when i say i like you (that means i'm obsessed)
Summary: Needless to say, this isn't how you expected your Tuesday night to go but no one's gonna catch you complaining.
Author's Note: my first Adrianxreader fic
Rating: explicit 🔞
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You start awake, heart halfway in your throat, before you hear it again. The sound of your front door opening - with a long exaggerated creak, like you'd hear at a shitty haunted house and you take a deep breath.
You had walked into your apartment after work the night before, half asleep but you know you locked your door.
This wasn't fucking Waldwick - you made sure to lock your damn door.
You reach out, grabbing your knife from your bedside table, before rolling out of bed, your knees bark against the hardwood floor as you creep towards your bedroom door, that you always left open a crack, so Bernard didn't sit outside of your room all night, singing the song of his people.
Where was that little asshole anyway?
You took a shaky breath, as you shouldered open the door, getting into a crouch, as your eyes scan your livingroom - like you can actually see anything in the dark!
You hear the fucker walk into the new table you'd set up behind your couch, and you flinch as your planter crashes to the ground - your heart beating too loudly to hear a familiar voice mutter a curse as you catch their silhouette in the light coming from your cracked front door.
You spring forward, letting out a scream - that pitches into pterodactyl if you're being honest - slashing down with your knife as you slam into whoever had broken into your house.
"Jesus, fuck!" The intruder yells, as something warm and wet spurts over your fingers and the smell of something cloying filled the air - metallic blood and something … spicy.
"What the fuck!" You kick your leg, catching the switch of your floor lamp, and golden light fills your livingroom.
"Adrian?" You gasp, clapping your hands over your mouth, and he stares up at you, green eyes wide.
"You stabbed me," he murmurs, and an apology is halfway out of your mouth when you remember why you stabbed the stupid son-of-a-bitch.
"Goddammit!" You lashed out, smacking him in the chest and the knife that had previously been sticking out of his shoulder clatters to the ground.
"Is that a fucking pottery knife?"
Your face flushes, and you bend down, "actually it's a wood carving knife." You reach out, fingering the tear in his shirt, he hisses as you prod the wound, "it's sharp -"
"No shit," Adrian panted, and you shift back so you can glare down at him.
"Maybe you wouldn't get stabbed if you didn't break into people's apartments."
"Wow, okay, way to blame the victim!"
"You're not the victim!" and it's only when his hands fall to rest on your hips that you realize the intimate position you're in, and you immediately sit up. "Shit," you mutter, climbing off of his lap.
"There's worse ways to get stabbed," he notes and you roll your eyes.
"It's my mini knife, so it didn't go too deep." You watch as his pupils dialate and you're reminded that Adrian Chase is a weirdo, and the helpless little sound he makes definitely doesn't make something deep inside of you clench.
"Why didn't you just call me?" You demand, noticing the white plastic take out bag he's still gripping in his hand.
"I did, but you didn't pick up, so I thought maybe you were mad at me."
You huff a breath, "I was asleep you idiot -"
"I brought fried chicken?" Adrian offered, wincing as he moved to sit up. "'Cause I know if you're pissed off you either need food or a nap."
You snort, noticing the time glaring green on your oven clock - it's half past three and you roll your eyes.
"I'll just go, you can keep the chicken -" Adrian held up his hand, like he was worried you were going to hit him again.
"You don't need to leave," you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet, "let me grab the first aid kit." You watched as blood continued to seep through his shirt, and you don't have a suture kit on hand but you hope that applying pressure would be enough.
"Hey," Adrian clears his throat, "I - uh - I think your cat got out."
"Goddammit," you pinch the bridge of your nose, "the kits in the bathroom under the sink," you call over your shoulder, before slipping out of your front door into the hall.
"Bernard!"
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Shit.
Adrian's wound was worse than it looked, and you have him sit on the couch applying pressure as you grab plates for the fried chicken.
"How did you even get in?" You wonder, licking the sweet gochujang sauce from your thumb, as you put the last drumstick onto Adrian's plate.
"You dropped a bobby pin in my car," he explains, leaning forward to peer at her bookshelf. "Shit, are those original Fear Street books?"
"Obviously," you nod, you read them voraciously as a kid and started picking up used copies in university whenever you find them. You'd always loved to read but R. L Stine got you into horror fiction and you never looked back.
"Did you know that R L Stine used to write two books a month, the guy's basically a skeleton now, but -"
"No I didn't, and he's eighty two," you cut him off, grabbing two cans of Milkis from your fridge. "I used to want to be a horror novelist."
"Well, what happened?" You shrug, handing him a plate and a bottle of pop.
"I dunno, I grew up?" You also realized that you were great at developing characters, but not much else, and then your dad got sick and you needed to start making money.
"No, that makes sense. I don't know any kid who grows up wanting to be a waitress in a shitty Italian restaurant."
You snort, cracking open your can of Milkis, "well, I don't know many kids who grow up wanting to be super villains."
"I'm not a super villain!" Adrian sputters and you roll you eyes.
"Yes you are."
"I am not. It's not like I go around, just murdering people at random." You quirk your head, "anymore," he finishes under his breath, and he shifts - putting his immaculate inguinal ligaments on full display and you actually fucking giggle before you can help yourself.
"See, that's hurtful."
"I - no," you feel your face flush, "you're my favourite anti hero." He watches you for a moment.
His eyes narrowed, "if you're trying to butter me up, it's working."
You breath a laugh, reaching out to push your fingers into his hair.
His reaction is immediate, he leans into you, eyes drifting closed as you gently push your hands deeper and he's practically purring when you rake you fingernails gently against his scalp.
He's slumped against your ratty couch, and his hand slips, and you see the neat little slice your mini knife left.
"Sorry," the word comes out in a breath, and Adrian glances down.
"It's okay - I've uh, been told that I need to work on boundaries." You can tell the word feels unfamiliar in his mouth, and you shrug.
"Just … announce yourself - and don't let Bernard out."
Bernard gives an indignant chirp from his perch on his cat tree.
"Bernard is my buddy - my best dude. He deserves to feel the wind in his hair." Adrian's brows draw together as you gently peel his fingers away from his wound. "Fur - whatever." He shifts, and the concern must be obvious on your face because he grabs your arm with his free hand. "It's okay."
It would be so easy to push yourself up into his space, but you retreat instead and Adrian quirks his head, watching as you take a sip of your drink.
"Are you okay? You're," he gestures to his face, "flushed. Look, I didn't mean it."
"What?"
"What I said before … I was just fucking around."
Wait. Was he talking about what he'd said at work? "I told you I wasn't upset, Adrian. It's good, knowing where we stand."
He watches you for a minute, as you spray a q-tip with bactine. "I just didn't think you'd want Dave thinking we had a thing -"
"I don't care if Dave thinks we 'have a thing', Adrian. This is is going to sting." You warn before you dab at his wound and Adrian hisses like you dumped the bactine right over the wound.
"Blow on it!"
"The mouth is the dirtiest part of the human body!"
"Fine, then hold my hand." You hold out your free hand and Adrian grabs it.
"Do you know any more bird facts?" He pants, and you're pretty sure he's sweating.
"Not really," you fib, you've been watching a lot of nature shows before bed, and some of the facts were weirdly sexy. "Western Meadowlarks typically have two mates at one time."
Adrian's face lit up, "Red-Winged Blackbirds can have up to fifteen mates -"
"Jesus Christ," you laugh, "being with one guy is overwhelming enough."
Adrian's fingers flex against your hand, "Right?"
"I - okay," you sit back, dropping the q-tip onto your coffee table and Bernard reached up to bop it, and you lean in, "I'm gonna need both hands to bandage you up."
"Gimme a minute," Adrian took a deep breath, and you wait, until he loosens his grip and you pull your hand from his.
"I'm sorry, I know it hurt." He's watching you, like he expected you to call him a pussy or something.
"It did fucking hurt," he finally replies as your tear open a bandage.
"Don't let this get wet for a while," you explain, gripping the bandaid carefully, so you can get it on without it sticking to itself. "There," you gently tap the corner of the bandage, "take a couple with you," you bend down, looking up when Adrian doesn't protest, and you realize belatedly that by the way you're bent over, he can definitely see down your sleep shirt.
"Aren't you, uh, going to kiss it better?" You drop the box of bandaids as Adrian shifts. "That's what my mom used to do -" he says by way of explanation, and you're not ready to unpack that. "God, no. Not in a fucking weird way -" he insists, and you push yourself up so you're level with his chest, and you lean forward to press a chaste kiss against his bandaged shoulder just to get him to shut the fuck up, and the breathy little moan that escapes his mouth definitely doesn't make your stomach flip - because you and Adrian definitely do not have a thing, despite what half the wait staff at Fennel Fields thinks - and how desperately you wish you did.
"So did you really break into my apartment just to bring me fried chicken?" You watch, fascinated as colour flushes up his neck, and you rest your arms on his legs just because you can.
As a treat.
The muscles of his abdomen jerk as he sits up, and you watch as he mutters something under his breath and you catch what you think is, be fucking cool. "You uh, were wearing your shirt with the guy with the skinny moustache -"
"The Last Man on Earth?"
"No, that's not his name. He was in that horror movie with the skeletons."
You bite back a laugh, "House on Haunted Hill?" You guess and he nods.
"Anyway the Bijou is showing a bunch of his shit," he pauses, "you know for his birthday or whatever? I think it's for his birthday, that's what Ads said," he mutters pulling a bunch of tickets out of his pocket. "I'm not sure which is your favourite, so I bought one for every show."
You blink up at him, "are you asking me out?"
"No," Adrian laughed, "no way. That would be fucking stupid."
Hurt twists in your chest, and you sit back, so you can start shoving stuff back into your first aid kit, to his credit, Adrian seems to know he fucked up almost immediately.
"Unless you want to go together," he offers, clearing his throat, and you give him a look. "That would be fucking cool. Cool as shit -"
So much for being 'fucking cool', you think, biting your lip.
"I do," you nod, "when is it?" He hands you ten tickets.
"On Friday, I could probably grow a moustache by then -"
You sit up, interrupting whatever else he was going to say when you press a quick kiss to his mouth.
"Don't you dare," you murmur, sitting back to grab your plate of chicken, as Adrian mutters something about an 'actual date', grunting as you elbow him. "Yes, it's a date, god, Adrian -"
"Can I pick you up?" He wonders, snatching the plate from your hand to lob it back onto your coffee table.
"Yes -" you reply as he shoves you down against the couch, "be careful -!" You yelp as he licks into your mouth, all sweet and spicy before you plant a hand against his chest. "People usually fuck after a date -"
"Is that what we're doing?" He wonders, fumbling with the ties of your sweats, and you close your eyes as he pushes his hand into your pants. "You're so fucking wet," he grunts, rutting against the couch.
"It'd be rude to waste it," you pant as he pushes two fingers into your slick heat, "oh fuck!"
"You're such a little weirdo," he grunts, which is high praise coming from him, and you rock forward matching his pace until you're cumming with a shuttering cry. "God, you're so fucking hot -
"Shut up," you flush, scooting back so his fingers slip out of you, and it takes a second for you to shift so you're straddling his lap, and his fingers flex as he rocks up, grinding his hips against yours once before you finally get his pants open to free his cock, and the breathy little "ngh" that escapes his lips as you swipe your thumb along his leaking slit shoots right to your clit, and you both moan as you sink down onto him.
He's panting that mantra again about being fucking cool, and you swallow his words as you plant your hands against his chest and start moving.
Needless to say, this isn't how you expected your Tuesday night to go but no one's gonna catch you complaining.
It's only later, when you are laying in a tangled sweaty heap, that you remember your chicken, and you sit up, hearing Bernard lapping at something under your coffee table.
"Goddammit, Bernard!"
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