# Adrian’s Girl

It was how you found yourself watching him like he was some mathematical equation to be solved as his gloved hands wrapped around the throat of a target. Your eyes traced the uneven slant of Vigilante’s shoulders as he pressed down. Enough study and you could probably find the slope. 

There was something calm and self-assured about the firm grip of his hands at work. A tactical grace. You wondered what it might be like to feel those hands wrap around your own neck. You supposed that was probably a strange thought to be having while those hands were busy pressing the life out of someone. You never had really known what normal was anyway, and being around Vigilante had you having a lot of new thoughts. 

When the man was dead, Vigilante stood slowly and dusted his gloves off. He turned around and jumped, letting out a yelp at the sight of you half hidden in the shadows. You pushed away from where you had been leaning against the wall and crossed your arms over your chest. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Observing.”

“Okay, weirdo,” he said, but you could see the way the skin around his eyes crinkled, even through his visor. “By the way, I totally, definitely knew you were there the whole time.”

Over time you found that being called up to work with the Checkmate team started to feel something like relief. The team as a whole was competent, if a little too emotional for your taste. But they paid well, treated you with respect, and…you got to see Vigilante in action. 

You tried to piece a picture of him together based on the small things you’d noticed. The way he’d tap a pencil between his index finger and thumb during briefings, the way he always pulled his gloves off with his teeth (through the mask, lest you get any ideas about seeing his face), how he’d sometimes forget to take off his Pokémon watch and you’d get to see him unclasp it with nimble fingers and force Economos to hold onto it for him during missions.

Once, on a particularly lucky evening, you got to see both his hands completely bare as he rushed to sloppily stitch the wound across your thigh. He’d ripped the fabric of your pants open for better access and you’d felt, for just a fleeting moment, that your whole world had tilted on its axis. The carefully built understanding of the world was torn open as if by Vigilante’s hands themselves. You were fairly certain he’d mumbled something about not being able to grip the needle right with his gloves on – you couldn’t be entirely sure, you were busy watching your blood coat his strong fingers and committing the sight to memory. For strictly professional reasons, of course. 

“You’re such a copycat,” he muttered. 

“A what?”

“Last mission I got slashed in the thigh and now here you are, totally copying me,” he said with a huff. You couldn’t be certain if he was joking or not. His physicality was never hard to parse but his tone was another matter entirely. “Like a…”

“Copycat,” you finished for him.

“Exactly!” He was quiet for a long time. You found yourself wishing he would say anything to distract you from the way the calloused pad of his thumb brushed against your bare knee. 

“You know, normally I hate the feeling of human skin,” he said quietly, his eyes still profoundly focused on his stitches. You watched him carefully, wondering if he’d say you were different. That he liked touching you the way you were discovering you liked it when he did. It was a foreign feeling for you – one you found made your body feeling surprisingly warm. The first time you’d felt that warmth while looking at him you’d thought you were coming down with a fever. You were starting to suspect it was something worse.

He sat back on his heels and dropped the needle into a small metal dish. His eyes flicked up to meet yours finally and you wondered what color they were beyond the blood red veneer of his visor. For the first time your brain was desperate for detail – to fill in the sketch of him beyond the skills and the suit.

“But, when it’s covered in dried blood it barely feels like human skin at all!”

The night you finally saw his face was on track to be one of the best of your life. Every mission you two had fallen more and more into sync. It was like there was a tangible thrum in the air between you – a taut, invisible rope connecting you. 

Vigilante swung the target around by the arm and both your blades sunk into his flesh simultaneously. Your knife plunged with careful and studied precision through the narrow planes of his ribs and into his heart as Vigilante’s blade cleaved cleanly through his spine at the back. Your gaze lifted to Vigilante’s over the target’s shoulder. The heat of his gaze was palpable, even through the mask.

“Dude, that was sick!” Vigilante cheered. Blades pulled from the target’s body which crumpled in a heap at your feet. Vigilante raised his hand, palm towards you and you stared, confounded. You arched an eyebrow and he sighed, grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand up to meet his.

“Have you never high-fived someone before?” he asked, sounding genuinely wounded at the idea. 

You shrugged, brain caught like a thread on wondering if he could feel the hammering of your pulse through his firm grip. “Guess not.”

“Well, it’s an honor to take your virginity,” he said as he slapped your hands together. Then he cocked his head slightly. “I mean, uh, your high-five virginity. Obviously.”

“Right,” you agreed slowly. Suddenly, he gasped. “What?”

“What is that?” he asked, bouncing on his toes. You realized suddenly your hands were still pressed together and you yanked your hand back, waiting for the inevitable knife of derision. 

“What’s what?” you snapped.

“You were smiling,” he giggled. Giggled. You felt uncertainty rock through your whole being. Instability. Smiling? Your face did feel strange. Tired. Strained. You had thought it was from the punch you’d taken to the jaw earlier. 

“You never smile, so, honestly this feels like a badge of honor,” he said, clapping a hand over his chest plate. “First your high-five virginity and now your smile virginity? What’s next!”

You sighed, trying to shake loose the unusual heat in your cheeks. You tightened the muscles in your cheeks and Vigilante reached out one gloved hand and traced the entire curve of your smile like he was carving it into your flesh. 

“There it is.”

You could hear the smile in his own voice and suddenly found that your gravitational pull was skewed entirely towards him. Your chest brushed against his while his hand hung in the air near your face. For once you had no plan. You were entirely unused to the distinct feeling of being off-kilter. There were no studied schematics for feeling. 

For a moment, you thought you might press your lips to the mask.

Instead, a sudden explosion tossed you both back across the room. The pain of broken ribs was immediately recognizable as you slid down the concrete wall, but there was something much sharper than any other time before mixed in. Vigilante was on top of you before you could even attempt to get your feet under you. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asked, hands dancing across the front of your suit. They came away glistening. “Shit. Shit. Um, okay, hold on.”

The sound of footsteps had both your heads snapping in the direction of the stairs. You grabbed hold of his forearm, squeezed tightly, and narrowed your eyes at him. “Go. Finish it. I’ll be okay.”

Vigilante reluctantly left you bleeding out after you reassured him multiple times, your arm strategically draped over the shrapnel piercing deep into your side. When he was finally out of sight, you peeled back your obliterated suit to survey the damage. Blood was leaking out around the jagged piece of metal at an alarming rate, but you did what you could to pack the area around the wound, ripping tangled shreds of kevlar and fabric to use in a pinch, holding the whole area together with one firmly pressed hand.

You managed to press your back against the wall and use the resistance to push yourself to your feet, swallowing the urge to scream out against the pain. You fumbled for one of the pockets on your pants, knowing you had hemostatic powder in there somewhere. The wound was probably beyond that but anything would help. You ripped the little packet with your teeth but your trembling fingers dropped it and the powder spilled across the concrete floor.

“Fuck,” you cursed, the word slurred, like fingers swiped through wet paint. You weren’t sure how long Vigilante had been gone but beyond the ringing in your ears you heard no signs of him or anyone else. You had to move. 

Shoulder scraping along the concrete until you reached the doorway, you managed to get to the staircase. You stumbled into the railing, bracing yourself, but not fast enough to stop the shrapnel from getting forced deeper into your abdomen. 

Pain is a distraction, you could hear Waller’s voice clearer in your head than your own. 

You punched your hand into your thigh repeatedly, desperate for the sensation of controlled pain. You just needed to stay on your feet long enough to find Vigilante. The fact that he hadn’t returned had unraveled something in you. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought it was fear. 

It wasn’t until you finished dragging yourself down the staircase that you heard a wheezing breath and the sound of your name weakly being called. You followed the sound into a room off the staircase and found Vigilante in a pool of blood. Other bodies littered the room because Vigilante had completed the mission – of course he had. 

Except Vigilante’s mask was nowhere to be found and you were staring at a man you didn’t know. Still, you found yourself kneeling at his side, blood soaking through the knees of your pants. You made note of matted curls and green eyes but also the blood that was running from his nose and pooling in the hollow of his neck. Oh, and the blade that had skewered him straight through the middle.

“Oh shit, that looks like it hurts,” he gasped, sitting up slightly, fingers clawing idly at the air near your own wound. You braced him against your knees, trying to keep him from sitting up any further, wincing at the effort. He looked from your wound to his and back again.

“Wait, oh my god, twinsies,” he wheezed, trying to sit up again.

You smiled at him and you could taste the blood on your teeth. “Copycat.”

“You know, you’re pretty through the visor but the real thing is even better,” Vigilante managed through gritted teeth. Then he slumped over, completely unconscious. Your vision blurred at the edges and you reached up to find your face wet before everything went dark.

When you first awoke under the bright, fluorescent lights you reminded yourself not to fight against your restraints. Waller didn’t like it when you returned to her with bruised wrists. But then you looked down at the hospital bed and found you weren’t restrained at all. That was…new. And this, of course, wasn’t A.R.G.U.S..

“You’re awake!”

Tired eyes tracked from his firm grip on your hand up his strong arm, taking in the sight of a strong bicep emerging from beneath the sleeve of a hospital gown. A peek of light blue boxer shorts beneath the hem of the gown dragged your gaze to a pair of strong thighs. He leaned forward, yanking the chair he was in somehow even closer to the edge of your bed and he propped his chin on his arm, folded alongside the edge of your bed. You combed over the sharp line of his jaw, up to his tousled curly hair and settled finally on a verdant pair of eyes. He nudged a pair of wire frames up the bridge of nose by ducking his face into the crook of his elbow.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, brows drawn together. You lifted a hand to smooth it away but gave up halfway through. His grip on your hand flexed and pulled your attention back to where the two of you were firmly joined.

“You don’t like the touch of human skin,” you said, as if he needed the reminder. Your voice cracked, throat traitorously dry for more than one reason. 

“Oh!” he said, seeming surprised. He, too, turned his gaze to your intertwined hands. “Firm touch is good.”

“Firm touch is good,” you repeated. 

“Okay, copycat!” he cackled. You couldn’t help but look at him again. He was attractive, even you could identify that. You had thought so, back in the warehouse, but the brain was known to imagine a lot of things when low on blood. There was something inexplicably soft about him that you could never have anticipated. Something that you liked. You were glad he wasn’t all hard edges and furrowed brows and dark, soulless eyes. You’d known plenty of killers like that. Killers with hard mouths and grasping hands. Vigilante was different.

“I don’t know your name,” you said suddenly. You scooted up slightly in the bed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s Adrian!” he exclaimed, like it was a secret physically fighting its way out of him. 

“Adrian,” you repeated, weighing the name in your mouth. 

“But you can totally call me Vigilante still if you want. Unless we’re in public together, then you should probably call me Adrian. Because of the whole secret identity thing,” he rambled. 

“When would we be in public together?” you asked, genuinely curious. You were defenseless against the sudden idea of the two of you together in public, holding hands. What kind of civilian clothes did this Adrian wear? It would be helpful intel to complete the image. Purely tactical input.

“Oh. Good point.” You couldn’t help but notice he seemed disappointed. 

You gave his hand a squeeze. “I like Adrian.”

“You do?” he asked, perking up, leaning closer towards you. His chin was now propped on your arm instead of his own.

“Yeah.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he reached for the water on the tray beside your table and extended it towards you. “You should really hydrate, by the way.”

You nodded and sipped at the water slowly as he picked at the blanket with his free hand.

“I’m really glad you didn’t die, you know,” he said after a long moment.

“It would have been inconvenient, I’m sure. Having to train someone to replace me. It can take a long time to find someone you’re compatible with,” you replied. He cocked his head slightly.

“Well, yeah, I guess. But I meant more like I’m glad you didn’t die. Not just because we’re compatible in the field, you know?” You weren’t sure you did know. He squirmed slightly in his seat. “Because I think we may be compatible out of the field, too.”

Uncertainty coursed through you, as you tried to reason what he might be saying. The strange, taut feeling in your stomach was back.

“You healed fast,” you said, eyes assessing him for injury as was habit. Something that felt safe and normal and practiced. In fact, he looked completely unscathed. Kind of unfair, actually. 

He shrugged, a silly grin on his face that you might have chalked up to a kind of sheepishness. “Harcourt thinks I might be metahuman.”

“Increased healing ability is often an indication of metahuman characteristics,” you agreed. Adrian dragged his lower lip against his thumb. 

“God, it’s so hot when you talk like that,” he gushed. 

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Like you. Kind of science-y and distant. I like it,” Adrian said quietly.

“You do?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding emphatically. You felt yourself leaning towards him, but the movement pulled at your stitches. You must have winced because concern flickered over Adrian’s face and he launched himself from his chair onto the side of your bed, making space for himself against your hip. His hand pressed gently to your abdomen. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” Adebayo cheered with a smile from the doorway. You moved to pull your hand away from Adrian but his grip did not relent. That made you inexplicably warm again, heat high in your face. 

Economos cleared his throat. “There was a significant spike in your heart rate on the monitors. We just wanted to make sure everything was okay and that Adrian wasn’t like smothering you with a pillow or something.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Adrian asked, sounding genuinely wounded.

Economos shrugged. “Only like a month ago you were saying you were worried we’d want to replace you and that you were willing to do a duel to the death.”

“You’re flushed,” Adebayo said, crossing to the bedside to touch her hand to your cheek. “Temp reading is normal, though.”

You didn’t have an explanation. Adebayo and Economos exchanged a look. 

“Adrian’s not bothering you, is he?” Adebayo asked gently.

“Hey!” Adrian protested.

You released a pent up breath. “No. It’s…nice.”

“Well, now that you’re awake why don’t you go get some rest, Adrian?” Adebayo suggested. Adrian rolled his eyes.

“No thanks,” he huffed. “Last time we were apart we both ended up here!” Then he looked up at you with big eyes, sitting upright. “Unless? You want me to go?”

“I don’t,” you said quietly. “Unless you are planning to duel me to the death the second they leave this room.”

Adrian’s eyes widened somehow further and you resisted the urge to stick your finger into the crook of his dimple. “Was that a joke?”

You felt the corner of your lips twitch. “I think so.”

“Ohmygod,” he gushed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of your clasped hands. It didn’t really much matter to you that he accidentally kissed the back of his own hand instead. “Another one for the virginity checklist!”

“The what now?” Adebayo asked, then she shook her head violently. “You know what, I don’t actually want to know.”

It was that easy. You and Adrian just simply wouldn’t be apart anymore. Once you were a little more healed (you’d probably gotten off bed rest a little too soon, but it was at your own insistence) Checkmate agreed to take you on full time, and Adrian took it upon himself to make sure he was the one who showed you around. And brought you coffee. And got you up to speed on missed meetings. And made sure you were always assigned to missions together. And sometimes held your hand firmly under the conference room table.

Adrian also made it his mission to find and introduce you to simple things, too. Simple joys of existence that you had never had the chance to know, all those years kept up in labs and secure facilities, broken out of the box only when Waller wanted to play.

“Dude, you’ve never played Wii Sports?” he gasped, practically launching himself off of the couch. You found it endearing that he still called you dude even after you two had begun fucking (Adrian kept calling it “making love” – you weren’t sure about all that, but whatever it was? You liked it). You found a lot of things about him endearing, an emotion you had heretofore been unfamiliar with. 

Adrian was repeating holdonholdonholdon as he raced about the living room, setting up some sort of gaming console beneath the TV.

“What is this?” you asked when he curled your fingers around a slender piece of plastic with buttons down the front. His fingers lingered and that warm feeling came back again with a vengeance.

“A Wiimote.” You only blinked back at him. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned back to the TV and then back to you again, and you watched with a tightness in your throat as he curled his hands into fists and then braced them against his hips. “I lied, it does matter. It’s a Wii remote. A remote for the Wii. But they combined it into one word and hence – ”

“Wiimote,” you replied, nodding in understanding. You were too afraid to ask for clarification on what a Wii was exactly, but Adrian hauled you to your feet and pecked a kiss to your cheek.

“Can I say something?” he asked. You nodded. Rarely did he ask for permission to speak. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you asked, genuinely puzzled.

“For not thinking I’m weird. For letting me do silly stuff like teach you about Wii Sports, but, like, also totally serious stuff like letting me have sex with you.” You watched as his hand gripped the controller tighter, the tendons of his hand straining beneath the skin. Your mouth filled with saliva suddenly. Another new sensation to make sense of later.

Your eyes flickered back to Adrian’s green ones and you realized he wasn’t done quite yet. “You’re like the coolest person I know.”

“Temperature-wise?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. Adrian bent over and laughed, his hands pressed between his knees. 

“Definitely not temperature-wise, because metaphorical-temperature-wise you’re so fucking hot,” he said. You nodded like you understood. 

“Well, metaphorical-temperature-wise you’re also hot, Chase,” you countered. It was true – he was an objectively attractive man. “Also, I really take umbrage with the idea that I’m letting you have sex with me.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “How would you describe it, then?”

“I would describe it as I look forward to and like having sex with you,” you replied with a shrug. Adrian’s eyes darted back and forth between yours and you couldn’t quite parse what emotion he was experiencing. He surged forward, dropping the Wii remote so he could take your head in both his hands and kiss you deeply. 

He pulled away panting, his forehead pressed to yours. “Can I say something else?”

His thumb dragged along your cheekbone and you found yourself only capable of nodding. 

“I feel kind of insane when I’m around you. And I’m not totally sure, but I think it might be love. It’s like my heart is the gun and your finger is on the trigger and you could pull it and kill me at any second but I like that,” he said, deadly serious. Was that what love felt like? You didn’t have enough time to properly consider it because he kissed you on the nose and then let you go.

“Okay, so your remote should be in pristine condition because I’ve never actually played Wii Sports with anyone else before. But! I think you’ll be really good at Wii Tennis, because I’m really good at Wii Tennis and we’re good at a lot of the same things, just like how we’re both good at murder and sex!”

He smiled as he turned to boot up whatever a Wii was and you felt those muscles draw taut in your cheeks again, a little less sore this time. Adrian gasped suddenly, eyes wide as he turned back to you. “Let’s check that Wii Sports virginity!”

You two shouldn’t have worked. But you’d leave quiet gaps in conversation for him to fill, and he treated you like you hung the moon and all the stars and not like someone who was raised in a lab to kill. In fact, he always laughed when someone else on the team had any sort of comments about your strange behavior, or your blank responses. Because to him the strangeness wasn’t absurd – it was just you. 

“Why do you look at him like that?” Peacemaker asked once, while he was standing beside you in the Checkmate communal kitchen. Adrian was wedged between Adebayo and Economos, showing them something on his phone.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to dissect him.”

You dragged your eyes to Peacemaker, who flinched slightly. You were used to it. “I don’t want to dissect him. I want to do the opposite of that. Whatever that is.”

“You love him?”

“Is that the opposite of dissection?”

Peacemaker seemed to contemplate the question. “You know, I’m not sure it is.”

The two of you were running late to Friday night work drinks. Partly because every time you had tried to put on an item of clothing while getting ready, Adrian was determined to take it off again. And partly because Adrian had spotted a flock of ducks on the way and wanted to feed them and tell you that a group of ducks was called a waddling, actually.  

Around the corner from the bar, Adrian came to a sudden stop, causing you to nearly collide with him. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, when he turned to you with a panic-stricken expression, his hand letting go of yours. You found you did not like that sensation at all, but kept it squarely to yourself.

“I don’t want you to feel like we have to let everyone know about us,” he said, words tumbling out of his mouth. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you suspected they already knew. At least Peacemaker did, and you had observed very early on if Peacemaker knew something, so did everyone else. But the thought of Adrian being kind enough to be concerned tugged at your heart. That old thing had been working overtime lately.

“Okay,” you agreed. “We can ‘play it cool’.”

And it was totally playing it cool to reach up and adjust the collar of his rugby shirt.

“Why are you saying it like that?” Adrian laughed, bumping your shoulder. 

“I feel like I’m saying it totally normally,” you continued to argue as you two made your way into the bar.

“You don’t do anything normally,” he replied with a smile. “That’s what I love about you.”

You knew you were still figuring it all out: what it meant to be a part of a team, what it meant to have a life in the civilian world and not just one in the shadows, what it was like to have friends – people who cared if you lived or died. And most importantly, what it was like to have Adrian.

Adrian stayed by your side all night. Close, but not touching. Occasionally you’d reach for your drinks at the same time and your hands would brush. Adrian’s fingers gripped one leg of the stool you were perched on, slowly dragging it closer towards him as the group got more drinks in and he was feeling bolder. His sneaker was wound around the bottom rung of your stool and his thigh, warm and strong, was pressed against yours before long. You could feel his stolen glances lingering longer and you knew he was searching for you to put up the red light. You knew he would pull back the moment you did. But you didn’t want him to.

You watched him idly fold straw wrappers into delicate little structures that now lined the sticky tabletop, gifting them to his friends around the table as the conversation and the night stretched on. He placed a slightly lopsided heart in front of you.

Economos was in the middle of a story about Rick Flag Sr. when you turned to look at Adrian and found him already looking at you, eyes sparkling in the dive bar light. How were you supposed to resist a face like that?

“Adrian,” you breathed his name but he was already moving, answering your call. You leaned forward and he met you halfway, arms circling your waist as you pressed your lips against his. The two of you nearly knocked the high top and your stools over in your eagerness to kiss. Faintly, you heard Economos complaining but it didn’t matter because Adrian was biting down on your lower lip, his hand fisted in your hair.

“John, you owe me twenty bucks!” Adebayo declared. “I still can’t believe you took that bet after seeing them in the med bay together.”

“I don’t know! I thought it was some weird psycho bonding thing!” John exclaimed, tossing his hands up and nearly upending his beer in the process.

“Alright you two, cut the PDA,” Harcourt groaned.

“Aw, I think it’s kind of sweet,” Chris chimed in, elbowing Harcourt. “Creepy, but sweet.”

Adrian pulled back from you, grinning wide. “PDA virginity?”

“Check,” you agreed. You raised your hand and Adrian gave you a high five before slotting his fingers through yours and letting your entangled hands fall back into the space between you. A small commotion broke out at the table between everyone all at once. You found it almost made you smile, though, you suspected those were reserved just for Adrian. For now.

There was a small pulse, pulse, pulse of his hand, squeezing firmly, rhythmically, as if he wanted to assure you he was still there. As if you could forget.

adrian chase taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @vigilantexreader @faelvz @a-young-g0d @euinein @veronicawinters444 @fangirl48 @allthegirlsdreamed

-

He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.

It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.

You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.

And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.

And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.

-

Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.

“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”

“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.

“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”

Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.

“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”

“Your screensaver is her face.”

“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”

Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.

“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”

“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”

“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything bad!”

“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”

Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.

So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.

-

The briefing the next day is weird.

Very weird.

When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.

He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.

“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.

Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.

That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues. 

“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”

Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”

“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”

“Thank you?”

“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”

“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”

“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.

“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.

He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.

“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”

“You said to neg her!”

“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”

“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.

“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”

Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?

“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”

“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“

“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”

He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”

“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”

And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.

-

You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.

He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.

And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.

Okay, step two.

Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.

You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.

You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.

His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.

And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-

A throat clears.

When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.

“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.

“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.

“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.

-

He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.

And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.

This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.

You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.

Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“

He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.

The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.

And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.

For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.

“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.

“They are covered in blood.”

“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”

“I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.

“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”

Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.

Economos slammed his laptop shut. “Jesus Christ. If these two pulled it off—” he waved angrily at you and Adrian— “then why couldn’t you just fucking kiss him?” His voice cracked with pure frustration. “It’s not rocket science, Harcourt.”

The room froze. Harcourt’s glare could’ve cut steel. “Excuse me?”

Economos plowed on, gesturing wildly. “All you had to do was sell it. One kiss, maybe two, and we’d have Malloy’s contacts mapped by now. But no, you had to make it weird, and then you bailed, and now we’re behind.”

Chris’s mouth opened, then shut. Harcourt looked like she was two seconds from breaking a chair over Economos’s head.

You cleared your throat. “Maybe screaming at each other isn’t productive?”

“Agreed,” Murn said flatly, like he was already regretting his life choices. “We’ll recalibrate before the next attempt.” He looked back at you and Adrian. “But for tonight? Good work.”

Adrian straightened, still grinning. “Best fake couple ever.”

You tried to focus on the praise, on the mission’s success, but your pulse still fluttered every time you remembered the slow dance, the kiss, the way his hand had cupped your jaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Best fake couple ever. Right. So why didn’t it feel fake anymore?

The night should’ve ended at the safehouse. Instead, Adrian insisted on walking you to your car like he hadn’t just survived an undercover op with HOA couples and casserole-based small talk.

He leaned against your passenger door, helmet tucked under his arm, curls sticking up again after the hours of “suburban husband chic” you’d carefully assembled. He looked ridiculous. He looked happy.

“That was so fun,” he gushed, voice carrying in the quiet parking lot. “Like, not butterfly-fun, but actual fun. Did you see the way those dads were nodding at me? Like I was their leader? I could start a dad cult. Dads love me. I’m basically a dad magnet. Which sounds gross, but in a non-sexual way. Unless… well, no, definitely non-sexual.”

You unlocked the car. “You really wanna lead a dad cult?”

“Why not? We’d wear polos. Grill meat. Talk about how we’re totally gonna fix the deck next weekend. Oh my god, you’d be amazing in a dad cult. You’d organize the bake sales. You already made lemon bars like a champion.”

You shook your head, laughing as you slid into the driver’s seat. “Get in before someone calls security on us.”

He climbed in, still talking. “And did you see when you let me tell the bee story? They bought it. Hook, line, and stinger. You’re a genius. You let me go full improv. Most people shut me down before I get to the good part, like the,” He made buzzing noises. “but you didn’t. You’re the best fake girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

You pulled out of the lot. “How many fake girlfriends have you had, exactly?”

“Counting you?” He held up one finger. “So… yeah. Just you.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t like.

The drive was quiet for about two minutes, record time for Adrian before he piped up again. “You know, if this were a real relationship, this would be the part where I walk you to your door and try to look suave, but then I trip over my own dick, metaphorically. My real dick doesn’t trip. It’s very coordinated.”

You nearly swerved. “Adrian.”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s got rhythm. Could probably win America’s Got Talent.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Shut up.”

He grinned, smug. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m regretting every life choice that led me to this moment.”

“Hot. Say it slower.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling up to your building. You should’ve let him go, should’ve said goodnight and left it there. But when you glanced at him, helmet in his lap, hopeful puppy energy practically radiating off him, you couldn’t do it.

“You don’t have to go all the way back to your mom’s,” you said finally. “It’s late. You can crash here.”

He blinked. “Here? With you?”

“Yes. Guest room.” You emphasized it, hard.

“Oh. Yeah. Guest room. Totally. Unless you secretly want me in your bed, in which case, wow, what a twist.”

“Guest room, Adrian.”

He grinned, wide and boyish. “Got it. Guest room. With my very talented, balanced dick.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder lightly as you parked. He laughed the whole way inside, buzzing with the same adrenaline you’d both been pretending wasn’t there.

And for the first time that night, you weren’t sure if letting him stay was a mistake or the smartest decision you’d ever made.

Your apartment wasn’t anything fancy cozy, lived-in, the kind of place that smelled like clean laundry and vanilla candles, but Adrian looked at it like you’d just walked him into the Louvre.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, helmet tucked under one arm. “It’s so… you. Like, I don’t know what I expected. Maybe beanbags. Or swords on the wall. But this is—” He stopped in front of your bookshelf, crouching. “Do you alphabetize your books and color-code them? That’s… honestly, that’s hotter than I thought it would be.”

You closed the door behind you, kicking off your shoes. “Try not to rifle through all my stuff.”

“I would never,” he said, already picking up a photo frame. It was you, your sister, and your niece, laughing mid-silly-face. Adrian smiled at it, soft. “Your family’s cute. You look happy.”

The way he said it, quiet, without a trace of irony made you pause. “Yeah. They’re my… everything.”

He set the frame back carefully, then perked up again, bouncing on his toes like the sincerity had short-circuited him. “So where’s the guest room? Or do I get, like, a cot in the bathtub?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “End of the hall.”

He saluted, striding toward it like a soldier on parade. But of course, he stopped halfway, drawn to the kitchen like a moth to flame. He opened the fridge, whistled. “Wow. Actual vegetables. Do you eat these or are they props?”

“I eat them,” you said flatly.

“Hot,” he muttered, still digging. “Whoa, is that oat milk? You’re so L.A. chic.”

“I’m not from L.A.”

“You’ve got the vibes. Like, ‘oh my god, let’s go do hot yoga and then talk about our feelings over açai bowls.’” He shut the fridge and leaned against it, grinning. “I’d totally go to hot yoga with you.”

You snorted, covering your mouth too late. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

You shook your head, finally steering him down the hall to the guest room. It wasn’t much just a bed, dresser, lamp, but he flopped onto it with a satisfied groan. “Oh my god. This is the nicest bed I’ve ever been on that didn’t have, like, plastic sheets for ‘easy cleanup.’”

You paused in the doorway, raising a brow. “…I don’t want to know.”

“Good,” he said, already sprawled out like he owned the place. “Mystery is sexy.”

You grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and tossed it at him. He caught it clumsily, grinning. “Thanks, babe.”

The word hung between you. Too casual. Too easy.

You should’ve corrected him, reminded him it was all part of the bit. Instead, you just nodded. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

“Goodnight,” he said, voice softer now. Then, almost as an afterthought “Best fake girlfriend ever.”

You closed the door, heart hammering, and leaned against the wall.

Because the truth was, nothing about this felt fake anymore.

It was almost midnight when you padded into the kitchen, craving water. You flicked on the light, only to nearly drop your glass when a shadow moved by the fridge.

“Jesus Christ!” you hissed.

Adrian yelped, clutching his chest. “Holy shit—you scared me! I thought you were a burglar. A sexy burglar in pajamas.”

You pressed a hand to your racing heart. “You can’t just lurk by my fridge in the dark like a serial killer.”

“I wasn’t lurking,” he said indignantly, holding up a half-empty box of cereal. “I was scoping out midnight snack options. Very different. Also, do you know how depressing plain Cheerios are without sugar? It’s like eating sad circles.”

You sighed, setting your glass on the counter. “You’re hungry?”

“Starving,” he admitted, eyes wide and guileless. “Some lady kept hogging the crab dip. I only got, like, two Ritz crackers’ worth.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, fighting a smile. “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

His whole face lit up like you’d offered him eternal salvation. “Really? Oh my god. This is like… playing house.” He plopped onto one of your barstools, chin in his hands, watching you like you were about to perform magic. “You, cooking in your kitchen, me sitting here telling you how hot you look cutting vegetables. it’s basically a Hallmark movie. Except, you know, with more dick jokes and potential homicide.”

You pulled eggs and bread from the fridge, shaking your head.

He leaned forward eagerly. “What’re you making?”

“Scrambled eggs. Toast. Nothing fancy.”

“Fancy enough. Did you know eggs are basically chicken periods?”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder. “Thank you for ruining breakfast food forever.”

“You’re welcome.” He grinned, utterly unrepentant. “But seriously, this is great. Like, domestic. Cozy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were…” He stopped, suddenly aware of the line he was about to cross. His grin softened into something almost shy. “…real.”

The sizzle of butter in the pan filled the silence. You stirred the eggs, throat tight. “It was just for the mission, Adrian.”

“Right,” he said quickly, too quickly. But when you set the plate in front of him and he dug in with boyish delight, he looked up at you with scrambled egg on his fork and said, “You’d be really good at real, though.”

And you couldn’t bring yourself to argue.

You were fully prepared to watch him inhale them like a starving raccoon, and then send him back to the guest room. That was the plan. Keep the walls up. Keep the line between fake and real intact.

But when he looked up at you, mouth full of eggs, curls messy, eyes bright with that impossible, enthusiasm, you cracked.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and said quietly, “You’re right. This is kind of like playing house.”

He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “…Wait. Did you just admit I was right?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, but your lips curved anyway.

He set the fork down slowly, like any sudden movement might scare you off. “So, like… in this game of house, are we… married? Dating? Divorced but still hooking up for old times’ sake—because honestly, all three sound hot.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Dating, Adrian. Let’s keep it simple.”

Something in his eyes shifted, sharp and hungry under all the dorky energy. “Dating. Okay. Yeah. I can do dating.”

Before you could think better of it, you stepped closer. He smelled like laundry soap and a hint of lemon from the bars earlier. He straightened instantly, wide-eyed, like a dog who just heard the treat bag crinkle.

And then you kissed him.

Not a fake cover kiss. Not a crowd-pleasing slow-dance kiss. A real one. Firm, deliberate, meant to shut him up and ruin your own damn rules in one move.

He made a startled noise, half gasp, half laugh and then grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him. The stool screeched backward as he stood, towering over you, lips moving hungrily against yours.

“Holy shit,” he whispered when you broke for air. His forehead pressed to yours, his grin completely unhinged. “You just kissed me in your kitchen. This is… this is like porn, but better, because there’s eggs.”

You let out a laugh, trying to shush him, but he was already tumbling forward, mouth on yours again, kissing like he’d been waiting forever and suddenly realized he’d never have to stop.

Every time you tried to pull back, he chased your lips, babbling between kisses “You taste like…oh my god…like toothpaste and lemon—fuck, I’m so into this…it’s like a brunch fantasy but with way more tongue—”

“Adrian,” you managed, breathless, half laughing.

“Yeah?” His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark, curls sticking every which way as his hands roamed like he didn’t know where to put them first.

“You’re riled up.”

He grinned, feral and boyish all at once. “I told you I’d be great at house.”

And with that, he kissed you again, messier, deeper, eggs forgotten on the counter while you let yourself get lost in the disaster you’d just unleashed. Adrian’s mouth was hot and insistent on yours, his hands clumsy but eager as they slid up your sides.

You should’ve stopped. But the way he kissed you messy, desperate, like you were oxygen had you whispering against his lips before you even thought about it “Fuck it.”

His eyes snapped open. “Wait…fuck it, like, fuck it fuck it or?”

You grabbed his shirt, tugging him toward the hall. “Bedroom. Now.”

For a split second, he looked like he might combust from sheer joy. Then he practically stumbled after you, tripping over his own feet in his rush. “Oh my god, this is happening. This is actually happening. I knew playing house was a gateway drug.”

You shoved your bedroom door open, pulling him in. He barely got it shut before his hands were on you again, fumbling but determined.

“Holy shit,” he babbled between kisses, already breathless. “You’re like…like a freak in disguise. The bimbo thing? That’s like a camouflage, isn’t it? You’re actually feral. ”

“Keep talking,” you gasped, yanking his shirt over his head.

“Oh, I will. You think I ever shut up during sex? Nope. Not happening. You’re gonna get the full Adrian director’s commentary while I—”

You kissed him hard enough to shut him up, only for him to laugh into your mouth, delirious and turned on.

“God, you’re insane,” you muttered, pushing him back onto the bed.

He sprawled there, curls wild, chest heaving, grin unhinged. “Insane for you. Which is probably diagnosable, but whatever, let’s not invite a psychiatrist into this threesome.”

You climbed onto him, and he groaned like it was the best gift he’d ever been given. His hands roamed, hesitant one second, greedy the next, like he couldn’t decide between worshipping or devouring you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, voice cracking as you ground against him. “You’re not faking this, are you?”

“Not even a little,” you said, daring him with your eyes.

And that was all it took. He surged up, kissing you like a man possessed, like all the jokes and babble were just his way of containing the truth he wanted you, badly, and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The fake-dating rules, the team, the mission, they all blurred and disappeared as you matched his frenzy beat for beat, chaos answering chaos.

For once, Adrian Chase wasn’t too much. For once, he was exactly what you wanted.And neither of you cared about the fallout.

He made a choked sound when you kissed him again, more tongue than anything, your hand already slipping beneath his waistband like you’d made your decision and that was that.

“Wait—are we actually?” he gasped, voice climbing an octave as your fingers wrapped around him.

“Yeah,” you whispered against his lips. “We are.”

He let out a strangled moan, whole body going rigid like you’d just hit him with a stun gun.

“Fuck—fuck.” He whined. Full-on, actual whine. “You don’t understand,” he rambled, breathless as you stroked him slow. “You’ve been in my head for weeks. Every time you talked during mission briefings, I just stared at your mouth like a fucking idiot. I’d be thinking about it during recon, during stakeouts…once during a firefight, which is so unprofessional. You’re shit…you’re my Roman Empire.”

You let out a laugh, barely keeping your rhythm. “Adrian—”

“I mean it. You said ‘brunch version of you’ and I got hard, that’s not normal. You smiled at me while filing intel and I had to sit down. And now you’re doing this and I’m just—fuck, I’m two seconds away from coming in your hand.”

You slowed down just to watch him squirm. His hips bucked up helplessly, a sound punching out of him like it had been trapped.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t tease me. You don’t understand what this is doing to me.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” you smile sweetly before you begin to kiss down his chest, down his hard toned abs.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself. You sit back on your knees as you pull down his boxers letting his painfully harden member fall heavy against his lower abdomen.

“Fuck.” You hear yourself say. He’s bigger than you expected. Considering how Chris called him Thimble you always kinda assumed it’d be…average? “Can I have a taste?” You ask as you kiss his thigh.

“Please please please you can have whatever you want,” he begs. If there’s one thing you love, it’s a man that begs. You lick up from the base to the top before wrapping your lips around the tip. Swiping your tongue over the slit collecting his pre cum and moaning in appreciation.

“Oh my god,” he struggles to say looking down at you eyes wide and the darkest green you’ve ever seen.

His thighs tremble.

Your mouth slides down lower, taking more of him, hand wrapped tightly around the base, your spit making everything slick and obscene.

And Adrian melts. His hands fist the sheets, then your hair, then the air, he can’t decide if he wants to worship you or fall apart.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” he babbles, unfiltered. “You..like this, on your knees, mouth on me…fuck—I’ve jerked off to this so many times it’s not even funny.”

You pull off just long enough to say, “You taste so fucking good.”

He lets out a strangled, pathetic whimper.

You stroke him while you speak, watching every reaction like a reward. “You’ve wanted this for a while, huh?”

He nods frantically. “Since day one. Since you smiled at me like I was funny instead of insane.”

You suck him back down, deeper this time. His hips jump. His breath hitsched so high it’s a gasp. His hands come back down to your hair pushing you down deeper, his hips coming up. He’s so greedy.

The way he withers beneath your mouth makes your thighs clench. He’s flushed and shaking, babbling like it’s his first orgasm on earth. You moan around him, just to feel the twitch, just to push him over the edge.

“Oh my god,” he whimpers, “you’re… you’re unreal..you’re too good at this… I’m gonna come… fuck, please don’t stop—please swallow it.”

He comes hard, a lot and you don’t even flinch. You swallow happily, lips wrapped around him until he’s wrung out and twitching.

When you finally pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he collapses against your pillow like a man who just saw God.

“This is like every porn video I’ve ever watched,” he sighs, dazed. “But soooo much better. Now I’m gonna think of this every time you talk. Like, full Pavlov response. You’ll say ‘briefing,’ and I’ll get hard.”

You laugh, slipping out of your clothes without breaking eye contact. He watches, wrecked and reverent, as you crawl back up the bed to straddle him.

“Wanna taste?” you tease, voice syrup-sweet as you lean down and kiss him.

His mouth opens under yours instantly. You let your tongue slide over his playfully, let him taste himself on you.

“You’re the best,” he whispers against your lips. “In every fucking way possible.”

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers dipping through your slick. He groans, long, low, reverent.

“Oh, I bet it feels so fucking good in there,” he sighs, sliding a finger inside.

You moan into his mouth, hips twitching as he starts to pump it in and out, slow and deep.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “You’re so wet. I barely touched you. You got like this just from sucking my dick?”

You nod, panting, rolling your hips into his hand. “I’ve wanted you. Just like this.”

He moans again, overwhelmed. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You leaned down, mouth brushing his ear. “Show me you deserve me.”

“You’re gonna break me. I’m gonna be one of those guys who pines. I’m gonna smell your shampoo on my pillow for the next year and cry. I’m gonna write your name in my FBI-issued journal.”

You climbed on top of him and he whimpered. Whimpered.

“What position do you want me in first?” Yoy ask against the shell of his ear.

You didn’t expect him to go quiet.

But he does.

Your words — whispered hot against the shell of his ear — turn his whole body to stone. His hands tremble where they rest on your thighs. His chest rises in short, shallow gasps.

“What position…” you repeat, kissing just beneath his ear, “…do you want me in first?”

He whimpers again and covers his face with both hands.

“Oh my god.” His voice is wrecked. “Oh my god, I can’t decide. You’re asking me? I thought you were gonna just fuck me without warning. Like boom, snapped in half, goodnight.”

You pull his hands gently away from his face. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide.

“I can fuck you however you want,” you murmur. “You just have to choose.”

“I can’t choose,” he breathes. “That’s the problem. Every position? Sounds like the best idea I’ve ever had. Cowgirl? Amazing. Missionary? I get to see your face and cry. You on your knees? I might actually black out. Me going down on you until you’re shaking? That’s the dream. Me bent in half while you ride me and talk shit?” He moans,loud. “I’m so fucked up about that idea it’s unreal.”

You laugh, low and pleased, grinding your hips just enough to make him twitch beneath you. “Adrian.”

He clutches your waist like a lifeline. “Please ride me first. I need to feel you. Need to see you like that.”

You line him up, and he’s throbbing, leaking, practically vibrating with the kind of tension that can only come from weeks of fantasizing and finally getting the real thing.

And then you sink down. Slow. All the way. Until he’s fully inside you, deep and thick and stretching you so perfectly you have to brace your hands on his chest just to breathe.

“Holy shit,” he groans. His head falls back into the pillow, mouth open, jaw slack. “ I’ve never felt anything like this. You’re so warm. You’re so tight. You’re…fuck.”

“You’re so deep,” you whisper, beginning to roll your hips.

And then he’s babbling again. “Yesyesyes, oh my god, yes. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll worship you. I’ll buy you stuff. I’ll make you breakfast. I’ll get your name tattooed on my dick. Just…don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Please.”

Your hands slide up his chest, feeling every twitch, every desperate gasp.

“You love this, don’t you?” you purr. “Being used like this.”

He nods, eyes wet, voice trembling. “Yes. Yes. I love it. I love you. Fuck—did I say that too soon? Doesn’t matter. I do. I love you. I’m obsessed with you. I’m ruined for anyone else. This pussy is mine now, right? Say yes. Please say yes. I’ll beg again. I like begging—”

You kiss him, hard and hungry, swallowing the rest of his chaos.

And when you pull back, your lips wet and your thighs trembling, you say the thing that finishes him completely

“It’s all yours.”

He makes a sound, raw and hoarse, like it’s being ripped out of him, and arches up so deep inside you it makes your whole body stutter.

And in that moment, Adrian is gone. Fucked stupid. Fucked in love.

You’re riding him hard now hips rolling, sweat slick between you, his hands gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He’s been babbling nonstop, tossing out praises like prayers, like every word might keep you there a little longer.

“You’re unreal… you feel so good… I could die like this, happy, smiling… fuck, I’d leave a note and everything ‘death by pussy, signed: a grateful Adrian Chase.’”

You press a hand to his mouth. “Shh,” you whisper, breathless, grinding down slow. “It’s your turn to listen.”

He moans into your palm, eyes fluttering, head tilting back like he’s offering up his whole goddamn soul.

And you feel it how close you are. How bad you want it. But it’s not enough. The pace, the rhythm, the angle, it’s perfect, but it’s not it.

He sees it in your eyes. You don’t have to say anything. You slow. You hesitate. And before the disappointment even lands in your chest

Adrian moves.

He shifts you gently, flipping you over with surprising strength, hands guiding your thighs apart. His eyes are so wide, so fucking devoted, it makes your heart catch.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let me get you there. Please. I need to.”

You open your mouth to respond. And then he sinks back inside.

Slow. Careful.

One of his hands reaches for yours, intertwining your fingers and pressing it against the pillow beside your head. The other rests right over your stomach.

And when he moves deep, slow, tender, it’s not about him anymore. It’s about you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, forehead brushing yours. “Everything I ever wanted and didn’t think I could have.”

You gasp, your legs wrapping tight around his waist.

His voice is wrecked, low, barely holding together. “I wanna make you come so bad it hurts. Not because I need it, but because I want you to feel how much I fucking adore you.”

He rocks into you just right and you whimper, eyes stinging.

“I’ll do anything,” he says, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “I’ll buy you flowers every morning. I’ll rub your feet after missions. I’ll learn how to cook for real. I’ll call you baby in public and mean it. I’ll never make you feel small. I’ll be yours in every way I know how to be.”

You’re gripping his hand now like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He presses his forehead to yours again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

You nod, breath catching.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Come for me. Please.”

And it’s not the rhythm. It’s not the pressure. It’s him. The voice. The hand in yours. The soft, impossible things he’s whispering just for you.

You come hard, gasping his name, back arching as the wave crashes through you.

He watches it all the way your mouth parts, the tears that spring to your lashes, the way your body writhes under his and his own release hits seconds later.

He buries his face in your neck, hips jerking, groaning against your skin like he’s never felt anything like this before.

Because he hasn’t and neither have you.

You both lie there, tangled, trembling, the silence thick with everything you didn’t mean to say but did.

And when he finally catches his breath, voice barely audible against your throat, he whispers,

“…I think you just broke me in the best fucking way.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that pressed together, sweaty and shaking, your heart still thudding like it hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s over.

Adrian hasn’t moved.

His body is still wrapped around yours, chest flush to yours, arms banded tight around your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t physically anchor you to the bed.

He’s still inside you. Soft now, overstimulated, but not willing to let go just yet.

Your fingers trace idle circles against the sweaty slope of his shoulder. You’re still catching your breath when you feel it the tiniest little tremble in his chest.

And then he exhales. Sharp. Shaky. Emotional.

“…man,” he whispers. “I think I saw God.”

You laugh, soft, breathless and tilt your head just enough to look at him.

He’s blinking up at the ceiling like he just came back from war. Hair a total mess. Chest heaving. Lips red and bitten.

You brush a thumb across his cheek. “You okay?”

He nods quickly, eyes darting to you like he wants to make sure you’re still here. Still real.

“I just… fuck.” He smiles, dazed. “You really meant it, didn’t you?”

You blink. “Meant what?”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. His voice is hoarse. Small.

“When you said it was mine.”

Your breath catches.

Because you did say that. You meant it at the time. And now, after everything, you’re sure it wasn’t just dirty talk.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I meant it.”

Something breaks in his face, something soft and boyish and so stupidly vulnerable that it makes your chest ache.

He lowers his head to your collarbone and just stays there, breathing you in.

“I’m gonna be so annoying about this,” he mumbles.