#extradirty
Cosmic Funnies
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styofa doing anything
shark vs the universe
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Not today Justin
occasionally subtle
Origami Around
oozey mess
Xuebing Du
if i look back, i am lost
Show & Tell
roma★
★
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@upl0aded
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she/her ✭ 18+ ✭ cyborg ✭ error! ✭ uploaded to database ✭ vigilante's best friend ✭ marvel geek ✭ black noir's partner ✭ claggor enthusiast ✭ video game nerd ✭ multifandom ✭
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oh great u took 10 billion years to kill kilgrave so you can free hope and now she kills herself so u can finally kill kilgrave. i love this show so much
OMFGGG BRO SIMPSON IS PISSING ME TF OFF
oh great u took 10 billion years to kill kilgrave so you can free hope and now she kills herself so u can finally kill kilgrave. i love this show so much
watching jessica jones for the first time and i have never seen more stupid people in my life. kilgrave is honestly the best written villain but god his power is so insufferable it makes everyone dumb as rocks. like im literally at a point where i hate all the decisions everyone makes but its so so so understandable bc kilgrave just has that effect on people
wild take, wilson bethel would make a great pyramid head…
HES SO BIG?? LIKE??
may not be accurate but i cannot fathom how HUGE wilson is
lil updates from me
heh...hey guys. first off im so sorry for leaving, then asking for requests then leaving again. i will NOT blueball u guys anymore. ive been away because uni is killing me, so many responsibilities, so much work, and so much to do. plus ive had such a rough patch when it comes to writing, so writer's block has been eating at me. ive tried to get out of the habit of doomscrolling and rotting in bed, so im positively forcing myself to write more for you guys and for me!
ive seen so much about benjamin poindexter and bullseye recently that i've brought it upon myself to watch the entire defenders/daredevil/ hell's kitchen shows (in chronological order) to catch up. but as i was watching DDS1 i have never been more enamoured by one man - james wesley (rip king you were taken from us too soon). i am so fried rn but i will write until my fingers bleed, so expect maybe a few chapters of a wesley fic im writing :3
when i actually get to watching DDS3/Born Again i'll start writing about dex, but thats gonna take a while because im watching everything in order so he'll be last on my list :(
as for other fandoms and fics, such as professional part 2 or my danny ramirez fic, i'll most likely leave that in the dark until i finish my daredevil phase. i dont wanna pump out a half-assed fic for you guys to read, plus i realised how weird a RPF (real person fic) actually is. since the boys is ending idk if any more fics will come out (rip gen v and fk vought rising). this also goes for all my adrian fics. although i still love adrian and peacemaker, i may not write about them until after my daredevil phase. dw i wont forget about him though!
hope u guys can understand and im so sorry for leaving out of nowhere, but i am back and (probably) better!
Toby Leonard Moore as James Wesley
in DAREDEVIL (2015-2018), created by Drew Goddard S1E1ㅤInto the Ring
+ bonus:
why is he always getting his hair pulled
kinky love
benjamin poindexter x fem!reader
synopsis you finally have a reason to invite dex to your apartment and it quickly spins out of your control. at least you get to keep the knife. or, dex keeps getting in your head when you're trying to get into his.
notes this was originally two parts but i combined them because i saw no way to separate them.
tags suggestive content (mdni), nothing crazy just sexual innuendos, fluff, humor, awkward situations (i mean it this time), fantasizing, descriptions of violence, suicidal ideation, feelings, flirting, morally gray reader (?), mentions of sexual assault (not by dex), discussions of canon events
wc 6.2k
series masterlist • previous part • next part
The knife you swiped from Dex stayed in your kitchen drawer for a week.
You had tossed it in among the other mismatched knives you used for cooking when you made it home from his place, and there it remained.
It was slightly menacing, both blade and handle inky black compared to the sea of metal it swam in.
It was there every time you opened your drawer to cook dinner, large and commanding, appearing as a poorly hidden weapon among your cutlery. Cryptic like a cursed object you were storing away from the wrong hands.
I.e., your clumsy ones.
You’d be lying if you said you were never enticed by the idea of using it for your dinner prep. It was much sharper than any regular kitchen knife, and would probably slice through your veggies like paper.
The thought made you shiver.
You pulled it from the open drawer and squeezed the handle tight, taking notice of how the metal pressed indents into your palm–likely the very same ones that graced his.
It was lighter in your hand, the blade jutting out thicker than its handle making it aerodynamic. You ran your finger along the blade and realized it wasn’t sharp like you assumed.
It was dull–even more blunt than your kitchen knives which made Dex’s throw a lot more impressive than you once thought.
He must have thrown it on a whim, a straight shot into the stereo console with just a flick of his arm fueled by distress and rage.
He certainly had the upper body strength for it.
You held the knife up and scanned your kitchen walls for something you wouldn’t miss—no pun intended.
The walls were sparsely decorated because you took most of your hangings down for a stick-on wallpaper project and hadn’t gotten around to putting them all back up.
There was that old painting of the moon you thrifted when you first moved in. It was bought just for the sake of covering your white walls so you wouldn’t feel like you lived in an asylum, and now it wasn’t really your style anymore.
With the moon in the center of the painting as a focal point, you took a breath and flicked your wrist out, releasing the knife from your grip.
It zipped to the wall, sticking right into a spot beside the painting’s frame.
“Oh god,” you rushed over to pry the blade from your stick-on wallpaper. “Definitely not getting that deposit back.”
A firm knock at your front door startled you out of your panic.
In your eagerness to play badass secret agent, you totally forgot you had only been goofing off because you were waiting for the owner of the knife you were throwing around to show up at your apartment.
See, your admiration of his physique the other night hadn’t just been you plain objectifying him. You had a giant box in your living room waiting to be opened up and assembled into a lovely walnut display cabinet.
And Dex still owed you that favor for leaving you all alone at the wedding.
While you could have put it together yourself, you had repeated that exact sentence in your head every time you passed the cardboard eyesore (or stubbed your toe on it) ever since it was hauled into your apartment a month ago.
So why not spare yourself the back pain?
The favor was requested by you the night you went to his place after the wedding. Just before you left, standing in the doorway of his apartment, you were suddenly struck with the perfect way for him to finally make up for his string of disappointments.
“Can you come over and help me rearrange my living room this weekend?” your eyes were lit up like Christmas morning.
He coughed awkwardly and nodded. Then, gave you a quiet goodbye as he closed the door.
It took you ten minutes of sitting in your cab before you realized what his problem was.
“Oh my god,” you audibly gasped, which made your driver briefly look in the rear view mirror. “I think I just invited my friend over to sleep with me.”
You thought your request was normal enough, but maybe it was the context in which you asked that made him pick up on an innuendo that wasn’t intended.
It was late at night, both of you having just made up after a difficult fight, you left wearing his hoodie, and then asked him to make it up to you by coming over.
It sounded like you were asking him to come rearrange something else.
The thought made you burn up and you wished the ground would open up and swallow your entire taxi whole.
At least your driver didn’t mind you venting the entire story of your friendship to him. He called you a hot mess as you were getting out but at least he was a good listener.
To make matters worse, Dex was out of the city for the past week so you didn’t even get the chance to clarify that there was actual work to be done, and not on you.
Before you rushed to the door, you considered pushing the furniture box into the middle of the living room just so he’d see right off the bat that there was a very real cabinet that needed to be put together.
But then, he knocked again and you were out of time for any other protective measures.
A small prayer was said in your mind as you held the doorknob. You don’t know why you were so freaked out over a slip-up.
A small part of you wondered what would happen if you just went with it. He still showed up at the address you texted him, so did that mean he was…down?
You tried to blame the twist of desire in your stomach on anxiety.
It was also the hottest day of the year, and you were about to be in your enclosed living space with him for an hour putting together furniture…
You press your cold palms on your face to sober up. Now, when he was literally outside your door, was not the time to be having these thoughts.
You pulled the front door open.
“Kept me waiting,” he said, and it almost annoyed you that he was observing rather than chiding. And that he seemed a lot more unbothered than you were.
You were already uncomfortably hot, and it wasn’t because of the failing A/C in your unit.
“You deserve it a little bit,” you put a hand on your hip in a playful manner. “After you kept me waiting.”
You weren’t still angry with him about the wedding. You just wanted to get on his case for being so casual about all of this when you were close to running a fever.
Like a frisky kitten trying to rile up her littermate.
And Dex took the bait. His lip pressed into a line, a tendon in his neck twitched.
Then, he walked past you into your apartment like he was owed entry.
You felt his hard body brush against yours as he did, and hated how you caught yourself mapping the feeling of him against you to memory.
He stood in the middle of your apartment and you shut the door after recovering.
“Come on in, why don’t you.”
“You were going to let me in anyway.” Amusement laced his tone. He spotted the large box in the corner taking up enough space to count as a second dining table. “Is that the one?”
So he did think he was here to build furniture. You should be wiping sweat off your forehead right now.
“That’s the one!” you answered a bit too fast, causing him to raise an eyebrow. You motioned to your open toolbox on the coffee table. “I’ve got a box cutter in there.”
He gave a quick shake of his head, as if to silently say ‘don’t need it’ and pulled the box tabs open with his bare hands. The tape went taut and pulled apart without much effort.
“Suddenly you’re above using knives?” you chimed quietly, mostly to yourself.
You both began pulling the walnut stained particle board out, organizing them by order of the instruction booklet you found in the bottom of the box.
If only the entire process of building the cabinet had been that smooth.
While the parts list made perfect sense, the instructions were an odd collection of pictures that didn’t look anything remotely like what you were building. All accompanied by one word instructions.
Screw. Hammer. Slide.
It was messing with your head more than the heat.
You took turns flipping the instruction booklet upside down and right side up, trying to make sense of it until finally resorting to improvising.
Which went well enough until you turned a page and saw a picture that did make sense.
“Uh,” you wiped sweat off your brow. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we made a mistake.”
He moved to stand behind you. So close you could feel the heat of him against your back and you were forced to remember how it felt to have him against you.
“What did we do wrong?”
Right. Maybe you should stop imagining him pressing you up against your half-built display cabinet and answer him.
You cleared your throat. “We were supposed to attach the doors while the cabinet was still lying flat...”
“Hmm,” he grunted and you felt it low your stomach. “One of us will have to hold the door while the other screws it in place.”
The doors had to be screwed in from three hinges, at three different heights to support the weight.
And to reach the lowest hinge, the person with the screwdriver would have to be on their knees.
This is what you get for letting your imagination run wild while he was breathing the same air as you. The universe was punishing you–or, maybe your filthy mind subconsciously brought this reality closer to you as a gift.
You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Right. Okay, I’ll hold the door.”
He frowned. “It’ll be heavy. But okay.”
It could weigh a ton for all you cared–you weren’t going to get on your knees in front of him right now.
So you ignored the trembling in your arms from the weight and tried to silence your pathetic whine of effort as you lifted the cabinet door and lined it up at the hinges. You had to balance it against your hip to keep from dropping it.
Dex was changing the screw-head at your toolbox, taking his sweet time while you were standing there beside the cabinet shaking like a leaf.
Oh, you realized, this is a game to him.
Of course he didn’t protest to you holding the door that was clearly too heavy for you. He wanted to watch you struggle and beg for his help.
Well, you weren’t going to. You wouldn’t let him get the upperhand on you with that stupidly handsome concentrated glare of his as he fiddled with your tools.
“There we go,” he held up the screwdriver for you to see, and then approached the door, “keep it steady.”
A bead of sweat rolled down your neck as if on cue.
“I’m sure you can manage, Mr. ‘I work for the CIA’,” you said breathlessly. “What do you do for them anyway?”
Now probably wasn’t the best time for asking questions. It was so hot that the glass door you were holding had begun to fog up from your mingled labored breathing.
But you had to distract yourself from how close to you he was standing.
“Their dirty work, mostly.”
He had alluded to something like that before. Contract work he called it.
Good thing you didn’t use that knife of his to cut salad like you were planning to. It could have been in someone’s skull before, and you didn’t want to be haunted for trying to eat healthy.
Once the first hinge was screwed in, it took some of the weight off your poor arms.
“So you’re a lapdog?” you provoked.
The middle hinge was secured after, and you were about to breathe a sigh of relief. But then you noticed the intense gaze he was directing at you.
Cold. But not like you were on the other end of his knife. He was looking at you like you put him on the other end of yours.
“I’m not their lapdog,” he said. “They call and I answer.”
You swallowed hard. “Okay, so more like a merc. Noted.”
He didn’t like your insinuation that he was owned by someone. Got it.
“Yes, more like a merc,” he confirmed.
He rested the screwdriver on the cupboard so he could grab a few loose screws from the bag left behind in the box.
“Dex, can you hurry?” your arms were starting to tremble again. “It’s getting really heavy.”
He was likely punishing you for your remark, making you wait because you insulted him. But how were you supposed to know? It’s not like he ever gave details on his own. You had to interpret everything yourself unless you asked directly.
“Yeah. If you hand me the screwdriver.” he requested, returning to your side.
You balanced the door against your upper body so you could grab the screwdriver and hold it out for him to take.
He smiled at you gratefully, like your handing him the screwdriver was doing him some sort of favor, and grasped the other end.
Only, he wouldn’t take it from you. Just held onto it. Your fingers just far enough apart to not touch.
And then still holding your gaze, he knelt onto the ground in front of you. The movement was slow, drawn out as he balanced his weight on one knee. He was looking up at you now.
Your mouth went dry.
“Thanks.” Dex finally took the screwdriver out of your hand.
You swallowed hard and squeaked out a “sure” like you didn’t just have the dirtiest image possible conjured into your mind.
You weren’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been scheming to put those pictures in your head, either.
The low hinge was right by your hips, and you could feel his hand brush your skin over your shirt with every turn of the tool in his calloused hands.
Once the last screw was in, you let go of the cabinet door and stepped away from where he was kneeling beside you.
“Your turn to hold the door,” you stammered out. Kneeling in front of him didn’t seem like such a bad punishment after what he just put you through.
“Too heavy? I won’t say I told you so.”
“Good, then don’t,” you huffed, waiting for him to balance the other door without breaking a sweat.
He didn’t even have to balance it against his hip like you did.
Show off.
With a soft breath tumbling past your lips, you focused on screwing the door to the hinge.
It was a little taller than your height, so you had to reach up to get the screw in. Your fingers trembled with effort as you lined up the first screw up at the top.
Your gaze flickered to his face. Dex was watching you.
Another bead of sweat slid down your neck. His eyes followed it, unbothered that you caught him looking.
The screw slipped from your clammy fingers and slid across your wooden floors.
“Need help?” His tone was void of concern.
“No. My hands are just sweaty,” you huffed, and picked up the screw that rolled towards the couch. “It’s hotter than hell in here, if you haven’t noticed.”
You tried to ignore his leering by lining the screw up again and twisting it into the hinge.
The second screw went in smoother than the first.
“You’re not making this easy for me, just so you know,” you murmured, grabbing another screw from the bag.
“How can I make it easier for you?” he asked.
You decided to ignore him. You didn’t trust your voice right now.
Now for the last hinge.
“Want to switch again?” His tone was overly saccharine, like he was a concerned neighbor or something.
“You’re not funny,” you muttered, lowering to your knees. You turned the screw in slowly, careful not to drop it this time.
When you stood from the floor, your head spun. You were already faint from the heat, and getting up too fast was turning your brain to mush.
A soft groan left your lips and you rubbed your temple to ward off an oncoming headache.
“Just sit back,” you heard him say in your daze, “I’ll do the rest of the work.”
You were too spent to argue. You took a few steps backward til the heels of your feet hit the couch and you let yourself sit down.
The cabinet was fully built with the glass doors you two just secured onto it, so he got to work pushing it into the exact spot against the wall you had shown him earlier.
You were grateful he was attentive enough to remember exactly where you wanted it.
The sound of furniture sliding across the floor barely registered in your mind. Then you heard your refrigerator open.
Before you could succumb to your heat-exhausted stupor, something cold was pressed to your cheek.
You blindly reached for it and your eyes fluttered open to see him standing above you. He was pressing a cold water bottle to your face, and you took it from him gratefully.
“Drink up.”
“Thanks,” you obeyed, unscrewing the cap. “Your debt is officially repaid.”
As you tilted the bottle back, letting the cool liquid quench your thirst, he began wandering your apartment.
His glances around were a lot more subtle than yours when you were eyeing his place.
You watched him peer down the hall at the closed doors and could guess what he was thinking with that focused, analytical expression darkening his eyes.
Which was your bedroom? Your bathroom? He was making a mental map of where you lived. Where each room stood relative to the other.
Then, he looked at your kitchen. At the indent in your wall from where you had chucked the knife–his knife–into the wall by accident.
He pointed to it. “What happened here?”
You shrugged. “Just a scuff.”
Like he’d buy that. He probably recognized the exact outline of the knife model he used.
But he left it alone anyway, letting you get away with your terrible attempt at a lie.
“Right.”
You missed the knowing smirk he wore.
It was late by the time the apartment was cool enough for you to feel like moving around again.
You were organizing books and thrifted ornaments into your new cabinet. They had been on the floor of your closet for a month, waiting to be shelved and now you had Dex to thank for their new home.
Heat prickled your skin every time you opened or closed those cabinet doors, remembering what it took to get them attached.
You had made a huge mistake showing him how easily he could get under your skin.
You wouldn’t be participating in a cat and mouse game with him if it wasn’t thrilling for you too, but that didn’t mean you were happy about him somehow making you the mouse again and again.
Deflections and taunts weren’t enough to put him in his place. He was too familiar with that game.
Dex managed to disarm you with simple brushes. He never even directly touched you once–not with his hands, anyway.
Not when he walked into your apartment. Not when he stood behind you to read the instructions. Not when he was holding the other end of the screwdriver. Not when he was handing you a water bottle in a manner that felt a little too similar to aftercare…
Yet still, you were undone by him.
You shut the cabinet doors with a loud thud, and stopped when you were about to pass by the indent you left in your kitchen wall.
He definitely knew you had his knife. That you were using your wall like a dartboard instead of treating it like the weapon it was.
You recalled the way he, too, stopped to admire the notch before he left your place. You lifted your hand to run your fingers over the crease.
The jagged stretch of the ridge in the wall against your skin pulled your thoughts to the rough scar he had running across his cheek.
It was always tempting you to reach out and touch it when he spoke to you. Distracting you, pulling your eyes to it and making you wonder how he got it in the first place.
Your hand pulled back slowly, returning to your side.
Maybe it was time you looked his name up on the internet.
The blue light on your laptop screen strained your eyes as you sat at the kitchen counter.
A bowl of popcorn was strategically placed next to you–which was for your nervous chewing habit, not because you thought you were about to be particularly entertained by anything you found.
This was your friend you were going to be digging up dirt on. Someone you had come to care about deeply. Not just some random name you heard on the news.
Your skin tingled from anticipation as you typed his full name into your internet browser.
Benjamin Poindexter.
The search pulled up a number of links for you to click. All of them referenced a lengthy criminal record attached to him dating back nearly ten years, along with a publicized psychiatric record.
That part tugged at your heart. It seemed too invasive to release something like that online for anyone to read. So you ignored it.
You perused the Bulletin articles that named him as one of the FBI agents complicit in Fisk’s crimes.
You remembered hearing about that corruption case because every New Yorker at the time was talking about it. But with how busy your life was back then, how were you expected to have retained the names of every single agent involved in that case?
It’s not like you ever thought you’d be involved with one of them.
There was more focus on Dex than the other agents in the article, though. His name was connected to the attack at the very journal you were reading from, where he was dressed in a fake Daredevil costume.
He had a trail of bodies behind him. And not just the ones he was ordered to kill–innocents, lives taken out of his own volition.
You had expected it. It still didn’t prevent the sweat gathering in your palms. You distracted yourself with caramel popcorn.
Another article from two years ago. Dex spent six years in jail, then was let out on mysterious circumstances where he assassinated a target and multiple innocent bystanders.
The bowl of popcorn beside you was half-empty now. You’d hate to be his lawyer during the trial for this case.
It wasn’t hard to find the videos online of said trial. You skipped to the end where his life sentence was being read, focused on the way his lips were pulled into a lopsided smile.
You couldn’t understand why he seemed so pleased with himself. Maybe he knew prison wouldn't keep him long.
As they led him out of the courtroom, something caught your eye. Something that pieced together the rest of the story.
You had it all wrong. The knives were never his weapon. It was his hands.
The comment section of the video confirmed it for you, with half of them being about the alias ‘Bullseye’ and theories connecting him to different attacks that happened just before he was arrested again.
Wait.
You thought back to a few weeks before your flight.
Your best friend was hosting her engagement brunch so you had skipped your usual morning at the diner. When you got home, you saw on the news that Bullseye had attacked AVTF soldiers and they were closing it for investigation.
You were a little more concerned about making breakfast at home for the next week rather than the attack. That sounded bad, but you were just desensitized from years of living in proximity to Hell's Kitchen.
But it was different now. You knew the attacker.
Part of you wondered what would have happened if you were there that day. He hadn’t attacked any bystanders according to the articles, so it’s not like you would have been hurt.
Would you have still been able to form a bond with him if you had seen him killing in front of you like that?
You weren’t completely numb or anything–you’d have been terrified. Probably hiding in the very booth you now sat with him at every morning.
But you’d been harassed repeatedly by the AVTF on your way to work just for the crime of crossing paths with one of their patrol routes.
And they didn’t show you any mercy with inappropriate comments, ‘random’ searches, or vaguely offensive remarks you had to bite your tongue at.
So a little part of you would have been grateful to see them get handed back the same respect they showed you tenfold.
You snapped your laptop lid shut with trembling hands.
It should have disgusted you more. He’d taken innocent lives. Tore families apart.
But his actions in the past didn’t require justification or forgiveness from you. He never asked you to absolve him of his sins.
Just acknowledge them. See them for what they were. No amount of exaggeration journalists added to his crimes distracted from the fact that his crimes were heinous, so he knew exactly what you’d find when you eventually researched him.
Maybe that’s why he told you in the first place. He knew you weren’t going to run.
You always gave him grace, gave him solace from the memories of being manipulated, used for murder, and discarded again and again.
Dex would tell you who he was, and you would stay every time.
Your hands brushed the bottom of the bowl when you reached for more popcorn.
Time for a refill.
You rolled out of bed early the next morning. Mostly because you didn’t get much sleep last night–but more importantly, you were determined to get to the diner before Dex.
He was always there before you, claiming your table before anyone else could. You’d watch him remove his headphones as you sat across from him and thank him for the coffee he ordered for you while he waited. Always piping hot, because by now he knew how to predict when you’d come in to drink it.
Today, though, you were making it your job to claim the table.
You were hyperaware of everything in the diner when you sat down. The silverware on the table wrapped in a cloth napkin, the wooden stirrers by the coffee pot.
Above all, the empty spot in the middle where the lobster tank used to be. In the past, it was so insignificant to you that you didn’t even realize it was gone when you came back to the diner after it stopped being a crime scene months ago.
But after reading the attack details last night, it was impossible to ignore how peculiar it was that Dex–or, Bullseye–deliberately chose to involve the lobsters in his grudge against the AVTF.
The bell above the door rang, and your eyes followed him. His expression shifted a moment when he saw you there at your usual table, early for once.
Knowing how analytical Dex could get (especially over you) he probably suspected something was up immediately.
That was alright with you. It’s not like you were trying to hide from him.
When he sat down across from you, before he even got a word in, not even a hello, barely even a breath—you reached into your bag and stuck his knife down onto the table.
You did so casually and without any regard for the permanent score it would leave on the surface of the table. It was about time you carved your signatures into it, anyway.
Dex’s eyes fell to the knife, and then looked up at you. Not asking questions yet, just watching. Gauging your expression. Searching your eyes for malice or contempt.
When he confirmed you weren’t angry with him, he leaned forward, hands folded on the table.
“So?”
“I looked up your name,” you explained calmly. “Your full name.”
He nodded, and then tilted his head. “You think you know everything now?”
He was asking in a roundabout way if you knew he was Bullseye.
“I put some of it together on my own already. But I know you’re…” you trailed off. You glanced around to check for any eavesdropping customers, and then dropped your volume. “Familiar with the lobster tank.”
Dex chuckled at your retort. He picked the knife up from where you had stuck it in the table and twirled it between his fingers.
It wasn’t just a neat trick to show off for you. His eyes were dead set on you. Watching you for signs of fear. Checking if your pupils would dilate, for the slightest flare of your nostrils indicating your breathing quickened.
But you were the very picture of calm. Content, even. Maybe even a little hungry since you waited an hour for him.
“I still have questions though.” you leaned back, crossing your arms.
“You always do.” he quipped.
“Just to piece the rest of the story together,” you clarified. You read the news, but you wanted to hear him tell it. “Three years ago you were sprung out of nowhere and then you….”
You made a gun cocking gesture with your pointer finger and thumb–just in case anyone was listening.
He was looking down at the knife in his hands.
“I made a deal with Vanessa Fisk. She let me out in exchange for,” he copied your gun gesture with his hand. “I didn’t have a choice. I was…out of my mind.”
You had a feeling that had more to it than just being incarcerated.
“Did they have you on some kind of drugs?”
He stayed silent. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he was deep in thought. You were bringing him back to a time he likely didn’t want to remember.
You didn’t want to push his head underwater like that. But there was one more thing you had to know.
“What I don’t understand is,” you tapped your nails against the table idly. “You ended up back in prison anyway.”
Dex looked up at you. His eyes met yours but he was far away.
“Wasn’t a fight I planned on coming back from.”
His words knocked the air from your lungs.
The psychiatric record you found last night came to mind. You had been so wrapped up in getting to know him, you never even thought about the idea of losing him.
And not just to any old threat. Losing him to himself.
“Oh…” your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Um, so. Vanessa Fisk–did you…you know, out of revenge?”
He shrugged. “It was more like a favor.”
“A favor?” You were intrigued. The fact that he met with you everyday clued you in that he didn't really see anyone else outside of work. “A favor to who?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” he quoted to you, putting the knife in his jacket pocket.
It was just a saying he used to satiate your curiosity. But you took it as a riddle. Your eyes narrowed as thoughts turned in your head.
You remember reading that there was another vigilante at the scene during the mayor’s boxing match.
“You mean Daredevil?” the corners of your lips twitched up.
His brow furrowed in annoyance. “Yes. Daredevil. Why do you care?”
“It’s really cool that you know him, that’s all. I mean, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” your voice went all high pitched, and it made his eyes narrow more. “He’s an underground symbol of hope. He’s badass.”
Dex didn’t seem to share your sentiment.
“Will you introduce me?”
“No.”
“What? Why not?” your lips formed a pout.
You were cooking dinner in your apartment alone later that night. It was fortunate that your throwing knife was now safe and sound with its owner, no longer calling you to use it for peeling potatoes.
It was also probably lodged in someone’s throat now. At least, that's what your imagination fed you. You'd never actually seen Dex in action.
Did giving Bullseye back one of his knives make you complicit? Hopefully not.
Soft music played from your speaker over the sizzling of the pan on the stove and low hum of the exhaust fan above it. You were humming along, idly passing the time while you watched your rice cook and fluff up in a sauce pan.
A small smile was etched onto your lips as you recalled your meeting with Dex this morning.
He probably wasn’t expecting you to let him explain himself to you. To let him give you his version of the events. You just wanted to hear his perspective, not judge his actions. You took them for what they were. He seemed to understand that.
The vibration of your phone on the counter startled you.
Dex’s contact name he had typed in himself popped up. You lowered your music–ignoring the thudding of your heart against your ribs now audible in its absence–and answered.
“Hello?” you wondered if he could hear the smile in your voice.
“You should open a window while you’re cooking,” he said. “It’s a lot more efficient than a fan.”
“I don’t know if that’s true–”
Your stomach swooped.
“Can you see me right now…?”
You walked to the balcony window where your curtains had been pulled open. All you could see past the glass was the city lights reflecting in from other skyscrapers and apartments.
With a small tug, you slid your balcony screen open.
“Dex?” you called into the phone.
Before you could take another breath, something zipped past your head and into your apartment. You whipped around, facing the kitchen wall.
A knife–the very same knife he had stolen back–was lodged into your kitchen wall. Next to your painting of the moon. The very same spot that you had accidentally carved into your wall yesterday.
Your phone was still pressed to your ear as you approached the blade in the wall.
There was a message etched into the onyx blade.
You’re cute.
A soft syllable of laughter fell from your lips. You reached up to trace the white etchings in the blade, imagining how long he sat up at his vantage point, looking into your open curtains and carving that message just for you.
“Very funny Dex,” you turned towards the window again, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “You’d come say it to my face, if you were brave.”
You held your breath for a beat. Come over. Please.
“I would. But I like the view.”
You sighed, wistful and disappointed as you walked back to your balcony.
“Seriously, where are you?”
You squinted in the dark of the night, closely watching the nearby rooftops for the slightest of movements, indicating someone was there. That he was there.
Finally, you spotted a dark form on a nearby rooftop.
“Just wanted to return what’s rightfully yours,” his voice rasped into the phone. “Figured it was my turn to deface your souvenir.”
You thought back to the red pen you left on the back of the photograph he still has. You wondered where it was now. If he still kept it in that CD case, or if he had it hung on his wall. Or maybe…he carried it with him.
The idea of that made your heart skip.
You slowly lifted your hand up and waved. Hesitantly, not quite sure if the lump on the roof you were looking at was really him.
But you got a vague wave back from the dark figure.
“Coward,” you said into the phone pointedly, your face hurting from how hard you were smiling now.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
“Sooner than I’ll see you, apparently,” you jabbed before he could hang up. “How long have you been up there?”
“Hmm,” he hummed into the line. “Lost count. I’m multitasking. Watching my perp.”
You squinted. He was technically working. He must have been watching you through a rifle lens.
“Well, watch your perp and let me finish cooking dinner,”
“Enjoy your stirfry.”
“How did you–?” the line went dead.
You laughed and walked back to your food on the stove.
Then, a dizzying thought crossed your mind. He must have been watching your building because his target was in your area.
You looked behind you in your kitchen, where the knife was still stuck into the wall. It was hung up exactly where you planned to rehang all of your expensive art.
You were planning on turning it into a gallery wall anyway.
a/n when you try to get over your crush by researching their social media but it backfires and you like them more now. feedback always welcomed! especially for the beginning. i struggle writing anything smut adjacent. taglist @bakameeee @not-the-teen-witch @snowwythegloww @altgojo @ficcharsimpsblog @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @thecityofspareparts @that1weirdweebgirl @mariayjws5 @doesanyonereadthis @nghtwngs @angel113431 @star-yawnznn @ethereal-athalia
18+ mdni, dubcon elements, dom/sub dynamics, vaginal penetration, creampie, vaginal fingering, cunninglingus, somnophilia, choking, overstimulation, reader has no gendered pronouns, implied stalkerish behavior [reader], fbi!dex just being a rather friendly neighbor, mrs. miller close your catholic ears, smut below the cut
reader who has a huge, super obvious crush on neighbor!dex, always trying to run into him in the hallway, asking for spare batteries for your remotes and extra eggs for breakfast. the first few times it happened, dex was rather clueless about your attraction to him, because few people had ever really looked his way. and not that you weren’t pretty, he just wasn’t into you like that. you were nothing more than his kind neighbor who seemed to forget how to adult since he’s moved in.
it wasn’t until the nice but nosy old lady in 427 offhandedly mentioned to dex how generous you were, how you must’ve had everything one could possibly need stocked up, that he realized you were just using it as an excuse to talk to him. between his important assignment at the fbi and spending time with his support system julie, dex hardly had the time to be entertaining your little crush.
until he was put on administrative leave and nice, sweet julie turned out to be just like everyone else. scared of him and his devotion—his desire to be good just like her.
he had put a hole through his wall and a couple cds by the time he heard you unlock your front door. before he knew it, dex ripped open his own door, startling you.
“jesus, are you okay, dex?” you asked when you saw the distress on his handsome features.
the whole time he’s lived here, you’d not once seen him anything but the picture of put together. you envied it, but you also wondered if there was more underneath the mask of calm. was this what was hiding behind it?
in two quick strides, dex was in front of you, roughly grabbing your face and smashing his mouth against yours, tongue prodding through the seam of your lips. your shocked gasp allowed the warm muscle through. the question on your tongue died then. he pushed you both through your door, foot kicking it shut.
next thing you knew, he was harshly fucking his cock into you, pressing your face deeper into your mattress with his hand on the back of your throat. you can already feel the bruises around your neck forming. you sobbed his name, already having come twice around him. each of his thrusts were so precise, never faltering even as he was finally approaching his climax.
you’ve never heard his voice as raspy as when he began to taunt you, “you can take it, can’t you? i know you like me, or else you wouldn’t be letting me do this to you.”
“please, dex, dex, dex,” you blabbered like a mantra. you couldn’t tell exactly what it was you were begging for.
he held you down harder then, blocking your airway for a moment. “fuck, you’re so wet. you’ve thought about this, haven’t you? you ever imagined me knocking on your door and shoving my cock into you? oh, i can feel you squeezing me. you’d love that, wouldn’t you?
“mrs. miller said you were so helpful. she was right. that’s why you followed me around on my runs, didn’t you? just wanted to keep me company. you weren’t that dumb to think an fbi agent wouldn’t notice, were you? you wanted me to know with that little damsel-in-distress act of yours.”
you felt his weight press down onto your back, his fingers sliding from your sore hip to the center of your thighs. he smiled when he found your clit immediately, rubbing the overstimulated nerves with quick, precise movements. despite the mortification of being caught, you cried out in overwhelming ecstasy. your stretched walls clamped down so hard around his length, it was like they were trying to push him out.
but obviously, you wanted it. otherwise, your arousal wouldn’t be gushing out around his relentless cock like that, dripping onto your ruined sheets. each slap of his hips against your ass made such an embarrassing squelch inside the thin walls of your small room. hopefully poor old mrs. miller couldn’t hear any of this—she was terribly catholic.
dex spoke more in the last forty minutes than he had to you in the past three years he’s been living in this building. he teased you about your crush on him, praised you for being so good for him and his cock. it wasn’t long before your third release washed over you, milking him so hard that he spilled himself into you. you felt his hot cum flood your walls, shamefully (but blissfully) wondering if he’d slide himself out of you just to watch it leak out of your hole.
but despite his intense climax, he kept going, because dex was only a friendly neighbor cashing in on his neighborly generosity to you.
bonus: years later, the assassin bullseye would climb up your fire escape, sneaking into your apartment through your unlocked window. you must’ve been waiting for him to return, never mind the heatwave running through manhattan right now, and your ac just broke last week. you’d wake up to bullseye with his head between your thighs, fingers making those familiar strokes with deadly precision. he had lifted his mask just enough to expose his mouth, coaxing a shattering climax from you just like he did all those times before. (you had, in fact, started to leave your windows unlocked when you heard he escaped prison.)
I LOVED THE ENDING IM CRYING THIS IS PERFECT
they got me but i escaped. i’m back bitches
that scene from mickey 17 with two adrians
Cherry Pie || Adrian Chase x reader ||
Pairing : Adrian Chase x reader W/C : 7762
Summary : The 11th Street Kids move into a loft. Chaos, takeout, 3AM chicken. You fall into Adrian’s lap, one thing leads to another. “Just the tip” turns into way more.
Tags / warnings : SMUT MDNI, oral (f & m receiving) unprotected p in v, sub!Adrian, whiny pathetic adrian (it’s canon)
A/N : I saw a tweet about the 11th Street Kids in a 2019 tumblr style Stark Tower fanfic and my mind went kinda wild. Also I miss them and they deserve to be a big happy (dysfunctional) family (: this could be a series idk yet 💘 share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to hear from you all 🩵 tags, and reblogs with reaction memes always make my day.
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It makes the most financial sense. The words Ads said ring in your head as you heft your fifth box up the stairs into the new loft. Sure, everyone sharing the same space was cost effective in the long run… but the execution? That was going to be interesting.
Economos was already sweating bullets in front of a nest of routers, extension cords, and surge protectors spread across the living room like a warzone.
“Do not touch anything,” he barked, waving a screwdriver like a weapon. “I’ve got the Wi-Fi, cable, and Bluetooth syncing on one master system. I don’t need one of you fucking it up.”
From the other side of the room, Chris shouted back with a beer in hand, “AlI heard was blah blah blah, I’m a virgin who plays Minecraft.”
“Fuck you,” Economos muttered, plugging another cable in. “When your Spotify starts streaming to the toaster, don’t come complaining to me.”
You set your box down on the nearest free space, which happened to be a half-built IKEA bookshelf Emilia was wrestling with.
“Hand me that hex key,” she grunted, hair tied back, eyes focused.
Chris leaned against the wall, watching her like a loyal dog. “Hey babe, you want me to tighten the screws? I’m really good at screwing.”
“Jesus Christ, Chris,” she said flatly without even looking up.
Ads, meanwhile, was hanging string lights along the kitchen island, muttering to herself about “setting a vibe.” Every so often she’d stop to reposition a decorative pillow, clearly the only one here with any interest in making the loft look like humans lived in it.
“Don’t even think about putting up that live-laugh-love crap up,” Emilia called out.
“It’s not a sign, it’s art,” Ads shot back. “And this place is gonna look depressing as hell if I don’t do something.”
Chris was in the middle of pacing the hallway with a tape measure, scribbling numbers in a notebook.
“What the fuck are you doing now?” Emilia asked.
“Claiming my room,” he said. “Biggest square footage gets me. That’s the law.”
“That’s not a law,” Adebayo said.
“Yeah it is, squatters’ rights, baby. You wouldn’t know, you grew up with morals.”
Across the room, Adrian finally wandered in, carrying a duffel bag and, inexplicably, a fucking sword. He stopped in the doorway, blinking at the chaos.
“Is there, like, a sign-up sheet for who uses the bathroom first?” he asked.
“No,” Emilia snapped.
“Yes,” Ads countered at the same time. “I already made one.”
Adrian shrugged and dropped his bag directly in the middle of the floor, like he’d already decided that was his spot. His eyes flicked to you, landing on the box you were holding.
“Uh, need help?” he asked, too casual, like the question had slipped out before he could stop it.
Before you could answer, Chris pointed the tape measure at him like a weapon. “Hey! Loft rule number one no lame ass swords.”
“It’s not a lame ass sword,” Adrian said, offended. “It’s a decorative katana. Totally different. It’s fucking sick, I’m gonna kill someone with it one day.”
“You’ll never top me killing a gorilla with a chainsaw.” Economos gloated
“I knew you were fucking with me!”
Everybody let out a unison groan. Not this again.
“If you people want Bluetooth synced in every damn room so you can blast fucking Cinderella or whatever hair metal garbage you listen to, then shut the fuck up for five minutes.” Economos huffed
Chris’s head popped up like a meerkat. “Wait… you’re saying we can play music in every room? At the same time?”
“Yes,” Economos muttered, “that’s how whole-home audio works.”
Chris grinned like a kid on Christmas. “Economos, you glorious bastard. First song’s mine. Crüe. Loud enough to wake the neighbors.”
Emilia groaned. “We’re gonna get evicted in a week.”
You drag your box down the hall, scouting out the smaller bedrooms that Chris hasn’t already measured like a deranged realtor. Ads told you to “pick whichever feels like your vibe,” which sounded supportive, but really translated to she’s already claimed the one with the best light.
You push open the door to a modest corner room. It’s not huge, but it’s yours. A single window, a bare mattress in the middle of the space, and just enough floor space for the boxes you’ve lugged up five flights of stairs.
You set one down and sigh. Home sweet chaos.
Across the hall, you hear the distinct sound of something heavy thunking against drywall. Then Adrian’s voice
“Fuck. Okay. That was structural. Definitely structural. Maybe if I—” another crash “—nope, it’s fine. Totally fine.”
You poke your head out just in time to see him trying to balance a katana stand on a shelf that clearly wasn’t meant to hold weapons. He notices you watching, freezes mid-motion, and immediately gets defensive.
“What? It’s décor.”
“Pretty sure décor isn’t supposed to pierce the drywall,” you say, leaning on your doorframe. “There goes our deposit.”
His eyes narrow. “Wow. Love how you’ve been here for five seconds and already think you’re, like what? The loft police.”
“Someone’s gotta be. You’re gonna kill us in our sleep with your ‘décor.’”
He huffs, dragging his duffel bag toward the closet like it personally insulted him. “At least I have décor. What are you putting up in there, inspirational quotes? A cat calendar? Maybe a sad little cactus?”
You smirk. “You don’t get to judge until you can hang something without putting a hole in the wall.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then stops, caught. He mutters something about “thumbtacks being for useless” and disappears into his closet, leaving the door cracked.
From down the hall, Chris’s voice bellows “DIBS ON THE BATHROOM NEXT TO THE HOT GIRLS!”
“Fuck off, Chris,” Harcourt yells back, followed by the sound of a hammer hitting wood.
You shake your head, turning back into your room. You set a box down on the mattress and start unpacking. Posters, books, a lamp. The ordinary stuff. And through the thin walls, you hear Adrian humming off-key, too loud, completely unselfconscious.
Somewhere between “Eye of the Tiger” and an enthusiastic guitar solo made entirely with his mouth, he calls out
“Hey! You want me to hook your TV up to the system? Economos said I shouldn’t touch anything but I totally figured it out already.”
You pause, halfway through smoothing a sheet over your mattress. “By figured it out, do you mean you watched someone do it before?”
“Wow. Distrust. Rude. I’ll have you know my Blu-Ray player has, like, three HDMI cables. I’m basically an expert.”
There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of him banging on the wall you share, your wall vibrating with the force.
“It’s gonna be fun roomie!” he shouts.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. This was going to be… interesting.
By the time the sun goes down, the loft looks less like a construction site and more like… well, a half-finished IKEA showroom. Boxes still stacked, tools scattered everywhere, and the faint smell of dust mixed with whatever cologne Chris practically bathes in.
Ads and Emilia disappear to the store after Emilia mutters something about “basic necessities,” leaving the rest of you to fend for yourselves.
Which is how you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded by cartons of Chinese food and a pack of beer Chris proudly announced he’d “found” from Economos’ stash.
“Found means stole,” Economos grumbles, prying open a box of lo mein.
Chris grins. “Found" means brotherhood, Economos. Brotherhood and sharing. Like Jesus and the apostles, except instead of fucking wine it’s Bud Light.”
Adrian snorts into his beer. “Pretty sure Jesus didn’t shotgun a twelve-pack.”
“Yeah, well, pretty sure Jesus also didn’t have killer abs,” Chris says, patting his own stomach.
“You don’t have killer abs,” Emilia’s voice cuts in from the doorway as she and Ads return, arms loaded with grocery bags. She drops a pack of paper towels on the coffee table and shakes her head. “You have dad bod optimism, at best.”
The whole room bursts into laughter, Chris included, though he tries to flex mid-sip just to prove a point.
You crack open your box of sesame chicken and glance around. For the first time all day, everyone looks… happy. Relaxed, even. Adrian is sitting close enough that his knee brushes yours every time he reaches for another dumpling, though he doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. You always do.
Ads sits back against the couch with a beer and raises her bottle. “Alright, ground rules. Before we devolve into anarchy. Number one dishes don’t do themselves. Whoever dirties them, cleans them.”
Chris groans. “What if I can’t handle doing dishes that day?”
“Then starve,” Emilia deadpans, earning another wave of laughter.
“Rule number two,” Ads continues, “no overnight guests without a heads-up.”
Chris perks up. “Define overnight. Like, eight hours? Or are we talking multiple rounds—”
“Jesus Christ,” Emilia cuts him off, tossing a fortune cookie at his head.
Economos clears his throat. “Rule number three: no touching the router. No. One. Not even if it looks like it’s on fire. Especially if it looks like it’s on fire.”
“That’s so specific it makes me want to touch it more,” Adrian mutters, but you catch the smirk playing at his mouth.
You lean back on your hands, watching them bicker, the warm buzz of beer mixing with the comfort of greasy takeout. It feels… weirdly like family. Messy, loud, dysfunctional, but family.
Ads looks around, softer now. “Look, I know this is gonna be a shitshow sometimes. But you guys are my people. And if we can survive butterflies, blackmail, and Peacemaker’s musical taste, we can survive living together.”
Chris raises his beer in salute. “Fuck yeah. The 11th Street Kids, baby. Stronger than the weak ass Wi-Fi John set up.”
“That’s not hard,” Economos says under his breath, but he still clinks his bottle with the rest.
Adrian’s knee nudges yours again, deliberate this time. He glances sideways, and for a split second, under all the bravado, there’s something earnest in his eyes. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
Instead, he just mutters, “Guess this makes us all roomies now.”
And somehow, that feels like the closest thing to a promise you’ll get from him.
After a few more beers, stories and laughs the loft is finally quiet. After hours of noise, shouting, music battles, and passive-aggressive debates about who left their underwear on the hallway banister (Chris), the place has gone still. You showered, slipped into pajamas, and crawled into bed around midnight, content and full and exhausted.
And then, somewhere around 3:04 AM, your stomach is begging for food.
You crack open your door and pad down the hallway, blinking against the dim light filtering in from the kitchen.
You’re halfway through opening the fridge when the front door creaks.
You freeze.
Then a Clunk. Shuffle. Grunt. You grab a kitchen knife.
And then “It’s just me, don’t stab me.”
You whip around. Adrian’s standing there in full vigilante gear, the suit zipped up, mask still on. He smells like an alleyway, sweat, and wet leather.
You raise an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing?”
He lifts the mask off with a dramatic whoosh, revealing sweaty curls and a flushed face. “Patrol. You know. Justice, the thing we do. Protecting the innocent. Kicking bad guy ass.”
“After you’ve been drinking?” you say, closing the fridge with your hip. “At 3AM?”
“Crime doesn’t sleep,” he says, wiping at a streak of blood, probably not his, on his cheek. “So neither do I. Also I forgot how hot this suit gets. I’m like three degrees from being soup in here.”
You slide a Tupperware of leftover chicken onto the counter and grab two forks. “You want some?”
His eyes light up like you offered him sex and a side of fries. “Do I want cold chicken from a stranger’s fridge while smelling like a sewer rat? Abso-fucking-lutely.”
You both lean against the counter, shoulder to shoulder, digging into the food in companionable silence. It should be gross. He’s still breathing heavy from vigilante cardio and you’re in the tiniest tank top and sleep shorts, but somehow it works.
He licks his fingers. “Wanna watch a movie?” He asks with his mouth full.
You glance at the microwave clock. 3:17 AM.
“Isn’t it a little late?” you ask.
He shrugs, mouth still full. “Or early.”
You hesitate. “Fine. But nothing sad. I’m too tired to feel feelings.”
Adrian fist-pumps. “You’re gonna love Tango & Cash. Or RoboCop. Ooh actually The Nice Guys.”
“You’re going to shower first,” you say. “You smell like crime.”
He mock-bows. “Your wish is my command, Roomie.”
He reappears ten minutes later, towel-dried curls wild, sweatpants low on his hips, a gray t-shirt clinging to his still-damp chest. He flops dramatically next to you on the couch like he thought about this moment all fucking day.
You’re curled up on one side, small pajama set leaving very little to the imagination. You notice how often he glances at your thighs, your collarbone, and your knee brushing his leg.
He hands you the remote. “You pick.”
You scroll. Slowly. Painfully. Intentionally.
He leans over slightly to peek at the screen and totally not to smell your shampoo. “You take longer to pick a movie than I do to pick a target.”
“You picked Magic Mike last time. You lost all rights.”
“That was a cultural experience,” he whines. “Besides, I’m more of a step up guy. I appreciate male athleticism.”
You snort, and he watches the way your shoulders shake, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.
The tension is thick. Familiar. Teasing.
Your bare leg brushes against his again, and he doesn’t move away. In fact, he shifts closer. His arm settles behind you on the back of the couch. Not quite touching. Just… there.
You don’t say anything.
He watches you scroll a few more seconds.
“You know, you could just pick me.”
You pause. “…What?”
He clears his throat, like he surprised even himself. “Like. As a movie. I mean. Like if I was a movie. I’d be a good one. Action-packed. Explosive. Maybe a little full frontal.”
You blink. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he blurts. “I mean yes. I’m great. I’m amazing. Just—sorry, I get weird when it’s late and you’re wearing that and sitting this close and…”
You raise an eyebrow.
He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering. “Okay. I’m going to shut up. I’m gonna watch the movie. I’m not gonna say one more word unless it’s helpful or romantic or horny.”
You smile slowly, lazily dragging your gaze down to his mouth and back up to his eyes.
“That’s a very specific filter.”
He grins, eyes blown wide. “Yeah. I like specificity.”
The final choice ends up being Finding Nemo.
You say it’s for “nostalgia.” But really, it was because you remember Adrian once said, completely unprompted, that manta rays are “fucking majestic” and he beams when Mr. Ray sings “Let’s name the zones, the zones, the zones…”
So yeah. It was mostly to see his face during that part.
Ten minutes in, he’s locked in. Legs spread, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s analyzing it for a mission report.
You can’t help the grin tugging at your lips.
“Popcorn?” you ask, already sliding off the couch.
He blinks, distracted. “Huh?”
You point to the kitchen. “Popcorn. The snack food. Salty. Crunchy. Legally required for any movie after 2am.”
Adrian tilts his head like a confused puppy. “…Can you put mini M&M’s in it?”
You shoot him finger guns. “That’s the only correct answer.”
You pop the bag in the microwave and prep a bowl with chocolate and salt. You hear the TV volume spike as he sings along to Mr. Ray’s manta ray jingle in the background.
When the popcorn’s ready, you grab the bowl and head back. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of Pixar animation and the occasional flash from the TV.
You don’t see the shoe on the floor.
It’s probably Chris’s.
Your foot catches.
You stumble forward “Shit!” and crash directly into Adrian’s lap.
The bowl of popcorn goes flying. M&M’s scatter like emotional landmines across the couch. Your hands land on his chest. His hands instinctively grab your waist.
There’s a heartbeat of absolute silence.
“Wow,” he breathes. “That’s one way to get me to shut up.”
You look up at him, face inches from his, your body pressed against him in every inconvenient, hot, undeniable way.
“Sorry,” you say, trying and failing to sit up. “There was a—”
“A Shoe. Yeah,” he says quickly. “I think the universe is telling us something.”
“That I’m a walking hazard?”
“That I should keep M&M’s on every surface just in case this happens again.”
His hands are still on your waist. He hasn’t let go. You’re not sure you want him to.
Your breath hitches. His eyes drop to your mouth.
“You’re gonna kiss me, aren’t you?” you whisper.
He nods, already leaning in. “I’m gonna try really fucking hard not to be weird about it.”
“Promises promises.” You tease.
And then he kisses you.
Warm, messy, a little off-center at first because of course it is, but then he adjusts, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.
When you pull back, you’re both breathless.
Adrian grins, wide and shameless. “So… wanna go back to watching fish or should we, like, test the structural integrity of this couch?”
The kiss lingers between you like a dropped match in a room full of gasoline.
You’re now straddling his lap, legs on either side of his hips, chest rising and falling against his and Adrian is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery and doesn’t trust the system not to take it back.
His hands are warm on your waist, fingers flexing like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. You lean in again, slower this time, your lips brushing his once, twice, before deepening the kiss. His mouth opens under yours, eager and messy, and he groans like he’s been waiting years for this.
“Jesus,” he mutters into your mouth, “you’re, like… dangerously hot for someone who almost concussed me.”
“You’ll live,” you murmur, nipping his bottom lip. “Probably.”
“Not if you keep doing that,” he breathes. “I might explode.”
You grind down against him just enough to shut him up, and his hips buck automatically. The groan that escapes him is so desperate you half expect him to apologize for it, but this is Adrian, and he doesn’t know shame.
“You’re such a little freak,” he mutters, mouth dragging down your jaw. “You know that?” He laughs, breathless against your neck, and then he bites, soft, testing, and you gasp. He freezes, then pulls back just far enough to see your face.
His hands slide under the hem of your tank top, large and warm against your bare waist. His fingers move slow, like he’s savoring every inch, like he’s finally getting to touch something he’s imagined too many damn times to count.
“You’re gonna ruin my life,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head, breath catching as his thumb brushes just beneath your ribs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” he says, dipping his head to kiss just below your ear. “Not even a little.”
His kisses trail down your neck warm, open-mouthed, deliberate. He nips again, sucking lightly just above your collarbone, and your hips twitch forward instinctively grinding down on him.
He groans, hands tightening at your sides. “Fuck, keep doing that or I swear to God, I’ll—”
“What?” you whisper. “You’ll what?”
He grins against your skin. “I’ll beg.”
“I’d like that.”
“I bet you would,” he admits, nuzzling the curve of your throat. “You absolutely would. Want me to? I’ll do it. I’ll tell you how hot you look in those tiny-ass shorts and how I’ve been trying not to stare at your thighs for the last hour.”
Your breath stutters. He feels it. Smirks. Leans back just enough to meet your eyes. You reach down, grab the hem of your own tank top, and pull it over your head.
Adrian’s brain short-circuits so hard he just stares for a beat.
“Okay, cool, I’m dead. You killed me. This is heaven. Wow. Amazing.”
You lean down, lips brushing his again. “Just shut up and touch me.”
He grins, full and wild. “Oh. You’re gonna regret saying that.”
And then he’s everywhere, hands, mouth, voice a little chaotic, a lot reverent, and all yours.
His mouth is on your chest, reverent and greedy, his hands spread wide over your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself to the couch, to you, before he completely comes undone.
You’re flushed, breath stuttering as his tongue traces a line over your hard nipples. He’s muttering something, completely unfiltered and worshipful between kisses.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so hot—how are you even real, I mean look at you—shit—okay, no, don’t look at me.”
You laugh, gasping as he sucks a mark into your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your breast while the other grips your thigh like it owes him money.
And then right when he’s panting against your skin, hips twitching up into yours like a man possessed, you thread your fingers into his curls and tug his head back just enough to look him in the eye.
“Adrian,” you whisper, voice low and wrecked.
He freezes. “Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Take me to my room.”
He blinks once. Twice. Like you just told him he won the lottery and offered to punch his high school bully.
“Like… carry you?” he asks, voice cracking in real time. “Or are we talking a sexy walk? ‘Cause I can do both. I can—I mean—I can run if you want—”
“Pick a method,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down the back of his neck, “but get me there now.”
Something in him snaps.
“Fucking finally,” he growls, hands tightening at your waist as he surges up, lifting you effortlessly with you still wrapped around him.
You yelp, half laugh, half moan as he bumps into the coffee table on the way, too frantic to care. He all but drops you on the bed, immediately climbing over you, grinning like an unhinged idiot with hearts in his eyes.
“I’m gonna ruin your sheets,” he says, mouth already trailing down your stomach. “I’m gonna ruin your life.”
You reach for him, lips already swollen, voice wrecked.
“Good.”
He hovers over you, mouth trailing down your neck, breath hot and erratic. His hips grind down with just enough pressure to make you gasp, his hands everywhere like he can’t decide what part of you he wants to touch first.
You push up on your elbows, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“Off,” you whisper.
He scrambles back onto his knees like a man possessed, yanking the shirt up and over his head with the grace of a horny frat boy mid-striptease. He tosses it somewhere, it lands on the lamp, but neither of you cares.
That’s when you see it.
Purple bruising blooms along his left side. Some shallow cuts, too, not deep, but red and angry. It’s nothing life-threatening, but it’s clear he’s been hit. Multiple times. Probably jumped a fence or two. Definitely didn’t dodge when he could’ve.
You sit up, instantly sobering. “What the hell happened?”
Adrian blinks. “Huh? Oh. That’s from earlier. Patrol. I might’ve, uh… tackled a guy through a fence. And then maybe also the guy’s friend tackled me. But I was fine. Am fine. Very fine. Extra fine, even. They’re dead. If you wanna check, I can flex—”
You reach out gently, your fingers ghosting over the edge of the bruise. He hisses through his teeth and flinches, not from the pain, but from your touch. Like it’s too much.
You cup his face, thumb brushing along his jaw. “Why didn't you say anything ?”
He shrugs, suddenly weirdly shy for someone who was sucking hickeys into your chest two minutes ago. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe. I was gonna, like, ice it later. It’ll be fine.”
You sigh, and then kiss his shoulder. Slowly. Then the top of the bruise. Then lower.
He freezes. “W-What’re you doing?” he asks, voice suddenly pitched up.
You look up at him, soft and serious. “I’m taking care of you.”
And that’s when he breaks. Like, literally mouth parted. Breath held. Eyes wide. His whole body tense like he’s waiting for someone to tell him this is a joke.
“No one’s ever—” he starts, then stops. “I mean, yeah, okay, this is… happening. You’re hot and you’re nice and now you’re in nurse mode, and that’s, like, unfair. You can’t just do that. You can’t—”
You kiss the spot again, softer.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
You trail your fingers lightly along the bruised side of his rib cage, kissing the uninjured skin in between. “Tell me where it hurts.”
He exhales sharply, head tipping back. “Everywhere, babe. Especially my dick.”
You laugh, and the sound makes him shiver.
Then you shift, gently pulling him down so he’s lying beneath you. Your hands trace over his body like it’s sacred, careful, curious, reverent. You kiss every scrape and mark. And with each one, Adrian melts.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says, barely audible. “You’re being… really nice. And I’m still kind of hard from, like, five minutes ago. But also emotional? And I might cry? Or cum? Possibly both?”
You press your forehead to his. “You don’t have to be the tough guy tonight.”
His hands fist the sheets, his voice wrecked “That’s so fucking hot, oh my God.”
You smile. “Let me take care of you, Adrian.”
He nods like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
He’s beneath you, sprawled out against the sheets like some overexcited rescue puppy trying to stay still but failing miserably. His curls are a mess, his mouth parted, chest rising and falling fast, every muscle vibrating with barely restrained need.
You’ve kissed down his chest, over the bruises, the scrapes, and every part of him that deserved softness but probably never got it.
And the way he’s reacting to it? Devastating.
“I, uh,” he starts, blinking up at you with blown pupils and zero self-preservation, “I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or my face. Or my dick. Honestly, everything’s kind of… flailing.”
You straddle his hips, slow and deliberate, pinning him down with nothing but your weight and your gaze.
“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, trailing your fingertips over his collarbone, light enough to make him twitch. “You just have to lay there and be good.”
Adrian makes a noise that is entirely inappropriate for a man who kills people in a mask.
“I can do that,” he breathes. “I’m great at being good. The best, actually.”
You press your palm to the center of his chest, firm enough to keep him still, and his hips buck instinctively. His eyes flutter shut.
“Oh my God,” he groans. “I’m not gonna survive this. I’m gonna die.”
“You’re so dramatic,” you whisper, leaning down, dragging your lips just along his jaw. “You can kill a guy with a fork but you fall apart over a little praise?”
“Yes.” His voice breaks. “Because forks are predictable. You’re not. You’re like… if kindness had tits.”
You laugh and reach down between your bodies, palming him through his sweats. The sound he makes is obscene somewhere between a gasp, a whimper, and an “oh fuck yes” that he doesn’t even try to hold back.
“Okay, okay,” he pants. “I’m not gonna cry, I swear. But, like, if I did, it’d be in a hot way. Like a really masculine, emotionally intelligent way.”
You stroke him again slow, firm, purposeful and he arches, gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering him to the planet.
“Adrian,” you say, voice low, steady. “Eyes on me.”
He obeys immediately. Like it’s instinct. Like he’s never heard anything hotter in his entire life.
You hover just over him, lips brushing his, your hand still moving at a maddening pace between his legs.
“You’re so easy to ruin,” you whisper. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”
“Months,” he whines. “Since before the loft. Since, like, the first time you wore those shorts. The pink ones. With the—Jesus—fuck, do that again”
You squeeze just a little harder. His eyes roll back. His hips stutter.
“You want to be good for me, Adrian?”
He nods so fast it looks painful. “Yes. Please. I wanna be so good. I’ll be the best. I’ll do anything.”
You smile and pull his sweats down just enough, and the way he moans when you finally wrap your hand around him without the fabric between you
“Then lie still,” you say sweetly, “and let me make you come just like this.”
Adrian whines — actually whines — but obeys, fists knotting in the sheets like that’s the only way he can keep himself from grabbing you. His eyes are glassy, locked on yours, desperate.
You kiss lower. Over bruised skin, over the sharp lines of his stomach, until you’re hovering over his throbbing cock. The heat coming off him is near unbearable.
You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a prayer. Then you take him into your mouth, slow, deliberate, letting the weight of him rest heavy on your tongue.
“Holy f—fuck, babe, oh my God,” Adrian gasps, eyes snapping shut, his hips jerking up helplessly before he forces them back down. “Okay, okay, I’ll be still. I’m still. I’m so still. I’m like a sexy statue—fuck—don’t stop—”
You press your tongue against the slit, swirling slowly, and he bucks again, louder this time.
“Jesus Christ,” he pants, head tipping back. “That’s—oh fuck.”
Your hand works in time with your mouth, stroking what you can’t take, squeezing just enough to make his thighs tremble. You hollow your cheeks, sliding deeper, and he nearly chokes.
“Oh my God. You’re so good. You’re so—fuck, you’re perfect. You’re—shit—babe, I can’t—” His voice breaks, wild and desperate. “I’m seriously gonna—don’t stop, don’t ever—ohhh fuck—”
He’s a mess beneath you, babbling praise, swearing like it’s the only language he knows, his whole body trembling as you take him apart piece by piece.
You swirl your tongue over the slit again and he yells, eyes flying open, staring down at you like he’s watching a miracle. His voice cracks when he moans your name, high and raw, followed by a frantic rush of words.
“Please—please—please—oh my God, you’re so hot, you’re so fucking good, I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve you—”
He groans, his hips bucking despite himself, his voice pitching higher, desperate.
“Babe, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum, I can’t—I’m begging, I’m begging, let me, please, please let me—”
You suck him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and that’s it. He chokes out a cry, his whole body jerking off the bed as he spills into your mouth, moaning like he’s being exorcised.
His hands finally leave the sheets, tangling in your hair, not to push but to anchor himself as he falls apart completely. His voice is wrecked, whiny, so very Adrian.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—oh my God—thank you—holy shit—don’t ever stop being the hottest person alive—fuck.”
He collapses back against the mattress, boneless, panting, eyes glazed over as if you’ve completely broken him. And honestly? Its so fucking hot.
You crawl up to him smug and satisfied. One hand runs lazily along his chest, tracing lazy shapes.
“You good?” you whisper, a little teasing.
He huffs out a laugh. “Good? Good? You just turned me into a puddle of sex emotions and left me here like a used napkin.”
You grin into his skin. “A very cute napkin.”
He groans and covers his face with his arm for a second, his other hand still tight around your waist like he doesn’t want you moving. Ever.
Then, after a beat, his fingers trail down. Over your ribs. Your hips. A little lower. His voice drops.
“My turn,” he says.
You look up at him. “What?”
His eyes are locked on yours now hungry, laser-focused, still Adrian but different. Wrecked but resurrected, like he got a second wind and now has a mission.
“You think I’m gonna just lay here after that and not spend the rest of the night making you fall apart? Absolutely not. I’m not built like that.”
You raise a brow. “Are you sure you have the energy?”
He smiles, slow and sharp. “My dick is running on adrenaline and your thighs. I’ll live.”
Before you can even tease him again, he’s flipping you gently onto your back, kissing down your neck like it’s a prayer, hands gliding lower with reverence and zero hesitation.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “It’s insane. You’re like a weapon. A sexy landmine. I wanna explode on you. No wait, explode you. Shit—wait…in you? Fuck that’s not right—”
You laugh, breath hitching as he slides between your legs, already pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs before sliding your shorts off. “You’re a mess.”
He looks up, grinning like a lunatic. “A certified mess. But I eat pussy like it’s a team sport and I’ve been waiting my whole life to make you scream, so buckle up.”
You blink. “Did you just say—” But then his mouth is on you, and the rest of the sentence dies in your throat.
Adrian is viciously good at this. Too good. The kind of good that comes from obsession. From thinking about it too much. From laying in bed for weeks with his hand down his sweats, jerking himself raw to the idea of how you’d taste, what you’d sound like, what kind of noise he could pull from you if you’d ever let him.
And now you are.
His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, and the first broken sound that falls from your mouth makes him moan right back into you. The vibration sends a shock through your body. Your hips jerk, and his fingers dig into your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
He alternates, messy and intentional — slow, lazy licks that curl your toes, followed by sharp, focused strokes that have you crying out, clutching the sheets.
And God, he loves the sound.
“Yeah,” he groans into you, his voice wrecked, unsteady. “Give me that. Say my name again—fuck, that’s it—”
You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Probably nonsense. Maybe begging. Definitely his name, over and over, like it’s the only word you remember.
His hands never stop moving. One slides up to your chest, tweaking your nipple until you gasp. The other curls beneath your thigh, pulling you closer, like he wants you suffocating him, drowning him in everything you have to give.
Then his tongue plunges inside you, sudden and deep, and the sensation rips a cry from your throat. Your back arches clean off the mattress, body shuddering.
You grab a fistful of his curls, pressing him closer, harder, needing him deeper.
And when your eyes flick down, you catch his.
He’s watching you, wild-eyed, smug, filthy satisfaction curling his lips even as his mouth stays locked between your legs. He looks at you like he’s devouring you whole, like watching you tremble under his tongue is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
He moans when you clamp down around him, the sound vibrating through you, and it makes your thighs shake. he doesn’t stop there. Of course he doesn’t.
He pulls back just enough to flatten his tongue against your clit, sucking hard, while two fingers slide inside you without warning, curling in a way that makes you see stars.
“Holy shit—” you gasp, your whole body arching.
Adrian pulls back just enough to grin up at you, his face glistening, eyes wild. “Never had anyone do that, huh?”
You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone answer.
His grin widens, filthy and proud. “Yeah. Thought so. I’ve, uh… practiced. A lot. On myself. Don’t ask.”
And then he does it again, fingers stroking that perfect spot inside you while his mouth works your clit, messy and relentless. The combination makes your vision blur.
Your hips buck wildly, but he just groans and holds you down, pinning you to the bed with strength you forget he has until it’s pressed against you like this.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he babbles between licks, his words muffled against you. “I could do this forever. Wanna make you cum so hard you forget your own name, just mine, only mine.”
Your hands claw at his hair, tugging, needing more, and he laughs into you. Actually laughs. “Oh my God, you’re so hot like this. You’re shaking. You’re gonna lose it, aren’t you? Come on, babe, give it to me”
Then he does something you’ve never experienced, sliding a third finger inside you as his tongue flicks in a ruthless rhythm, sucking at your clit like he’s determined to wring every sound out of you.
Your cry is raw, broken, and he groans like it’s his reward.
“Yeahhh, that’s it. That’s it, fuck yes, you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, holy shit, do it again, cum for me, babe”
Your orgasm hits hard, violent, tearing through you so intensely you half think you black out. Your thighs clamp around his head, your nails dig into his scalp, and all you can do is say his name as wave after wave crashes over you.
And Adrian doesn’t stop. He rides it with you, licking you through it, fingers never faltering, moaning like he’s the one coming.
By the time he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, utterly ruined. He crawls up your body, his face slick with you, grinning like the absolute freak he is.
He kisses you sloppy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and whispers against your lips:
“Told you. Viciously good. And I’m just getting started.”
You blink at him, dazed. “Holy shit.”
Adrian’s grin is still plastered on his face when he says, “I accept tips. And snacks.”
You laugh, breathless, chest still heaving. Then, with a sly smile, you murmur, “What if I just want your tip?”
He freezes. Blinks. Looks like his brain just blue-screened.
“…Like… just the tip?”
You keep your face straight, biting back a laugh. “Maybe.”
“Oh my God,” he whispers, sitting up like he just heard the word of the Lord. “You’re serious. You’re—holy shit, you’re so fucked up. I fucking love it.”
“Or we can go to sleep,” you suggest knowing it’d drive him crazy.
“No, no, no, don’t take it back. This is like…this is the pinnacle. This is the final boss. The horny Mount Everest. Just the tip. I can do this.”
You snort. “You really think you can handle that?”
He nods furiously. “I’ve been training my whole life for this moment.”
He settles between your legs reaching down to rub his swollen tip against your sensitive clit. The contact makes your hips twitch which he enjoys. He rubs himself against you again and again making you clench around nothing.
“Adrian,” you beg, bringing your hands to his face to pull him in for a kiss. You moan against his tongue and feel as he guides his cock down to your entrance. He pushes the tip in and stills. He clutches the sheets beside your head like it’s taking everything he has not to slam forward.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping against yours. “Okay. Okay, this is fine. This is good. This is so much worse than I thought it’d be.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Worse?”
“In a hot way,” he whimpers. “In a—oh God, in a really hot way. Like the rest of my dick is begging to go inside.”
You squeeze around him deliberately, and he shouts.
“Hey! You can’t—don’t—holy shit, you’re trying to murder me! You said just the tip. I’m following instructions. I need more.” He pulls it out only to thrust it back in over and over again.
You kiss his jaw, your voice wicked in his ear. “Beg for it.”
He lets out a strangled laugh, breathless and desperate. “You’re so mean. You’re perfect. Okay—fine, I’m begging. Please. Please let me give you more. Please let me ruin this whole ‘just the tip’.”
You pretend to think, still grinding your hips just enough to drive him insane. “Hmm. Tempting.”
“Not tempting!” he nearly cries, clutching you tighter. “Necessary! This is a medical emergency! I’m gonna—oh my God—please, please, please—”
You finally nod. “Put it in.”
And when you let him sink all the way in, his groan is guttural, like something pulled straight from his soul.
“Ohhh, fuck.” He drags as his hips begin to thrust slowly at first like he’s savoring the experience. You clench around him and he moves faster. The room is thick with heat and noise, the creak of the bed, the slap of skin, Adrian’s desperate groans spilling out against your neck.
You shift, straddling him, hands braced on his chest, riding him hard and slow, and he’s losing it.
“Holy shit—yeah, fuck, don’t stop… gonna—oh my God,” he babbles reaching up to pinch your nipples.
And then the Bluetooth system kicks to life in the room. The speakers rattle the walls as a sleazy guitar riff tears through the silence.
“She’s my cherry pie! Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise!”
You both freeze mid-motion.
Adrian’s eyes go wide, pupils blown, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead. “Oh my God… that’s Warrant.”
Before you can reply, the chorus explodes again — “She’s my cherry pie!” loud enough the floor practically vibrates.
Adrian bursts out laughing, half-delirious, half-aroused. “Are you kidding me?! This is—this is the sex soundtrack of the gods!”
You’re laughing too, breathless, your rhythm faltering as you press a hand to his mouth to shut him up. “Do we stop?”
He pulls your hand away, still grinning like a lunatic. “No, no, no—don’t stop. This is fate. We’re doing this. We’re—oh fuck—yeah, baby, ride me like a sleazy ‘80s music video!”
You slap his chest, giggling, but you don’t stop moving. If anything, the ridiculousness only spurs you on, each thrust syncing with the pounding chorus.
From down the hall, faintly over the music, comes Chris’s unmistakable bellow
“YOU’RE WELCOME, ASSHOLES!”
Adrian moans louder, throwing his head back. “Yes! Oh my God, he knows! He knows and he’s helping!”
You choke on a laugh, burying your face in his neck as he clutches you tighter, rocking up into you with frantic, needy rhythm. The song blares on, shameless and obscene, as you both fall apart in each other’s arms, sweat-slick and grinning like idiots.
The song finally cuts, either because Chris passed out or Emilia stormed into the living room and murdered him with her bare hands.
The silence that follows is heavy, warm, and a little absurd. You’re both still catching your breath, tangled together in a sweaty knot of limbs and sheets.
Adrian rolls onto his side immediately, pulling you with him like you’re his human pillow. His curls stick to his forehead, his chest is still heaving, and he’s smiling so hard it looks painful.
“You’re, uh… you’re incredible,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Like, capital-I Incredible. Like, Avengers-level Incredible. Except better, because they don’t cuddle after. At least I don’t think they do. Unless Thor—”
“Adrian,” you murmur, stroking his damp curls back.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and sleep.”
He hums happily, kissing the side of your neck once, soft and quick, before burrowing closer. Within minutes, he’s out cold, his arm heavy around your waist, his breath warm and steady against your skin.
You fall asleep not long after, smiling in spite of yourself.
When morning comes Adrian is still asleep. You grab your shorts and a hoodie before slipping out of the room. The kitchen smells like burnt bacon and coffee strong enough to take paint off a car. Everyone’s crammed around the island, Ads scrolling on her phone, Emilia trying to fix Chris’s massacre of scrambled eggs, Economos nursing a black coffee with the face of a man already done with life.
You slip into a chair, hoodie pulled low, trying to look normal. Adrian strolls in not long after, hair wild, still humming Cherry Pie under his breath. He plops down next to you, immediately stealing the mug out of your hands.
Ads doesn’t even look up. “Sooooooo. That was fast.”
“Fuck off,” you mutter, heat crawling up your neck.
Chris turns around with the frying pan, grinning like a maniac. “You’re welcome, actually.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
Adrian perks up, interested. “Wait—you were the one who turned on Warrant?”
“Duh,” Chris says, proud. “Walls are thin, dude. We could all hear you going at it. Economos was crying about it. So instead of cockblocking, I made it a vibe.”
Economos slams his mug down. “I wasn’t crying, I was trying to sleep!”
Ads snorts, finally glancing up. “You guys are disgusting.”
Emilia, without looking up from the eggs: “If I ever have to hear Cherry Pie again, I’m burning this place to the fucking ground.”
Adrian throws his arm around your chair, completely unbothered, smug as hell. “Honestly? Best soundtrack of my life. Perfect rhythm. Inspirational, even.”
Economos groans. “Jesus Christ, shut up.”
Chris points his spatula at the two of you, grinning. “Face it, we’re the best roommates in the world. We literally made you a sex playlist without trying.”
Ads makes a face. “Please, never phrase it like that again.”
Adrian leans in, voice loud and shameless. “I think we should test the sound system again tonight. For… science.”
Emilia slams the spatula down, glaring daggers. “You test it again and I swear to God, Adrian, I’ll shove that Bluetooth speaker so far up your ass, you’ll be humming Def Leppard until you die.”
Adrian just grins wider, stealing another sip of your coffee. “Worth it.”
the 11th street kids as traditional (kinda) halloween/ horror monsters!
Am I the asshole for liking Bdrian more than Adrian this season? Give me more of this guy
Me enjoying and getting emotional at the character moments and the heart to hearts while finding the plot meandering and actually pretty bad
