#eagly

Adrian was, unsurprisingly, not doing very much of his actual job. He had been sitting slumped over the counter, chin resting in one hand, scrolling on his phone with the other. His busboy apron was half-assed, one of the strings untied and swinging around his ankles with every move. 

He was in one of his usual moods too; a bit moody, a lot sarcastic, and completely uninterested in doing any *actual* work if he could help it. And God it was starting to worry you. 

And despite the fact that he'd worked this shift a hundred times, and could probably do it in his sleep, he was being uncharacteristically clumsy tonight. "Dammit—!" The plates clattered, but he caught them at the last second, fingers slipping on the greasy edges. 

He let out a sharp breath through his nose and muttered under his breath, "Stupid... fragile... *civilian* dishware."  

He shot a quick glance over at you, flashing that usual goofy half-smile—the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. “Don’t worry,” he said too quickly, “I’ve got this. I’m *great* at my job. Top performer. Employee of the month… every month… in my head.”  

Then he winced—not from dropping anything this time—but from something deeper. His hand pressed briefly to his side again beneath the apron, hidden like it was nothing.

You knew better.

But Adrian? Adrian pretended everything was fine.

Because if there’s one thing Vigilante hated more than bad guys who survived their own deaths… It was people worrying about him.

“Adrian?” You step behind him, the diner empty aside from the two of you and a few other employees. “Do you want any help?” 

"Help?" He let out a short, awkward laugh, still facing away from you as he fumbled with the coffee pot like it personally offended him. "Help with what? Busboy stuff? Please. I practically invented cleaning tables. Invented mopping. Might've even invented *diners*, if we're being honest."  

He turned slightly, flashing that same lopsided grin—but his posture was stiff, one hand still subtly braced against his side under the apron. His breath hitched just a fraction when he moved too fast.

Then—because Adrian Chase absolutely cannot admit weakness without deflecting—his tone dropped into mock-seriousness:  

"Unless you wanna help me hide a body later… then yeah, maybe we can talk."  

Another beat. He winked. "Just kidding! …Mostly."

You narrow your eyes at him, not wanting to deal with his sarcasm when you're this worried about him. "Cut it out, it's not gonna kill you to admit you're having an off day." You huff, arms crossing defensively under your breasts. 

The irritation from your long shift mixing with the annoyance of the realization he doesn't rely on you the same way you lean on him. "We're coworkers, it's my job to help if you need. And clearly you need some."

Adrian's eyes narrowed in return, a familiar spark of defiance lighting up his gaze. He bristled slightly at your words, defensive in the way he always got when someone—when *you*—pushed too hard.

"I don't need any damn help," he countered, voice a low snarl. "Especially not from you. I can handle myself, alright? I always do. I'm just having a…"

He trailed off, struggling for a moment with the word he wanted to say.  

He finally spat it out like a curse. "Bad day."

"Fine." You bite back, turning on your heels and practically stomping away from him. 

Adrian's stomach twisted with a mixture of irritation and a hint of regret, but his stubborn pride just wouldn't let him apologize. He watched you stomp away, feeling the distance between you grow like a physical ache.

The shift is passing in a strained silence, with Adrian focusing intently on his work—trying a little too hard to look like he was unaffected, like he really didn’t care that you were mad at him.

The more distance you put between the two of you the more your other coworker, Justin, slides in next to you. Making small talk and joking the way you usually do with Adrian.

Adrian noticed it immediately—the way Justin slid in beside you like he wasn’t a walking nuisance in an ill-fitting apron, cracking jokes that you usually saved for him. 

His grip tightened around the rag he was using to wipe down tables. Too tight. The knuckles went white.

He didn’t look over. Not at first.

But when Justin laughed—too loud, too obnoxious—and you actually *smiled*, something short and sharp flickered behind Adrian’s eyes.

"Wow," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that only the counter could hear, "*Real* original. Guy shows up with zero personality and suddenly he’s the fun one?"  

Then, because self-sabotage was his love language: He dropped a tray of clean silverware, *on purpose*, just to make noise. Just to disrupt it.

And when everyone turned? He blinked innocently behind his glasses and said: "Oops."

But his distraction worked, you come to his side immediately. "Are you okay?" You're already squatting, picking up the discarded utensils. 

He didn’t look at you.

Not right away.

Adrian kept his eyes on the scattered silverware, jaw tight, breathing slow—like he was trying to pretend the little outburst didn’t happen. Like he wasn’t just a second ago stewing in jealousy over *Justin*, of all people.

Then you touch one of the forks near his foot, and he finally snaps. "I said oops," he muttered, voice quieter now. "Not 'please mother me.'"

But then, he exhaled sharply through his nose and added, softer: "...I'm fine. Just clumsy tonight."

He reached down to grab a spoon but winced mid-motion, hand flying back to his side instinctively.

Too late.

You saw it. Again.

And this time... he didn't have a joke ready.

"Adrian, don't pretend like you didn't drop all this shit just to get my attention." You glare up at him, picking up the last of the silverware and gently shoving them into his hands. 

He flinched—just slightly—at your words. Not from anger. From being caught.

For a second, Adrian just stood there, silverware shoved into his chest like a punishment, mouth opening and closing like he was about to lie anyway.

"...Okay," he muttered, voice low and grudging. "Maybe I did. Maybe I’m petty. Maybe I *hate* seeing you laugh at that guy’s knock-knock joke like it’s the funniest thing since world peace."  

He adjusted his glasses with one hand, avoiding your eyes again—because admitting weakness? Fine. Being vulnerable? Nope.

But jealousy? That he’d own.

He finally looked down at you, expression stubborn—but softer around the edges now. "...You were supposed to be my person."

Your eyebrows furrow, confusion written all over your features as you stand, arms crossed. “Adrian, what do you mean?” 

Adrian was caught off balance by the genuine puzzlement in your tone. He was expecting annoyance, not honest incomprehension.

It made his stomach twist—the defensiveness faltering a little as he shifted his weight, the silverware still clutched to his chest like a shield.

"I..." He starts, then stops. *How the hell to explain it without sounding like a possessive weirdo?*

"You and me," he finally said. "We work together. We talk crap about... everything. This place, the customers, the other morons we work with." He gestured vaguely at Justin.

“So you’re salty with me,” You begin, taking a slight step toward him. “Because I was talking to Justin? And he was laughing like a clown at some dumb joke I made?” A smile of genuine disbelief plants itself on your lips. 

"I'm not salty," Adrian hisses, then immediately deflates. "Okay. Fine. I'm salty."  

He shoved the tray onto the counter with a clatter and adjusted his glasses: his tell when he was flustered.

"But not because you talked to him! I don't care about that! I care that you were... smiling at him like—like he’s some charming little hero instead of a guy who wears socks with sandals and calls it 'a fashion statement'!"  

His voice dropped, quieter now, almost vulnerable:  "You never smile at *me* like that."

And there it was.

The real problem.

Not Justin.

Not the jokes.

It was the way your laugh had lit up for someone else tonight—the way Adrian had spent all shift hurting in silence just so you wouldn't worry—and still, still you turned to someone else with warmth… while he bled through his damn bandages alone.  

He looked away fast, pretending to wipe down a clean counter.  

"Anyway," he mumbled. "Forget it."

“Hey, that's not fair.” Your tone is gentle as you grab his arm. Leading him into the back storage room, away from everyone else, quiet and intimate. “Adrian.”

As he stumbles into the storage room, trying—and failing—to keep weight off his side, he didn't meet your eyes at first. When he finally did, he looked like a kicked puppy caught in the rain.

“I was being polite.” You emphasize the word, eyes full of concern as you stare up at him, eyebrows furrowed. He practically flinches at your statement. 

"Polite," he echos sarcastically, voice strained as he leans into the cold metal shelving, wincing. "Yeah. You were being polite. *I know*. You're always polite. To everyone."

You just sigh, not wanting to fight with him, you never do. "Let me see." Stepping closer your hand moves to his upper arm, gently holding onto him.

Adrian hesitates. Every instinct in him was screaming to stay defensive, push you away, avoid showing any sign of weakness. That was how he'd always been, the way he'd survived.

So he let out a breath and nodded stiffly, slowly shifting his position against the shelving. This way he was propped up, still standing, but not putting as much weight on his side.

"It's not that bad," he grumbled.

You lift the hem of his shirt, hands ghosting over the poorly bandaged wound. "Oh, baby..." The nickname rolls off your tongue casually, as you look up at him with worried eyes. 

Adrian flinched—not from the touch, but from the nickname. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" 

"*Baby?*" he echoed weakly, voice cracking like a teenager. His face flushed hot under his glasses, and for a split second, all the pain seemed to fade beneath sheer panic. "*You can't just— say stuff like that and expect me to function."

He swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

"...I didn’t say anything," he muttered after a beat, jaw tightening again, "because I knew you’d do this. Worry. Get mad. Look at me like I’m some stray dog you found in a ditch."  

His voice dropped. "...I’m not fragile."

"You're not." You agree, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back while the other gently lifts the bandage. "But you deserve to feel good, be taken care of... Not suffer alone."

Adrian leaned into the touch despite himself, letting his eyes close for a brief moment. He let out a shuddering exhale, tension slowly easing as the gentleness of your touch sunk past all his defenses like a wave.

And for a second, he just... *melted.*

Until his eyes flicked open again and he remembered how to be stubborn.

"I don't need to be coddled like a goddamn child," he grumbled. "...I'm fine. You're overreacting."

"If you don't stop complaining, I'll go be this soft and caring with Justin." It's a tease, but also a threat. You pull out the staff first aid kit, grabbing some gauze to put over his wound. 

Adrian's eyes snapped open wide, the words hitting him with a jolt of alarm that went straight to his core.

"Don't," he said, too quickly. There was a hint of warning there, possessive. "Don't go back out there and be... friendly with that guy."

He grunted a little as you worked on his wound, shifting to give you better access.

"You could do so much better than Justin," he muttered.

"Like you?" You press the bandage to his side, the wound isn't big enough to require stitches so you just cover it again.

Adrian grunted at the pressure, fingers gripping the cool metal shelving. He clenched his jaw and inhaled sharply, cursing under his breath.

Then your question registered, and he let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Yeah, sure," he said, sarcasm thick as he tried to brush it off, "because I'm a *catch*, aren't I? Covered in scars and bruises, bleeding from my side, can barely stand right now... real dream guy material. You can have your pick of the lot. Justin, with his perfect teeth and squeaky clean smile."

"Adrian," You cup his cheek, fingers brushing over his cheekbone. "Don't make me beg."

He froze for a heartbeat, like your touch had short-circuited every defense, every snarky remark, every twisted joke he used to hide behind.

Then, slowly… he leaned into your hand.

His glasses slip slightly down his nose as his head tilts toward your palm like he’d been starving for it without knowing.

And then, quietly and carefully, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just… holding on.

His voice came out rougher than before, almost fragile. "...I’m tired," he admitted, no sarcasm, no defiance. "I'm *so* tired."

For the first time that night…

He didn’t try to hide it.

"You should stay at my place tonight..." Adrian's breathing hitched as you stroked his head, his eyes sliding shut again.  "Let me take care of you, baby."

His shoulders droop, the weight of everything—his injury, his pride, his stubbornness—just... falling away as your nails raked across his scalp, sending shivers down his spine.  

For a moment, he almost forgot how to talk, like every thought in his brain had been replaced by static.

Then after a beat of trying to collect his scattered focus, he mutters, voice barely above a whisper:  "Can I... have one condition?"

"Of course," Adrian's arms tightened around your waist, a low, relieved sigh escaping his lips as he buried his face against the crook of your neck. 

It was like he was a different person, the sharp edges filed down to something raw and vulnerable under your touch.

His next words were murmured directly into your skin, quiet and almost pleading: "Keep calling me 'baby.' "

Before you can even reply, Justin opens the door, his eyes widening as he scratches the back of his neck. Obviously bothered by the position you're in. “Uh, we’re headin’ out. It’s time to lock up.”

Adrian's reaction was instantaneous: the vulnerability vanished, replaced with a sharp scowl as his arms dropped from your waist, and he whirled to face Justin.

"Great," he snapped, still leaning against the storage shelf but shifting his position to hide his bandaged side. "Took you long enough. I thought we might be stuck here till morning."

Justin shrugged, his gaze lingering on you for a beat too long, making Adrian's jaw clench. "Sorry," Justin said, though he didn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "You two good here?"

“Yeah, all good.” You smile awkwardly, feeling the tension between the men. 

Adrian rolled his eyes at your overly-cheery tone, clearly annoyed by Justin's presence in general and the way he kept looking at you in particular. He leaned back against the shelf, arms crossing, and shot Justin a glare that was half annoyance and half challenge.

"Yeah," he drawled sarcastically, voice dripping with disdain. "We're peachy. Just finished having a heart-to-heart about our feelings, actually. Really a bonding moment."

You link your fingers with his, practically dragging Adrian out of the room, "We should get going then." 

Adrian lets you pull him along, limping slightly but refusing to complain — especially now that he had something to prove.

He shot one last look over his shoulder at Justin, smug and possessive all at once, and gave a slow, deliberate squeeze of your hand as if to say: *Mine.*

"Yep," he said brightly — too brightly. "Gotta go. Big night. Important stuff. None of your business."

And just before the door swung shut behind them?

"...Don't forget to lock the freezer."  

Because even when being dragged out by his maybe-girlfriend after nearly bleeding out in a supply closet…  

Adrian Chase *still* had time for petty power moves.

Luckily you live less than five minutes away from the restaurant, you guide him in the direction of your apartment. "Are you okay to walk a bit?" You don’t wanna push his injuries yet you know that he'll take offense to the question.

Adrian grunted as he took a few slow, measured steps, wincing slightly at the pain in his side. He still looked stubborn and defensive, though he was quieter now –- clearly focusing on keeping up the facade of being fine.  

His hand gripped your arm a little tighter as he limped along, and he nodded stiffly at your question.

"I'm good," he said, too quickly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as convince you. "Just peachy." No way in hell would he admit the walking was making his side throb.

"Almost there, baby." You murmur softly, grinning up at him as he follows along.

Adrian gritted his teeth at the pet name, fighting down a strange mixture of embarrassment, frustration, and —to his mortification — a pang of genuine affection.

He knew he should argue, keep up his usual act of indifference, but he was in pain and exhausted and... well, secretly kind of into the way the word "baby" sounded on your tongue.

His grip on your arm tightened a fraction more, and he let out a gruff, reluctant sigh.

"Hurry up, then. I'm dying here."

Once you make it to the door, you unlock it as you help him in, leading him to your overly pink bedroom. Adrian stumbled in behind you, blinking at the explosion of pink like he’d accidentally walked into a unicorn’s fever dream. His nose wrinkled slightly at the Hello Kitty army staring at him from every shelf.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "It's like a pastel warzone in here."

But when you moved to help him sit on the bed, he didn’t argue—just let out a quiet grunt as his leg gave slightly, catching himself on your shoulder.

He sat down heavily on the edge of your bed, wincing as pain flared in his side again.

"...You know," he said after a beat, leaning forward just enough to meet your eyes despite being clearly drained and trying way too hard to sound casual. "If I die surrounded by plush cats and glittery throw pillows... I *will* come back to haunt this apartment."  

Then — because Adrian can't stay soft for more than five seconds without deflecting —  

"...But if I do? Make sure my ghost wears sunglasses. And kills Justin first."

"Just relax," You peel his glasses off his face, then his hat and apron, slowly removing his work uniform. "And as much as you hate on the room, it's the most comfortable bed you'll ever lay in." 

You giggle, amused by his contrast to the room around him. Before long, you're reaching for the zipper of his slacks—not even realizing the implications at first.

Adrian went still as a statue as you began to undress him, all the breath leaving his lungs at once. His hands gripped the edge of the bed, jaw clenching as his eyes flickered between your hands and your face, trying to stay casual even as his heart rate kicked up a notch.

Then you reached for the zipper of his *pants* and he almost choked.  

His hand snapped down, grabbing yours before you could keep going.

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down," he said fast, eyes going wide. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting you comfortable..." Your lips pout slightly, as you pull your hand back slightly. "And ready for bed."

Adrian's brain was suddenly short-circuiting, every other rational thought replaced by a panicked loop of: *Pants. Off. Bed. With you. With you. In your room. In your bed.*   

He stared at you for a beat, then forced the tiniest bit of sarcasm into his voice.

"You gonna... undress me all the way for this little sleepover?" he shot back, trying to cover for how flustered he suddenly was. "Because I have some standards, you know. I don't just let people strip me naked for free."

"Good thing you won't be fully nude." You grin, sliding his shirt over his head, then kneeling to untie his shoes, sliding them off and placing them off to the side. 

Adrian swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress even tighter as the shirt came off and you knelt between his legs. He was trying *real* hard to keep his cool to keep himself from showing just how goddamn overwhelmed he felt by this whole situation.

He was hyper-aware of everything: the sound of his own breath, the feeling of your touch against his skin, the way his pants suddenly felt too-tight.

He cursed silently, gritting his teeth.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Am I?" You reach for his zipper again, hands hovering over his clothed groin. 

"Y-yeah," he grumbled, trying to sound like he was still in control even though he was pretty sure he'd just forgotten his own name. The moment your hands landed even *near* where the zipper was —

He cursed again under his breath, hands twitching with the effort of not just grabbing you and throwing you into bed.

"You know exactly what you're doing. And it's torture. You're a goddamn sadist."

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying *every* second of it, baby." Your fingers brush over his crotch as you unzip the pants, slowly working to slide them down his hips and legs. 

Adrian had to stifle a *whine* as you touched him, his head tipping back and exposing his throat as every muscle in his body went tense. It felt like he was on fire, his heart pounding like a drum and his breathing getting even faster. 

"Jesus Christ," he rasped. "You're killing me." Then he was only wearing boxers, and the tent in them was already starting to be *super obvious.* Dammit.

“Lay back,” You demand softly, fingers trailing over his thigh softly. 

Adrian obeyed before he even thought about it, his entire body reacting like he was hardwired to act at your command. He let out a slow huff of breath as he leaned back onto the bed, propping himself up with his elbows as he stared up at you, eyes wide and dark.

His heart was slamming in his chest, and his voice sounded downright *raw* when he spoke again.

"You're really not being fair right now."

"I know," You turn your back to him, teasingly pulling your shirt over your head, exposing your lacey bra, then slipping out of your shoes. "It's a whole lot of fun." 

You unbutton your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs, your ass on full display for him. 

Adrian's brain stuttered at the sight of you, his breath catching in his chest as his eyes went wide and he practically *ached* with how much he wanted you. His fingers clenching in the sheets, his voice coming out rough and urgent. 

"Ffff– You're a goddamn tease, you know that, right?"

He swallows hard, every bit of self-control he had left focusing entirely on not just lunging forward and pouncing on you.

His fingers trembling.

"I sleep naked, you know." You grin, listening to his rapid breathing, back still turned to him. 

Adrian *whimpered* this time, the sound slipping out before he could stop it as the image you planted in his head. God, he was weak.

Weak, and desperately trying not to lose control. 

He took a shuddering breath, his voice getting even more strained as the mental image of you - alone, naked, in that damn bed he was lying in -

"Jesus Christ," he murmured, his fists clenching even tighter. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Adrian had to bite his lip to stop another sound from slipping out as the fabric hit the floor, his imagination running wild. He was trying so hard not to just reach out, to grab you and drag you into his lap and -

He could almost taste his own control breaking. His eyes darkened even further, his voice a low growl.

"I have *plenty* of self-control," he insisted, his eyes roaming over every inch of you hungrily. "Trust me."

"Good," Fingers hooking in the waistband of your panties, teasingly revealing more and more skin. "That means this is light work for you then." And with that, you slide them down, slowly stepping out of each leg and giving him the perfect view. 

"You're going to be the death of me," he breathed, his voice low and ragged as he stared at you, completely bare, standing just inches from the bed.

His fingers were white-knuckling the sheets now. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Every inch of him *screamed* to reach out, but he stayed frozen — not because he didn’t want to, but because part of him still couldn't believe this was real.

"You win," he finally admitted, voice hoarse with desire and surrender. "I don't have control. Not around you."

He swallowed hard.

"Just... don't stop."

Finally, you face him, bare body on full display for his hungry gaze. "I win?" You settle back between his thighs, fingernails brushing over his skin. "Oh come on, you barely put up a fight."

"I fought like a *warrior,*" Adrian croaked, voice cracking as your nails dragged up his inner thigh. His back arched slightly off the bed, hips twitching with every feather-light touch.

"You're just... built different. A lethal weapon. A distraction with legs."  

He panted, eyes blown wide and glassy with want — still in his boxers, still painfully half-dressed while you were gloriously nude.

"And for the record," he gritted out between clenched teeth, "this isn't losing... this is surrendering to a superior force."  

Then—weakly:  

  "...Please just touch me already."

You don't make him wait. In one fluid motion, you swing a leg over his hips, settling your weight carefully against him. Your palms slide up his chest—over the ridges of old scars, the bandage hiding his new cut—and come to rest on either side of his face. 

His skin feels feverish beneath your touch, breath ragged against your lips. Adrian lets out a choked groan, hips lifting instinctively to meet yours. 

His hands fly to your waist, not pushing, not pulling, just gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His gaze locks onto yours, dark and desperate.  

“You—” he rasps, voice breaking. “You win. You always win.”  

Then he drags you down, crushing his mouth to yours in a kiss that tastes like surrender and salt and every unsaid thing between you.  

You melt into the kiss, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair as you deepen it—slow, deliberate, savoring the way he trembles beneath you. His groan vibrates against your lips, desperate and raw. 

When you finally pull back, breathless, your thumb brushes the corner of his swollen mouth.  

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper, shifting just enough to feel the hard length of him straining against your thigh through thin cotton. “Exactly.”  

Adrian’s eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, jaw clenched. When they open again, the defiance is gone, replaced by pure, aching need.  

“You,” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like this. Naked. On me. Just—” He swallows hard. “Now.”  

His hands slide down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him as he grinds up—rough, impatient. The friction draws another ragged gasp from him, eyes squeezing shut.  

“Fuck—please,” he breathes, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. “Don’t make me beg.”  But the way his hips arch, the way his fingers tremble against your skin—he already is.  

You lean down, nipping at his earlobe before whispering, “Then don’t.”  

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug them down just enough, freeing him. His cock springs hot and heavy against your stomach, and Adrian lets out a shuddering groan, head falling back against the pillows.  

“Finally,” he rasps, hips lifting to help you strip him completely bare. His hands roam your back, down to your ass, guiding you as you rise up, positioning yourself above him.  

His gaze locks onto yours, pupils blown wide. “Do it,” he commands, voice rough but stripped of sarcasm, pure, raw want. “Before I lose my goddamn mind.”  

His fingers dig into your thighs, bracing himself as you sink down—slow, deliberate—taking every inch of him.  

The breath punches out of him in a sharp cry.  “Fuck-”  

You pause, fully seated, letting him feel the tight, wet heat of you—letting him feel the tremors running through your own body. His groan echoes yours, low and guttural.  

“Move,” he pleads, hips bucking upward instinctively. “Please-”  

You do: rolling your hips in a slow, grinding circle that makes him curse, head thrashing against the pillow.  

His hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers digging in as he matches your rhythm—thrusting up in short, sharp jerks. Every movement pulls a gasp from him, sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Look at you,” he rasps, eyes dark with awe and hunger. “Riding me like you own me.” His thumb brushes your clit—rough, unskilled, but desperate—and you cry out, arching against him.  

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Just like that.”  You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest as you quicken your pace, riding him harder, deeper. 

Each thrust punches a groan from his lips, his fingers scrambling for purchase on your skin.  “Close-” he chokes out, hips stuttering beneath you. “So fucking close-”  

You slide off him with slick heat, your hand wrapping around his cock before he can protest—jerking him fast and tight, thumb smearing the wetness leaking from his tip.

Adrian cries out, back arching off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as he spills hot and thick over your fist and his own stomach in shuddering pulses. His release leaves him gasping, trembling, eyes squeezed shut, utterly wrecked against your pink pillows.

He lies there, trembling and boneless, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes were still closed, hands fisted in the sheets, completely undone.

 Then your voice cuts through the haze. "You’re so pretty, Baby." His eyes snap open.

His face flushed *impossibly* red—half from exhaustion, half from sheer mortification that someone had just not only seen him come apart like that… but *licked their hand after.*

"Jesus—" He coughed violently into his elbow like that somehow fixed anything. "Don't say stuff like that right after- I mean-"

He looked at you with wide eyes. "Did you just—taste it?"  

“Maybe..” You grab tissues to clean off his abs, eyes still full of desire. 

Adrian closed his eyes, his face going impossibly hotter as you started cleaning up his stomach and he couldn't help but squirm a little, completely vulnerable and over-sensitive.

"You're seriously insane," he muttered, voice still ragged. "You know that, right?"