he knew he could stoke. The waiting was a special kind of agony, but it was his agony, and he cherished it because it was for you.
The old couch in his trailer had borne witness to many of these tender, tortured sessions. The springs groaned in protest as he leaned over you, his body caging you in, his lips tracing a searing path from your mouth to the frantic pulse at your throat. The air was thick with the scent of weed, cheap laundry detergent, and the intoxicating sweetness of your skin.
You were lost in it, in the feel of his tongue against yours, the scrape of his rings against your jaw, the solid, demanding heat of him everywhere. Your hips made an involuntary, tiny arch against his, and a low groan ripped from his chest. He ground himself against you once, a helpless, friction-seeking motion, and you whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shoulders.
That’s when the trailer door creaked open.
The spell shattered.
Eddie froze, his entire body going rigid. You squeaked, trying to shrink into the cracked vinyl cushions. Eddie shifted, swift as a predator, trying to shield you from view as he looked over the back of the couch.
His Uncle Wayne stood there, keys in hand, having just finished his shift at the plant. He took in the scene: his nephew, wild-haired and flushed, hovering protectively over your thoroughly kissed, mortified form.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a low, rumbling chuckle.
“Well,” Wayne said, his voice dry as dust. “Don’t let me interrupt the, uh… negotiations.”
“Wayne,” Eddie croaked, his voice strangled.
You had buried your burning face entirely in Eddie’s chest, wishing the couch would just swallow you whole. Wayne just shook his head, a faint, amused smile on his weathered face.
“I’m gonna go put my feet up in my room. You two… try and remember the doors got a lock on it.” He ambled off down the hall, his chuckle echoing softly.
The moment his bedroom door clicked shut, the tension broke. Eddie let out a shaky breath, a mixture of relief and residual embarrassment. He looked down at you, still hiding against his t-shirt.
“Hey,” he whispered, his voice soft. “He’s gone. And he’s not mad.”
You peeked up at him, your face a brilliant, adorable shade of scarlet. “I’m going to die of embarrassment. Right here.”
Eddie’s grin was slow and wide, his own cheeks flushed. He brushed your hair back from your face. “Nah. You’re not. It’s just Wayne.” He leaned down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “See? Still alive.”
He settled back beside you, pulling you into his side, your head on his shoulder. The needy ache was still there, a persistent thrum in his veins, but it was soothed by the weight of you against him. He could wait. For you, he would wait forever. But God, the needing was a sweet, sweet hell.
Of all the places that felt sacred to Eddie Munson, your bedroom was quickly becoming his favorite chapel.
It was a world away from the chaotic, heavy metal haven of his own room. Your room was soft. It smelled like vanilla lotion and the faint, clean scent of fabric softener. A string of fairy lights cast a warm, golden glow over walls adorned with a few band posters and delicate prints of flowers. Stuffed animals still held a place of honor on your neatly made bed, and the sheer, gauzy curtains fluttered in the gentle night breeze from the open window—his point of entry and exit.
He was sitting cross-legged on your floral-printed rug, your hand cradled in his, tracing the lines of your palm with a calloused finger. His voice was a low, soothing rumble as he described the lair of a Lich King, not with monstrous fury, but with a reverent awe that made your stomach flutter. This was how he showed love—by sharing his worlds with you.
But tonight, the usual calm was charged with a new, electric current.
You’d been quiet for a while, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You’d been turning the words over in your mind for days, weeks. Gathering your courage. The memory of his patient need, his hungry gazes, his promises on the worn trailer couch, had finally coalesced into a single, terrifying, thrilling decision.
“Eddie,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He stopped his story immediately, his dark eyes lifting to yours. He was always so attuned to you, catching every shift in your mood like a seismograph. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
You took a shaky breath, your gaze dropping to where your hand rested in his. The silver of his rings was cool against your warm skin. “I… I think I’m ready.”
The silence that followed was profound. The air itself seemed to still. You forced yourself to look up at him.
The change in his face was instantaneous. The playful storyteller vanished, replaced by the raw, needy man you only glimpsed in your most heated moments. His eyes widened, then darkened, the pupils swallowing the warm brown almost completely. His lips parted slightly. You could see the pulse jump in his throat.
“Yeah?” he breathed out, the word thick with emotion. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a fervent, open-mouthed kiss to your knuckles. “Are you sure? You’re… you’re absolutely sure?”
You nodded, a nervous, jerky motion. “I’m sure.”
A shudder ran through him, a visible release of a tension he’d been carrying for months. A slow, devastatingly tender smile spread across his face. He began to lean in, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. His eyes were locked on yours, full of so much love and blazing, unchecked want that it stole the air from your lungs. You could feel the heat radiating from him, pulling you in.
“Okay,” he whispered, his voice a husky promise. “Okay, sweetheart. We can—"
WOOF. WOOF-WOOF-WOOF!
The sound was explosive, a sudden, deafening alarm right outside your bedroom door.
You both jolted apart as if electrocuted.
Buster, your golden retriever, who had been peacefully snoozing in the hallway, had apparently decided a squirrel of epic proportions was on the roof. His barking was a frantic, window-rattling cacophony.
Panic, cold and immediate, doused the heated moment.
Down the hall, a light flicked on. “Honey?” your mom’s sleepy voice called. “Is everything okay? What’s Buster going on about?”
Your eyes, wide with terror, met Eddie’s. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated agony—the agony of a dream violently deferred. The need that had been so close to being sated was now a frantic, caged thing behind his eyes.
But month of sneaking out and evading authority had honed his instincts. He was on his feet in a second, moving with a silent, practiced grace.
“I gotta go,” he mouthed, already backing towards the open window.
He gave you one last, longing look—a look that promised this isn’t over—and then he was gone, slipping out into the night like a ghost. The curtains swayed in his wake.
Your mom peeked in, squinting in the dim light. Buster shoved his wet nose through the gap, whining, his mission apparently accomplished
“Just a nightmare, I think,” you managed, your voice trembling only a little. “Buster was just… checking on me.”
Your mom smiled sleepily. “Alright. Good dog, Buster. Go back to sleep, sweetie.”
The door closed. The hall light went out.
Silence descended once more, thick and heavy. The only sound was your own ragged breathing and the happy, panting sigh of Buster as he settled back onto the hallway rug.
You crawled onto your bed, burying your burning face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of Eddie. A hysterical giggle bubbled up in your throat, followed by a groan of pure frustration. It was so perfectly, horribly timed it was almost comical.
Outside, crouched in the bushes beneath your window, Eddie Munson let his head thud back against the siding. He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of your shy, determined face seared into his mind. The needy ache in his body was a physical pain now, a throbbing reminder of what had been so cruelly interrupted.
He groaned, low and pained, into the quiet night. “You have got to be kidding me,” he whispered to the uncaring stars.
The wait had just become a thousand times more excruciating.
The universe, it seemed, had a personal vendetta against Eddie Munson getting laid.
A week had passed since The Great Buster Betrayal. A week of tense, whispered phone calls and looks in the school hallway so full of smoldering promise they should have set off the fire alarms. The need had become a tangible entity between you, a third presence that followed you everywhere. Eddie was a live wire, all jangling nerves and restless energy, his touches becoming more possessive, his kisses lingering a second too long between classes.
Tonight was the night. You’d sworn it. Your parents were at a day-long wedding two towns over. The Munson trailer was empty, Wayne pulling a double shift. The stars had finally, finally aligned.
You’d barely made it through the trailer door before he was on you, his mouth hot and desperate on yours, his hands roaming your back, your hips, pulling you flush against him. The usual gentle worship was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry urgency.
“No dogs,” he panted against your lips, backing you towards his room. “No uncles. No interruptions. Just us.”
You nodded, your own hands fisting in the soft fabric of his Hellfire shirt. “Just us.”
He kicked his bedroom door shut, the faded Black Sabbath poster rattling on the back. His room was a sanctuary of him—the cluttered shelves, the guitar in the corner, the faint, comforting scent of weed and his cheap cologne. And in the center of it all, his bed.
It was the site of so many of your fantasies. The place where he’d hold you after a nightmare, where you’d listen to cassettes for hours, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. Now, it was the promised land.
He looked at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes blown wide with pure, unadulterated want. “You’re so perfect,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “I’ve waited so long for this.”
He guided you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. With a final, searing kiss, he laid you down, the old springs groaning a familiar welcome. He followed you down, his weight a delicious, solid pressure, his body caging you in. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply as his hands began to wander, finally, blessedly, under the hem of your shirt.
Your skin prickled with anticipation. This was it. The nervous flutter in your stomach was being chased away by a wave of pure, liquid heat. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.
Eddie responded with a groan of his own, shifting his weight to get a better angle, to bring his body more fully over yours.
It was the shift that did it.
There was a sound—not the comfortable groan of settling springs, but a sharp, sickening CRACK of protesting wood.
Then, a catastrophic SNAP.
The world dropped out from under you.
The center of the bed gave way with a tremendous, groaning sigh. The mattress tilted violently, spilling you both into the sudden, V-shaped canyon that had opened up in the middle of the frame. Your limbs tangled, your head bonked gently against the headboard, and you landed in a heap of shock, limbs, and floral-printed comforter.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
You were lying at a bizarre angle, half-pinned under a very stunned Eddie Munson. You blinked, trying to process the sudden change in altitude and atmosphere.
Eddie was frozen. You could feel the rigid line of his entire body against yours. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his head. His hair was a wild halo, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror, disbelief, and the rapidly deflating remnants of world-ending lust.
He looked at you. He looked at the broken bed frame, the mattress slumped sadly in the middle. He looked back at you.
A sound escaped him. It started as a choked gasp, then morphed into a wheeze, and finally erupted into full-bodied, helpless laughter. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated hysterical frustration.
You stared for a second, the absurdity of the situation crashing down on you. The most anticipated moment of your young lives, ruined by a piece of termite-riddled wood. A giggle bubbled up in your own throat, then another, until you were both lying in the wreckage of his bed, laughing until tears streamed down your faces.
Eddie finally rolled off you, clutching his stomach. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he howled, kicking a leg out at the broken frame. “The bed? The BED?”
You wiped tears from your eyes, your body still shaking with laughter. “I guess… I guess we were too much for it,” you managed.
He turned his head to look at you, his laughter softening into a look of such profound, aching affection it made your breath catch. He reached out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“Nah, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm and rough. “The world just can’t handle how perfect we are together. It’s trying to stop us.”
He sat up, groaning as he surveyed the damage. “Well… there goes the mood, huh?”
You sat up too, leaning against his shoulder. The frantic, needy energy was gone, replaced by a warm, comfortable intimacy. The need was still there—it would always be there with him—but it was banked for now, soothed by shared laughter.
“We could… fix it?” you suggested weakly.
Eddie snorted, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. “Tomorrow. Wayne’s got some two-by-fours in the shed. We’ll rebuild it. Fortify it.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “For the next attempt.”
You sighed, content in the circle of his arms, sitting in the ruins of his bed. The universe might be against you, but as long as you were with him, even the catastrophes felt like adventures.
The third time was the charm. It had to be. The air in Eddie's van was thick with the scent of his cologne, weed, and a new, electric tension that was all raw, unfiltered need. There were no more obstacles. No dogs, no uncles, no structurally unsound furniture. Just the two of you, parked at the edge of Lover's Lake, the moon a sliver of silver watching over the still, black water.
He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. He didn't look at you, just stared out at the lake, his knuckles white where they gripped the steering wheel. You could see the rapid pulse hammering in his throat.
"Eddie?" you whispered, your voice small in the vast quiet.
That broke his trance. He turned to you, and the look in his eyes was enough to steal the air from your lungs. It was pure, unadulterated hunger. The playful, patient boyfriend was gone, stripped away by weeks of agonizing frustration, leaving behind a man on the edge.
"No more waiting," he said, his voice a low, gravelly promise that was not a request.
You just managed a shaky nod.
That was all the invitation he needed. In one fluid, desperate motion, he was out of his driver's seat, the van door sliding open and shut with a bang. A second later, your door was wrenched open. His hands were on you, not with their usual gentle reverence, but with a fierce possessiveness. He unbuckled your seatbelt, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your stomach, making you jolt. He didn't say a word as he half-lifted, half-guided you into the back of the van, where he'd laid out a nest of blankets and pillows.
The second you were both in the confined space, the dam broke.
His mouth crashed down on yours. This wasn't the soft, exploring kiss from your bedroom or the passionate, interrupted ones on his couch.
This was devouring.
His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you with a guttural groan that vibrated deep in his chest.
One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access, while the other slid down your back, over the curve of your ass, gripping you hard and pulling your hips flush against his.
You could feel the rigid length of him, already straining against his jeans, pressing into your stomach. A whimper escaped you, a sound of shock and overwhelming arousal. He swallowed the sound, his kiss becoming even more demanding
"Need to feel you," he rasped against your lips, his hands frantic. "All of you.”
His fingers found the hem of your shirt and yanked it up and over your head, tossing it into the darkness. The cool night air hit your skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his palms. He looked down at you, your chest heaving in your simple bra, his eyes dark and wild.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathed, before his mouth left yours and trailed a hot, wet path down your neck, to the swell of your breasts. He mouthed at you through the fabric, his teeth scraping lightly over a pebbled nipple, making you cry out and arch into him.
He made quick, clumsy work of the clasp of your bra, his rings catching for a moment before it gave way. When he saw you, bare to the waist in the dim light, he stilled for a moment, his breath catching. "Christ," he whispered, almost a prayer. Then his mouth was on you, his tongue laving one peak while his thumb and forefinger rolled the other. The sensation was so intense, so direct, it was almost too much.
Your hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging into the leather of his vest.
"Eddie... please..."
He understood. His hands went to the button of your jeans, popping it open, dragging the zipper down with a harsh rasp. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and panties and, with a single, rough tug, peeled them down your legs and off, leaving you completely bare and exposed to his hungry gaze. He knelt between your legs, his eyes raking over you, from your flushed face to the apex of your thighs.
"Perfect," he growled. "Fucking perfect."
He didn't give you time to feel self-conscious. He leaned down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he continued his descent, his lips and tongue tracing a blazing trail down your stomach, over your hip bones, until he was there, his hot breath ghosting over the very core of you.
You gasped, trying to close your legs.
"Eddie, wh-what are you-"
"Shhh," he soothed, his hands spreading your thighs apart, holding you open. "I need to taste you, sweetheart. I've dreamed about this."
And then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your back bowing off the blankets. It was unlike anything you'd ever felt.
His tongue was relentless, licking into you with a firm, wet pressure, circling the most sensitive part of you before sucking it gently into his mouth.
His stubble scraped against the tender skin of your inner thighs, a delicious friction. One of his hands remained on your hip, pinning you in place, while the other slid up your stomach to palm your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple in time with the rhythm of his tongue.
The world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth, the scent of him, the ragged sounds of his breathing and your own helpless, keening moans. The coil of pleasure in your belly tightened, spiraling tighter and tighter, a frantic, building pressure. You were babbling, his name a broken litany on your lips.
"Eddie... I'm... I can't..."
He groaned against you, the vibration pushing you even closer to the edge.
"Come for me, baby," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Let me feel it."
It was the command in his voice that shattered you. The coil snapped, and a wave of pure, blinding pleasure crashed over you, wracking your body with violent tremors. You screamed his name, your fingers tangling in his wild curls, holding him to you as you rode out the convulsions.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was moving. He reared up, frantically unbuckling his own belt, the metal clinking loudly in the silence. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his dick. He was thick and hard, the tip flushed and leaking. He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes, black with lust, locked on yours.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough. "I want to see your eyes when I'm inside you."
You nodded, breathless, still reeling from your climax, your body hypersensitive and aching for him.
He pushed in.
There was a sharp, brief sting of pain, and you flinched, a tear leaking from the corner of your eye. Eddie froze instantly, his whole body trembling with the effort of his restraint.
"Okay?" he gritted out, his forehead beaded with sweat.
You took a shaky breath, the initial pain already fading, replaced by a feeling of incredible, shocking fullness. "Yes," you breathed. "Don't stop."
A ragged groan tore from his throat, and he began to move. He started slow, shallow thrusts, letting your body adjust to his. But the control was short-lived.
Months of waiting, the interruptions, the sheer depth of his need for you-it was too much. His thrusts became deeper, harder, faster.
His mouth found yours again in a messy, desperate kiss. "So tight," he panted against your lips. "So fucking good for me. You feel that? That's all for you. Always for you."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his frantic rhythm. The pleasure was building again, different this time, deeper, coiling from the place where you were joined together.
The sounds were obscene-the slick, wet sound of your joining, his guttural grunts, your high, breathy moans.
"Gonna come," he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. "Where do you want it, baby? Tell me."
"Inside," you begged, lost to everything but him. "Please, Eddie."
That was his undoing. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that hit a spot inside you that made you see stars, he shouted your name, his body seizing up. You felt the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside you, and it triggered your own second, shattering climax, this one even more intense than the first. Your inner muscles clenched around him, milking him through his own release as you sobbed his name into his shoulder.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight a welcome, solid anchor. You could feel his heart hammering against your own, a frantic, synchronized beat.
For a long time, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the gentle lapping of the lake water outside.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted his weight to the side, pulling out with a soft hiss. He didn't let you go, though. He gathered you into his arms, pulling the blanket over your cooling, sweat-slicked skin. He pressed a kiss, impossibly soft and tender now, to your forehead.
"How are you?" he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You nuzzled into his chest, inhaling his familiar, beloved scent now mixed with the new, intimate scent of the two of you together. "Perfect."
He chuckled, a low, satisfied rumble.
"Took us long enough." He held you tighter. "Worth every second of the wait."
As you lay tangled together in the back of his beat-up van, listening to his heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm, you knew he was right. The universe had thrown everything it had at you, but it had failed. You were his, and he was yours. Finally, completely.
