Aug 29, 2025
Adrian Chase + his famous butt dance
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Adrian Chase + his famous butt dance
Episode was fucking wild but at least he was so fucking cute
make you notice (someone like me)
pairing: adrian chase x reader—vigilante x reader
summary: you love him quietly, the way people love when they’re afraid of being wrong. he loves you loudly, because he doesn’t know how else to ask you to stay.
word count: 3.2k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men.
main masterlist
you learn quickly that adrian chase does not know how to exist quietly.
he exists at people. loud, sideways, uninvited. like a thought you didn’t ask for that keeps looping anyway.
“hey,” he says, popping up beside you as you clean your weapons at the long metal table in the safehouse. his helmet is off, hair flattened on one side, eyes too awake for midnight. “did you know that if you stab someone in the thigh instead of the chest, statistically they bleed out slower but scream louder?”
you don’t look up. you swap out a blade, test its balance in your palm. “yes.”
“oh,” he says, visibly disappointed. “okay. did you know—”
“adrian,” you interrupt, calm and even, “if you keep talking, i will stab you in the thigh.”
he beams. “that’s my girl.”
you don’t correct him. you never do.
that’s the thing about you: you listen. you always have. you absorb things the way other people deflect them. you don’t interrupt. you don’t escalate. you don’t announce yourself. you just stay.
people mistake that for indifference.
adrian doesn’t. at least, he says he doesn’t. but sometimes, late at night, when the others are gone and the city hums low through concrete walls, you can see the doubt itch under his skin.
you feel it now, in the way he lingers instead of leaving, in the way he watches your hands more than your face.
he leans back against the table. “so… you and chris were talking earlier.”
you finally glance up. just once. “we were arguing.”
“uh-huh.” he nods, lips pressed thin. “sounded friendly.”
“it wasn’t.”
“you laughed.”
you frown slightly, searching memory. “he said something stupid.”
“yeah, that tracks.”
you go back to your blades. adrian doesn’t move.
the silence stretches. you know better than to rush it. adrian fills quiet the way water fills cracks—eventually, inevitably.
“you like him?” he asks.
the question is casual. too casual. thrown like it doesn’t matter. it does.
“no,” you say.
he lets out a breath you don’t think he realized he was holding. “cool. coolcoolcool. because, you know, he’s kind of the worst. he’s my best friend, but i know the dude isn’t the greatest person. i mean... his dad is, well, you know. his dad is his dad.”
“i know.”
“also emilia might literally kill him.”
“yes.”
“and she’s your best friend.”
“yes.”
“and they’ve been doing that weird almost-dating-not-dating thing for, like, forever.”
“yes.”
he squints at you. “then why does it feel like you like him?”
you pause. not because you don’t know the answer—but because you do. “i don’t,” you say finally. “i listen.”
adrian blinks. once. twice. “…oh.”
you risk another glance at him. he looks almost startled, like something just clicked out of place.
“that’s it?” he asks. “you just... listen?”
“yes.”
“huh.” he rubs the back of his neck. “okay. well. that explains… some stuff.”
you wait. you always do.
he doesn’t elaborate.
later, when the team breaks for the night, you head for the roof.
you like the city from above. it feels honest up there: ugly, and glowing, and endless. painted faces, fill the places you can’t reach. you lean your elbows against the ledge and let your gaze drift downward, counting lights, counting breaths.
you don’t hear adrian approach. you rarely do. he’s quieter when he wants to be. “can i ask you something?”
you nod.
“why do you never… react?”
you tilt your head. “react to what?”
“anything.” he gestures vaguely. “me. missions. chris being a dick. people almost dying. like—don’t get me wrong, you’re great in the field. scary, actually. but off-mission you’re just… flat.”
you consider this. “i don’t feel things loudly,” you say. “that doesn’t mean i don’t feel them.”
he watches your face, searching for something. “do you feel me?”
the question lands heavier than he intends. you don’t answer right away.
you think about the way he always sits next to you in the van, even when there are other seats. about how he talks at you because he knows you won’t shut him down. about how he notices when you’re tired before you notice yourself. you think about the way he jokes when he’s scared. the way he gets reckless when he feels invisible. you think about the wars he wages inside himself, shaping something like poetry out of noise and blood and need.
“yes,” you say. it’s quiet. honest. unadorned.
adrian laughs—but it comes out wrong. too sharp. “right, sure.”
you turn to face him fully. “i mean it.”
he shakes his head. “you say that to everyone.”
“i don’t.”
“you listen to everyone.”
“i don’t.”
he scoffs. “you literally listened to chris rant for twenty minutes about tactical formations like he invented them.”
“because emilia needed me to,” you say. “she asked.”
that stops him. “…she did?”
“yes.”
“oh.” his shoulders drop a little. “okay. that makes sense.”
you watch him process. you don’t rush him.
he stares out over the city now, jaw tight. “sometimes it feels like i’m screaming into the void,” he admits. “like—i do all this stuff. i joke, i talk, i bleed. and nobody actually sees me.”
you swallow. “i see you,”
he laughs again, softer this time. “yeah, but you see everyone.”
“that doesn’t make it less real.”
he looks at you then. really looks. the words echo somewhere between you, unspoken but heavy. “i just want you to notice me,” he says, voice barely above the wind. “like—notice me.”
you don’t reach for him. you don’t make grand declarations. that’s not how you love.
instead, you stay.
you stand there beside him, shoulder to shoulder, listening to his breathing even out, memorizing the way the city reflects in his eyes.
you hope—quietly, fiercely—that it’s enough.
the next mission goes sideways in the first three minutes.
it’s supposed to be a simple extraction—warehouse, low-level metahuman smugglers, grab the asset, get out. you’ve done worse half-asleep. but something is off the second your boots hit concrete.
you feel it in your chest before you see it.
“too quiet,” you murmur into comms.
“wow,” adrian says from somewhere to your left, voice bright through the channel. “look at you using words.”
you ignore him. you always do—until it matters.
chris barrels ahead anyway. he always does. big presence, big voice, bigger ego. emilia is covering the rear, tense and focused, and you know—you know—that’s the only reason she’s letting him take point.
“chris,” you say. “slow down.”
he doesn’t.
adrian clicks his tongue. “man has the situational awareness of a drunk raccoon.”
you almost smile. almost.
the ambush hits fast. gunfire ricochets, shrapnel screams, and the quiet shatters into noise and motion. you move without thinking—drop, roll, fire, advance. your world narrows to angles and timing and breath.
you register adrian at your side, fluid and reckless, knives flashing. you register chris taking a hit he shouldn’t have. you register emilia swearing viciously over comms.
you don’t register the way adrian keeps glancing at you until later. until after.
when it’s over and the warehouse smells like smoke and copper, chris is patched up and loud about it, emilia is pretending she wasn’t scared, and adrian is… quiet. that’s when you worry.
he’s sitting on a crate, helmet off, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it personally offended him. blood streaks one side of his jaw—someone else’s, you think. his hands are shaking.
you crouch in front of him.
“adrian,” you say.
he flinches. “oh. hey,” he says, too fast. “we done?”
“yes.”
“cool.”
you wait. he doesn’t look at you.
“chris almost got himself killed,” he mutters.
“yes.”
“and you ran to him.”
you replay the moment in your head. the calculation. the choice. “he was exposed,” you say. “you weren’t.”
“uh-huh.”
“you had cover.”
“right.”
“you were not in danger.”
he finally looks up at you then, eyes sharp and hurt and a little wild. “so you picked him.”
“no,” you say. “i picked the problem.”
his jaw tightens. “funny. feels personal.”
you search his face, slow and careful. “this isn’t about the mission,” you deduct.
he laughs, brittle. “wow. you’re so observant.”
“adrian.”
“what?” he stands abruptly, pacing. “you always do this. you say everything like it’s a report. like it doesn’t matter.”
“it matters.”
“does it?” he gestures toward where chris is loudly recounting his near-death experience. “because you seem pretty invested in him.”
“i am invested in the team.”
“see?” he throws his hands up. “that. that right there. you hide behind that.”
you stand too, matching his space but not his volume.
“i don’t hide,” you say. “i prioritize.”
“then prioritize me!” he snaps.
the words hang between you, raw and unfiltered.
emilia glances over, concern flickering. chris doesn’t notice. he never does.
you lower your voice. “this isn’t the place.”
“that’s convenient,” adrian says. “it never is.”
you don’t argue. you just step closer—enough that only he can hear you.
“i listen to you,” you say. “every time.”
he swallows. “you laugh at chris’s jokes,” he says quietly.
“they’re not jokes,” you reply. “they’re complaints.”
“that’s worse.”
you almost smile again. almost.
back at the video store, the tension doesn’t dissipate. it clings, heavy and sour.
adrian avoids you. he’s never done that before.
you notice it in the way he sits across the room instead of beside you. in the way he talks around you instead of at you. in the way his jokes sharpen, turn outward, aimed at anyone who isn’t you.
it feels wrong.
you don’t chase him. you don’t corner him. that’s not how you care. you wait.
it happens on a night that should have been calm.
no mission. no alarms. just the low hum of the video store settling into itself—emilia curled up on the couch with her knees tucked in, pretending she’s not watching chris pace; chris pretending he’s not watching her back. the air is thick with everything no one is saying.
adrian is perched on the arm of a chair, spinning a knife between his fingers, restless. too restless.
you notice. you always do. “you’re going to drop that,” you say.
he grins without humor. “you worried?”
“yes.”
that earns you a look—sharp, searching. he opens his mouth to say something, then stops.
chris chooses that moment to speak. “hey,” he says, gesturing between you and adrian. “you two good? you’ve been weird all night.”
adrian stiffens.
you answer calmly. “we’re fine.”
chris snorts. “you say that about everything.”
emilia shoots him a warning look. “chris.”
“what? i’m just saying—” he shrugs. “it’s hard to tell with her. she doesn’t exactly wear her heart on her sleeve.”
the words aren’t cruel. they still cut.
adrian’s knife stops spinning.
you feel it then—that subtle shift, like the moment before a storm breaks.
“i think,” adrian says lightly, too lightly, “that’s kind of her thing.”
chris raises his hands. “didn’t mean anything by it, man.”
“i know,” adrian says. “you never do.”
emilia stands. “okay, that’s enough. i mean ‘she’ is right here—” but it’s already too late.
“you ever notice,” adrian continues, eyes locked on chris now, “how she listens to you like you’re saying something important? like you matter?”
your chest tightens.
chris frowns. “what’s your problem?”
“my problem?” adrian laughs. “my problem is you always get all the attention and what do i get? i mean, c’mon man... no one takes me seriously. no one notices me!”
the room goes quiet.
you step forward. “adrian.”
he turns on you, hurt flashing into something sharper. “no—don’t. don’t do that calm voice thing. not right now.”
chris looks between you, confused. “is this about me?”
“yes,” adrian snaps. “no! i don’t know.”
emilia moves closer to you instinctively. “adrian, breathe.”
he doesn’t. “i’m tired,” he says, voice breaking through the bravado. “i’m tired of being the joke. of being the loud one. of watching her choose everyone else and pretending it doesn’t kill me.”
you flinch.
chris scoffs. “she doesn’t choose me.”
“she runs to you,” adrian fires back. “she laughs with you.”
“i don’t—” chris stops, glances at you. “do you?”
you don’t answer him. you’re watching adrian unravel, and you know—you truly know—if you don’t act now, you might lose him to the noise in his own head.
“i choose emilia,” you say suddenly.
everyone freezes.
you turn to chris. “she's my best friend, and you hurt her. constantly. whether you mean to or not.”
emilia sucks in a breath.
chris pales. “i—”
“i listen to you,” you continue, steady but firm, “because she needs me to. not because i want you.” then you turn to adrian. “i choose you because i want to.”
silence.
adrian’s eyes are wide, unguarded. “say that again.”
you step closer, placing yourself directly in front of him. no shields. no distance. “i choose you,” you repeat. “i always have.”
his laugh comes out broken. “then why does it feel like i’m begging?”
“because you don’t trust quiet love,” you say. “and i don’t know how to be loud.”
he stares at you, chest heaving. “i just want to be somebody to you.”
“you are,” you say. “you’re the one i notice first. the one i listen for. the one i wait with.”
something in him finally cracks.
he covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. you don’t hesitate—you reach out, anchoring him, fingers curling into his sleeves like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.
“i’m ready now,” he whispers. “i’ve been ready.”
you rest your forehead against his. “i know.”
the room exhales.
emilia turns away, discreet. chris looks like he’s been punched in the gut.
later—much later—when the video store is quiet and the city hums beyond the windows, you and adrian sit on the roof again.
this time, he leans into you without asking.
“hey,” he murmurs. “if i’m too much—”
“you’re not,” you interrupt.
he smiles into your shoulder. “you’re still kind of cold.”
“yes.”
“but you stay.”
“...yes.”
he hums, content. “i could use somebody like you.”
you close your eyes, listening to the rhythm of him, finally certain he feels heard.
the city never really sleeps. it just lowers its voice.
you notice that more after adrian starts staying the night on the roof with you. not every night. he’s still restless, still kinetic, still full of sharp edges—but some nights, when the noise in his head gets too loud, he finds you without saying a word.
and you let him.
tonight is one of those nights.
he’s stretched out beside you on the concrete, hands folded on his chest, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to read something written there just for him. you sit with your back against the ledge, knees drawn in, listening to his breathing sync with the city’s pulse.
“you ever miss home?” he asks suddenly.
you consider the question. “sometimes.”
“was it loud?”
“no,” you say. “it didn’t need to be.”
he smiles faintly. “figures.”
silence settles again—not awkward, not heavy. familiar. “i used to think,” he says after a while, “that if i didn’t make noise, i’d disappear.”
you glance down at him. “you don’t.”
“yeah. i know that now.” he turns his head toward you. “because you still see me when i’m quiet.”
you nod once. that’s your confession.
he sits up, leaning closer, elbows on his knees. “can i ask you something else?”
“yes.”
“do you ever want more?” his voice is careful, hopeful without pushing. “or is this—” he gestures vaguely between you. “—enough?”
you don’t answer immediately. not because you’re unsure—but because you’re precise.
“i want consistency,” you decide. “i want someone who stays. who doesn’t need to be louder to feel real.”
he swallows. “i can try.”
“you already do,” you reply.
he laughs softly. “god, you make everything sound like a vow.”
you look at him then, really look. the mess and the sincerity. the boy who made himself a weapon because he was afraid no one would hear him otherwise.
“i don’t say things i don’t mean,” you tell him.
his expression shifts—something warm and stunned and reverent. “okay,” he says quietly. “then… i mean it too.”
he reaches for your hand, slow enough that you could pull away.
you don’t.
his fingers curl around yours, warm and solid. he squeezes once, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is real.
“i’ve been roaming around,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “always looking down at all i see.”
you tilt your head, listening.
“and i didn’t realize,” he continues, “that the person i needed was the one who never looked away.”
your thumb brushes over his knuckles. it’s small. intentional.
he closes his eyes.
“you ready?” he asks.
“yes,” you say. “i’ve been ready.”
he smiles—soft, unguarded, finally at ease—and leans in. the kiss is gentle, unhurried, like something earned instead of taken. no spectacle. no urgency. just two people choosing each other in the quiet.
when you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“promise me something?” he whispers.
you nod.
“if i get loud again—if i spiral—remind me that you’re still here.”
you press a kiss to his temple. “i won’t need to remind you. i’ll just stay.”
he laughs, breathless and happy. “yeah. that tracks.”
you sit together until the sky begins to pale, until the city starts to wake again. when the others join you later, nothing looks different.
everything is.
because love doesn’t always announce itself. sometimes, it just listens.
mornings with adrian are louder than nights.
he hums when he brushes his teeth—off-key, committed. he narrates his every movement in the kitchen like he’s hosting a cooking show no one asked for. he argues with the coffee machine like it can hear him.
you sit at the small table, legs tucked beneath you, watching steam curl from your mug. you listen.
“okay, see, this is why i don’t trust technology,” he says, slapping the side of the machine. “back home i had a percolator that loved me.”
“it didn’t,” you reply.
“it did. it knew my vibes. hated my mom, but she’s also a bitch, so that makes sense.”
you sip your coffee.
he grins at you over his shoulder. “you’re smiling.”
“i always smile.”
“no, you don’t,” he says, triumphant. “that was a me smile.”
you don’t deny it.
he brings you breakfast—toast slightly burnt, eggs overcooked, presentation chaotic. he sets the plate in front of you like it’s an offering.
“fuel for the emotionally reserved,” he declares.
“thank you,” you say sincerely.
he softens every time you say it like that.
later, you sit on the couch while he cleans his weapons at your feet, helmet discarded, focus intense. he talks—not because he needs noise, but because he wants to share.
you listen—not because you have to, but because you choose to.
emilia drops by unannounced, takes one look at the two of you, and smirks. “wow. he’s… domesticated.”
adrian scoffs. “i am feral.”
“you folded his laundry,” she says.
“that was a tactical decision.” you hide your smile behind your mug.
at night, when the world goes quiet again, he curls into you like it’s instinct. his head fits under your chin perfectly, like he was made for this exact space.
“you still here?” he murmurs sometimes, half-asleep.
“yes,” you answer every time.
and he always relaxes. every time.
because he doesn’t need to be loud to be seen anymore. because you never stopped listening. because some love doesn’t shout.
it stays.
butch x masc is my current favorite flavor
Adrian Chase/Vigilante and his expressive hands in Peacemaker.
ADRIAN CHASE :: VIGILANTE P!LINKS // NSFW/SMUT
A/N: Okay okay I'm sorry I haven't dropped the waterboy fic or anything else guys I've been enjoying my break and I wanted to drop new links along with my new post layout too :3 I appreciate my followers greatly and I really apologize for not making up any updates, I hope you've all had a wonderful holiday and new years!!!
Warnings: 18+ MINOR DNI, twitter/twt/x visuals/links, AFAB switch reader, switch adrian chase, unprotected sex, sex toys, p in v, fingering, squirting, overstimulation, cum shot, thigh job, cunnilingus, pegging, size difference, size kink, riding. Probably more missing, but let me know!!
Riding the real Adrian while stroking the other. Double trouble!
Chris told Adrian to fuck with someone else while you were out on a mission—he found something...
It blows your mind how big Adrian is.
Adrian easily gets lost in your pussy when he slams away.
Adrian loves watching you fuck yourself back on his cock. PT 2.
Adrian wants to devour you whole, starting with kisses, of course.
Letting Adrian fuck you till you're weak.
You've always known that Adrian was experimental, wanted to "check a girl's stamina."
You weren't done with Adrian, yet he couldn't stop squirming.
Adrian is an absolute loser for your thighs. PT 2.
Adrian cumming over your belly.
Adrian admiring you after Harcourt's little party.
Before dating, Adrian would always grind into his bed thinking about you.
Adrian loves to prioritize your pleasure.
Adrian noticed that the toy wasn't doing its job...
Adrian testing your limits.
fellas is it gay to be excited to dismember your best friend's body from another dimension?
My Type
"I'll be good—I'll be so good—just... please."
Pairing: Adrian Chase x fem! Reader
Genre: Smut
Word count: 3.3k
Summary: You’re just his type and he’s exactly yours: whiny, needy, and desperate.
Warnings: Slightly dominante reader, begging, needy/whiny Adrian, slight praise kink, boob fucking, not proof-read and defo a mess
a/n: This is just a little drabble and very horny
Adrian has a type.
Massive boobs.
And god you’re just his fucking type. He can’t fucking concentrate, the way your blouse is barely able to stay buttoned when you breathe, the fabric straining with each breath.
Chris sends him a bemused glance, the rest of the team focused on the task at hand while Adrian? He’s lost in the fucking sauce.
Peacemaker nudges Adrian hard and rolls his eyes. Chris could tell exactly what the hell his friend was gazing at with his wide-eyed expression, and frankly it was getting on his nerves.
Adrian jolts when he feels the nudge and snaps out of his daze. He clears his throat awkwardly and quickly averts his gaze from you, praying to God that he hadn’t been that obvious.
It was hard to keep his eyes off of you though. Your figure was driving him insane.
You were more than just oblivious, fingers typing away aggressively as you narrowed your eyes at the screen in front of you. “Jesus,” You groan, spinning around in your chair. “John if *you* can’t hack into this, how the hell do you expect me to?” Vigilante and Peacemaker crowding your side, as you just cross your arms under your breasts.
Making Adrian audibly groan.
Adrian immediately crosses his arms behind his back, stiffening like a soldier at attention—anything to *not* look. His face burns red beneath the mask.
"Focus, Adrian," he mutters to himself, eyes darting to the ceiling, then the floor, then abruptly back to the monitor with intense, almost *painful* concentration. "Hacking. Right. Critical mission parameters. National security."
Chris side-eyes him again and snorts. "*Sure*, man. Keep telling yourself that."
Adrian shoots him a panicked glare and then you shift in your chair again.
His eye twitches.
This was worse than facing down armed mercenaries.
Way worse.
You don’t work with this team, in fact you’re basically —not basically, literally— forbidden a specific instruction from Waller. But when Economos and Harcourt showed up out of the blue, not really giving you a choice, well of course you agreed to help.
And that’s how you ended up with this group of vigilantes standing in your living room discussing their mission and how to go forward.
Adrian can barely hear the conversation going on around him, his brain focused on the fact that you are literally within arm's reach, and he has to act normal.
Chris continues to throw knowing glances at him, and Adrian's face grows hotter each time. He's starting to sweat beneath his mask. This is a brand-new level of torture.
Chris smirks and whispers in his ear. "You good, man? You look a little… tense."
“Alright,” You return back to the code, trying to get past the security precautions. “I think I know how to get it.” John moves to your side, eyeing the screen as you work, the two of you in a separate world than the horny Vigilante and amused Peacemaker.
——————————————————
It had been days, nearly a week, but Adrian could not get you out of his mind —
well your huge honkers and sweet smile of course. Their mission has been a success, thanks to your help.
Adrian's fingers drummed nervously against his thigh as he stared at his burner phone's blank screen. The mission debrief had ended hours ago, but the memory of your focused frown and the way your hair fell across your forehead as you typed lingered.
*Just friends,* he chanted internally, *ask about the code. It’s professional.* He punched in the number Economos had grudgingly provided, his thumb hovering over the call button.
"Hey," he blurted the moment you answered, voice cracking slightly. "It's Vigilante. Adrian. I, uh… had a question about that firewall bypass you used? For… research." He winced, hearing Chris’s muffled snort of laughter in his mind.
“Oh, hi!” Your tone is cheery through the speaker, “It’s easier to show you the steps, rather than just walking you through it. So if you want, I’m free tonight?”
"T-Tonight?" Adrian stammers, eyes widening behind his mask. He quickly shakes his head, as if that'll compose him. "I mean— yeah. Yes. I can do tonight. That's... that's great."
He paces in a small circle, suddenly very aware of how messy his apartment is. Posters of Christopher Smith plastered on the walls, stacks of old crime reports piled on the coffee table, half-eaten burrito from three days ago sitting next to a vigilante action figure he sometimes talks to.
“That sounds perfect!” You’re grinning behind your phone, twirling your hair around your finger.
"Uh," he blurts again, "Should I bring… uh… tools? Or— or not bring tools? Do you like tacos? Not that I'm bringing tacos! Unless you want tacos!"
He slaps a hand over his mouth mid-sentence.
*Shut up shut up shut up.*
"...I'll just... be there," he finishes weakly.
[Later]
Adrian shows up *exactly* seven minutes early wearing slacks and a tucked-in t-shirt that says *"I Fight for Justice (and Snacks)."* He’s holding two lukewarm burritos in one hand and a flash drive labeled *"FIREWALL STUFF ????"* in the other.
He knocks five times in rapid succession.
Shit
You hadn’t planned things right and were currently in just a towel after your shower. But not wanting to be rude — “Uh, Adrian, come in.” You give him a sheepish smile while hiding behind your door.
Adrian freezes as he steps through the threshold, his brain immediately processing two very important things:
1. You are half-naked. Half. Naked. He's not sure any amount of vigilantism training could have prepared him for this.
2. You smell amazing. His eyes dart up and down your mostly-naked form, his mouth suddenly and painfully dry.
He swallows. Hard.
His hands grip the takeout bag and flash drive like a lifeline.
“Sorry,” You giggle softly, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear, breasts practically popping out from the top of the fabric hiding your naked form from his gaze. “I took a bit too long in the shower…”
Adrian tries to say something. Anything. Words? Sounds? Hell, even just *words* would be a start.
But his brain has short-circuited completely.
He's stuck, gawking like a deer in headlights. Every muscle in his body is tensed, like he's bracing himself for something. His eyes keep darting between your face and your body, unable to decide where to focus.
Finally, he manages to sputter out a weak, "Uh."
His fingers tremble.
"You can take a seat?" You try to ignore the way his eyes are glued to your damp chest. "Or I could show you around." You half joke, trying to ease the tension.
Adrian nods vigorously, perhaps a little *too* vigorously. He moves on autopilot, setting the food on the coffee table and settling himself awkwardly on the couch. His fingers tap a nonsensical rhythm on his knee.
A part of him wants you to go put on clothes.
But another, much more urgent part really, really doesn't want you to. He's trying to focus on literally anything other than your wet hair and the curve of your body and Jesus Christ he's so screwed.
The other, louder part—the part currently winning—wants to stare forever.
He forces his gaze to the flash drive clutched in his sweaty palm. "Firewall," he croaks, holding it up like a shield. "Important... hacking... stuff." His voice cracks again.
He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably on the couch cushion. The towel slips slightly lower on your chest, revealing a hint of your areola, and Adrian’s knuckles turn white around the plastic casing.
"Right!" You beam, oblivious to his internal meltdown. "Just give me two minutes to throw something on." You turn, heading toward your bedroom.
Adrian’s eyes snap shut, too late. The sway of your hips beneath the terrycloth towel is already seared into his retinas. He hears your bedroom door click shut and lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
*Get it together, Chase,* he silently commands himself. *Professional. Friendly. Normal.*
He glances around your cozy living room, soft lighting, shelves overflowing with books and tech manuals, a framed photo of you laughing with friends. It’s warm. Inviting. Nothing like his sterile apartment plastered with posters.
His eyes land on the lukewarm burritos he brought. He picks one up, stares at it blankly, then sets it back down. His stomach churns.
He can still smell your shampoo—something floral and clean—mixed with the faint scent of steam from your shower. It’s intoxicating. Dangerous.
He hears your door creak open. Adrian snaps his head forward, fixing his gaze rigidly on a random spot on the opposite wall. *Ceiling. Floor. Wall. Not you. Not you.*
"Okay!" you chirp, padding back into the room. "Much better."
Adrian risks a glance.
Big mistake.
You’re wearing shorts and an oversized tee. It should be safe. Casual. Friendly.
Except the shirt's neckline is wide, slipping down one shoulder. And the fabric drapes loosely over your chest, somehow making the outline of your curves *more* noticeable, not less.
Adrian’s breath hitches. His fingers dig into the couch cushion.
Professional. Friendly. Normal.
He fails spectacularly on all counts. His mouth opens, but only a strangled, unintelligible sound escapes. His eyes are wide, pupils blown wide behind his mask. He looks like he’s been flash-banged.
You tilt your head, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. "You okay there, Vigilante?"
Adrian Chase, trained killer, expert marksman, and unwavering patriot, feels the distinct sensation of his brain leaking out of his ears.
"Yeah," he rasps, voice barely audible. "Peachy."
"So uh, is there actually a firewall?" You scratch the back of your neck, the fabric of your shirt rising enough to expose your stomach ever so slightly. "Or was it just an excuse to call?"
Adrian's throat is painfully dry, but he swallows anyway, trying to salvage what little dignity he has left.
"Of course there's a firewall!" he insists, more forceful than necessary. He clears his throat, forcing his gaze to lock onto the flash drive he's still holding, *anywhere* but your body. "It's... it's a really complex firewall. Totally secure."
He can feel his cheeks burning, and he hopes fervently that you chalk it up to *anything* but... this.
"Okay, then let's see it." You settle on the couch next to him, reaching for your laptop, breasts brushing over his crotch as you lean over him. You’ve noticed his reactions and you're relishing in the teasing.
Adrian jolts like he's been electrocuted.
His entire body seizes—spine straight, breath trapped in his chest—as the soft weight of your breasts presses against his thigh for one fleeting, *earth-shattering* moment.
The flash drive slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor.
He makes a sound. Not words. Not even close. A high-pitched, strangled noise that comes from deep in his soul.
"Sorry!" you giggle, pulling back and completely unaware of the emotional damage you've just inflicted. "Didn't mean to squash you."
Adrian stares blankly ahead, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly open. His hands rest limply on his lap as if someone turned off the power to his brain.
Inside? Total systemic failure.
Outside?
A trembling man who can’t remember how breathing works anymore. One thought echoes through what’s left of Adrian Chase’s consciousness: *I’m going straight to Hell.*
His mind wanders to how his cock would feel squished between your breasts, thrusting up into them until he finally releases into your pretty little-
“Adrian? Can I see the drive?” You wave a hand in front of his eyes, effectively bringing him back to reality.
Adrian blinks, his brain finally rebooting after that unexpected mental detour. He shakes his head and quickly stoops to pick the USB off the floor, his heart still pounding like a drumbeat in his ears.
He straightens and hands it to you carefully, making sure their fingers don't touch. His brain is still overloaded with thoughts he absolutely *cannot* be having in his current position.
"Right," he mumbles, trying to sound cool and not at all like he's about to lose his mind. "The drive. Yep."
You pop the flash drive into your laptop, leaning close enough that Adrian catches another whiff of your shampoo—floral and clean, mixed with the faint scent of your skin. He stares rigidly at the screen, trying to focus on the code window booting up.
But his gaze keeps drifting. The loose neckline of your shirt dips as you shift, revealing the soft swell of your cleavage. Adrian’s knuckles whiten where he grips the edge of the couch cushion. Sweat beads beneath his collar.
"See?" you murmur, pointing at the screen. "The encryption’s layered, but..."
Your finger traces a line of code, and Adrian doesn’t hear a word. All he sees is the curve of your lips, the way your hair brushes your shoulder, the subtle bounce of your chest as you breathe.
He shifts, crossing his legs tightly. *Professional. Professional. Professional.*
The flash drive’s contents load—a single text file titled "README.txt". You click it open.
Inside, one line:
> **ADRIAN CHASE IS A HORNY LIAR.**
You burst out laughing.
Adrian makes a choked noise, face burning crimson beneath his mask. He scrambles for an excuse—Chris must’ve tampered with it!—but the words die in his throat as you turn to him, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You," you tease softly, "are terrible at this."
Adrian sputters and splutters like a fish on land, every inch of him burning with embarrassment. He can't lie, and he knows it. Chris definitely did this, the bastard. He's probably laughing hysterically right now, watching this whole scene unfold from some hidden camera.
"It's, uh- Chris's doing," he manages to strangle out, his voice cracking. "He must've-"
He trails off when he meets your gaze. He's expecting anger, annoyance, maybe even disgust.
But all he sees is amusement.
"So, horny bastard... Need anything else?" You cock your head to the side slightly, a small smirk spreading on your lips.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out but a weak, defeated whimper.
Adrian stares at you, utterly paralyzed. The mask hides his flushed face, but the tremor in his hands gives him away. He swallows hard, throat clicking.
"I... uh..." His gaze darts helplessly between your amused eyes and the dangerous curve of your breasts beneath the thin fabric. He’s drowning.
Finally, in a voice thick with desperation, he whispers, "Can... can I just... look? For a minute?" His knuckles are bone-white where he grips the couch cushion.
“Look?” You question, feigning innocence as you scoot closer to him.
Adrian’s breath catches as you slide closer.
His eyes widen, heart pounding in his ears like a war drum. This is a terrible, terrible idea. Everything about this is wrong.
But he can't help it. He can't help staring, can't help the way his body responds to you. His fingers twitch, desperate to touch, to feel the smoothness of your skin, the softness of your curves.
He nods, a quick jerk of his head. "Please."
“Since you’ve asked so nicely,” Your fingers pinch the hem of your shirt as you slowly, torturously expose your skin to him, nipples hardening under the cool air.
Every nerve in Adrian's body is on fire. His eyes drink you in like a man dying of thirst. The sight of your body, bared just for him...it's nearly too much to handle.
He doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. He just stares, his gaze roaming over every dip and curve. His body aches with unfulfilled need.
"God..." he whispers, voice rough and unsteady.
"You... you're perfect.
Adrian’s hand flies instinctively to his crotch, pressing hard against the painful bulge straining against his slacks. He groans, fingers digging into the fabric, trying desperately to push the erection down, to hide it, to *control* it.
But the ache only intensifies, a throbbing pulse that screams for release. His knuckles whiten as he fights the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch you—to feel the soft weight of your breasts in his palms, to trace the hardened peaks with trembling fingers.
Instead, he’s trapped, palming himself through the rough fabric, eyes locked helplessly on your exposed skin, every ragged breath a torment. “Close your eyes,” You whisper, mischievous glint in your eyes.
Adrian's breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. He nods, shutting his eyes obediently. Darkness washes over him, leaving only his heightened senses as guidance.
He can *feel* your presence: the heat radiating off your body, the subtle movement of air as you move closer. His heart thumps wildly in his chest.
"What...what are you doing?" he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Just stay still,” You whisper against his ear, teeth grazing the lobe gently as your fingers move to his belt—unbuckling it, working his button undone, unzipping his pants. Once you get his pants and boxers down, around his ankles, you drop to your knees between his thighs.
You pull your shirt off and throw it to the side, your fingers digging into his thighs ever so slightly, your mouth drooling at his girth and length. “Okay, you can open them now.” You press a kiss to his inner thigh, mouth moving closer and closer to his aching cock.
Adrian’s eyes snap open and the sight hits him like a freight train: you kneeling between his thighs, shirtless, lips hovering inches from his throbbing cock, your breasts spilling forward in a devastating display.
A ragged gasp tears from his throat. His hips jerk violently upward, desperate for contact, as a strangled cry escapes him. "F-Fuck—!" His knuckles turn bone-white where he grips the couch cushions, his entire body trembling on the precipice.
Pre-cum beads at his tip, slick and urgent. He’s seconds away from unraveling, just from the sight alone.
Adrian’s voice cracks, high and desperate, as his hips buck helplessly. "Please, please- let me touch them," he whimpers, fingers trembling inches from your chest but too terrified to close the distance without permission. His needy pleas sending a shiver down your spine, cunt wet and aching.
"Just... just let me hold them? Squeeze 'em? Fuck, I need—I need to feel 'em against my cock, please, *please*, lemme fuck 'em—" His words dissolve into a choked whine, eyes wide and pleading, every muscle coiled with frantic, shaking need. "I'll be good—I'll be so good—just... please."
A shaky, desperate moan escapes Adrian as you lean forward, pressing your soft breasts together around his aching cock. The slick heat envelops him instantly, your nipples brushing against his shaft as you squeeze tight.
"Like this, pretty baby?" you murmur, voice dripping with sweet, teasing venom. Your tongue darts out, catching a bead of pre-cum from his tip before swirling around the head.
Adrian chokes out a broken sob, hips jerking uncontrollably against the velvet prison of your cleavage. "Y-Yeah, fuck -just like that.." His fingers claw into the couch cushions, knuckles white, as he stares down at you with utter, trembling worship.
“Are you gonna be good for me baby?” You kiss his tip, eyes raising to meet his wide ones, pupils huge. “Are you gonna fuck my boobs until you make a mess all over me?”
Adrian’s restraint snaps. A guttural groan rips from his throat as his hips buck violently upward, driving his cock deep between the soft, pillowy heat of your breasts. His hands fly to cup them instantly, fingers digging greedily into the yielding flesh, squeezing them tighter around his throbbing length.
"Fuck- yes-" he chokes out, eyes wild and unfocused behind the mask, hips already pistoning in frantic, shallow thrusts, desperate to bury himself deeper into that impossible softness. Pre-cum smears slick paths across your skin with every jerky movement.
Adrian’s entire body locks rigid, muscles straining like coiled steel as he forces his hips to still, trembling with the effort. A choked whimper escapes him—edging himself, savoring the slick heat trapped between your breasts, the desperate ache building unbearable pressure.
Then, with a ragged gasp, he surrenders, hips snapping forward again in frantic, shallow pumps. His swollen tip flares, pulsing violently against your skin as he drives himself deeper into that intoxicating softness.
"That's it, baby," you murmur, voice thick with approval, your hand sliding down to cradle his heavy balls, fingers gently squeezing. "So good for me..."
The sudden pressure—warm and claiming—is Adrian's undoing. A ragged cry tears from his throat as his hips slam forward one final time. Thick ropes of cum erupt violently, painting hot stripes across your collarbone, splattering your chin and cheek in pearly streaks.
He shudders violently, gasping your name like a prayer, hips jerking helplessly through each pulse as he empties himself onto your skin.