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plzu · 1 year

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espresso martini - (adrian chase x afab!reader)

A/N: reader is the same as my Large Iced Americano series (read part one here!). this is not the next part of the fic, and can be read and enjoyed on its own if you haven't read the series. this was written as a little birthday treat for myself. life has been too hectic to focus on the fic itself but i missed these two so much so in case people missed them like i did, i wrote this for them ♡

Summary: You had suggested going out for a couple of drinks. This surprised Adrian. He remembered what you said about being wary of drinking after not having done so in a while. But you were adamant, an eager twinkling in your eyes and that titillating tilt of your lips that made his heart flutter.

(aka, liquor makes you horny)

Warnings: 18+ EXPLICIT minors DNI, alcohol consumption, vaginal fingering, mentions of masturbation, no Y/N

Wordcount: 1.88k

You had suggested going out for a couple of drinks. This surprised Adrian. He remembered what you said about being wary of drinking after not having done so in a while. But you were adamant, an eager twinkling in your eyes and that titillating tilt of your lips that made his heart flutter. It was suggestive, a secret he wanted so badly to be privy to.

You start off simple. A vodka cranberry that you sip at while Adrian nurses a simple beer. But then you spot one of the bartenders making an espresso martini for another patron, and your eyes light up.

So you switch over from the simple vodka cranberry to the slightly fancier drink for the rest of the night, mollifying with each sip, limbs like liquid as you melt into the bartop.

Adrian orders another beer. You convince him to take a shot with you. Watch in fascination as his cheeks turn rosy underneath his frames. Briefly, your thighs clench at the thought of Adrian’s rosy cheeks in a different light, beneath you, maybe--

Predictably, Adrian loses some volume control as he drinks. Stories and laughter growing louder. Interestingly, his gaze lingers on you with a different weight than it usually does, like seeing you all loose and weightless is new for him. It didn’t help that, yes, your giggles spilled more easily, and you beamed at him with a boozy flush, but your voice became a sultry tease and the playful glint in your eye more bewitching than usual.

Perhaps that is why, inhibitions lowered, his left knee keeps pressing up against the cushion of your thigh beneath the bartop. Adrian’s fingers keep skimming distractedly over the sleeve of your sweater.

Your own touches become careless in response, invigorated by Adrian’s unusual boldness with his hands in public. Your fingers trace delicately up the curve of his jaw, tickle past his ear and over the bump of the temple of his glasses, and card themselves through the fine brown curls atop his head. A shudder ripples through his body, eyes closing for a brief, indulgent second, which you take note of, as you scratch lightly at his skull. Captivated by the pink of his partially parted lips, by the way his blush extends to the tips of his ears.

Despite being tipsy, you’re mindful enough to feel a little guilty, a little hesitant of crossing any boundaries Adrian wordlessly sets up. But he currently displays none of the rigidity that comes forth when you accidentally overstep on your hang-outs (dates?). And so, emboldened by booze and this rare complacency in public, you do not stop the compliment that comes out of your mouth in a torrid murmur:

“You’re pretty.”

A smile inches on his face, slow with doubt but curved out of genuine joy. “You think I’m pretty?”

You nod, and grin with vodka-warmed lips, and how could anyone not think Adrian Chase was pretty? “I hope you don’t mind that I touch you.”

Adrian shivers again as your fingers trail back behind his head, tracing patterns at the back of his neck. “I don’t- I mean, I like-” his eyes flutter, his voice continues to stammer- “it’s good when you touch me.”

“Is it?” You blink slow, mascara-laden lashes at him. “Because sometimes, it doesn’t really seem like you like it.”

He frowns. “Really?” And then, because he’s worried you’ll stop gracing him with the gift of your hands, he hurriedly declares, “because I really like when you touch me.”

You want to lick the blush off his cheeks. You want to nibble his bottom lip until you memorize the taste on your tongue for weeks to come.

And, shit, maybe you’re just, like, a tad too tipsy, but if you don’t feel his hands on your bare skin soon, you think you may actually cry.

So with a coquettish tilt of your head, you tell him, “I like when you touch me, too.”

God, you don't remember the last time you’ve felt this good.

There’s the near-pleasant buzz of alcohol in the thick of your skull as you cling to Adrian, two of his fingers curling into the warm clutch of your sex. He feels amazing. Fingers surprisingly thick, knuckles brushing rhythmically against the constricting walls of your cunt, kindling for your sensitive nerves. Flames lick up until something sweet simmers low in your gut.

You and Adrian haven’t… done this, yet. All your make-out sessions have been exclusively over-the-pants stuff. Heavy petting. Dry humping. Things that you should, quite frankly, feel embarrassed about at your age. Things that, if it were anyone else, would have driven them away from you long ago. Real adults fuck by now.

But Adrian’s still here. Knuckle-deep and everything. And so you do not feel embarrassed, especially when he looks at you with those pretty green eyes behind his glasses in wonder, as though he’s the lucky one out of the both of you for allowing him to touch you. He doesn’t even complain about the nights where you part and he’s uncomfortably hard in his jeans, adjusting himself as he puts his car in drive.

You’ve thought about it, of course. Of him. Several nights where you fondled yourself in the depressing dark of your bedroom, keeping frustratingly quiet because you have the displeasure of living with your parents again.

But your hands, they don’t do it justice. The roll of your clit on your own digit, the dig of your own fingers between your own folds -- why’d you even bother? It pales in comparison to the real thing, to the way Adrian is currently buried as deep as he could get in this seated position in the backseat of his Sebring, fingers burrowing and drenched in your palpable pleasure.

It feels warm. That’s normal. Alcohol hums in your veins and everything feels electrifying. Your grasp on Adrian’s shoulder tightens as his thumb grazes the sensitive nub of your clit. Breath hitching, stuttering pants getting caught in the confined space between you, scented bitterly of coffee and vodka.

Adrian bears much of your weight against his side. You’re practically slumped against him, a quivering heap of a person as you pant against his collar.

Your sweater feels like too much, scratchy against your skin, the snug fit against your torso entirely unwanted. While the top half of your body is engulfed in the overwhelming sensations of discomfort -- too much, too itchy, too hot -- your thighs are enticingly exposed. Girlish pleated skirt rucked up around Adrian’s shifting wrist as he pumps in and out of you, panties (soaked!) pulled harshly to the side, allowing him full access.

“Are you seriously this wet for me?” It sounds like awe in his voice, like he can’t fucking believe you’re a mess. For him.

You whimper into his clavicle. Quiver in his hold. Even though he’s finally touching you, fingers actually inside of your fluttering walls, you may just cry anyway. Why’d you hold out for so long? Why didn’t you let this happen sooner?

Desperate, your arms circle around his neck, and you pull your tits flush to his chest needing more. More what? You don’t even know what to ask for, you just know you need to be as close to Adrian as you can get. Your legs close, thighs clamping shut around his thrusting hand. It limits his movements, but it does not lessen the friction. You like the dig of his trapped, pumping hand against your inner thighs. It makes you whine. Your hips juts forward, eager to meet his thrust.

Adrian’s mouth hangs open at the sight, at the feel of your desperation, the noises spilling forth from your lips. You grind against his palm, and he adjusts the angle of his wrist just a touch so that he digs in deeper, until the tips of his fingers brush against something sweet and swollen that makes you feel like you’re going to unravel in this old, shitty sedan.

You mewl his name against his neck, continuously grinding against the meat of his palm, chasing the delicious friction until you sob because you’re close, but not quite there yet. You haven’t been touched like this in so long. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you latch onto Adrian’s earlobe in incontinent frustration, the salt of skin on your tongue sating you, if only a little.

And Adrian -- why anyone says he’s not good at reading people is beyond you -- his grip on your waist tightens, digging and bruising, and his other thumb finds its way to your clit again, circling rough and erratic, meeting the shallow moil of your helpless rutting hips. It makes your nerves crackle, a current of dizzying delight shooting up your core until something bursts in your belly and you’re suddenly chasing starlight into the dark depths of space. You cry out, a broken moan tumbling out in the dark space, the fogged up glass, shuddering in Adrian’s hold as your orgasm overtakes you.

The liquor and the fullness of Adrian’s hand in your thighs, fingers still in your dripping cunt, all coalesce into lightheadedness. It feels like the car is slowly inching forwards. Or backwards. You can’t tell. Adrian’s still finger-fucking you.

It’s like he’s in a trance. Completely fixated by the way his hand is wedged between your still-clenched thighs (which you have difficulty spreading open again. Not wanting to let go of this overwhelming feeling, yet).

You slump back against the seat when his other hand coaxes your thighs open, though, with a fascinated boldness that leaves your mouth dry. You watch him as he watches the way you spread for him, the way you’ve spilled for him, inner thighs glistening with the sheen of your juices. You both look down at the evidence of your orgasm pooling in his palm.

“That’s so hot,” he breathes, completely spellbound. His earnestness is boyish and silly and makes you giggle, though it comes out a bit hoarse. You need water.

When Adrian finally pulls his fingers out of you, the loss nearly shatters you. You pout. Maybe even whine a bit.

“Okay, full transparency here,” he starts, wiping his palm on his jeans, “I’m probably going to want to play with your pussy, like, all the time now.”

His declaration shouldn’t surprise you the way it does. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but you’ve noticed the more you expose of yourself (in this case, literally) the less Adrian holds back. The more abrasive his comments. Everything that comes out of his mouth is usually unfiltered but the instances of vulgarity always trips you up.

Probably because he is unflinchingly honest.

(Most of the time.)

And because you like him (like, a lot), and are drunk (just a little) you grin all pretty and bashful at him and say, “Adrian Chase, you can play with my pussy whenever you’d like. You’re, like, really good at it.”

His shoulders roll back, chest puffed out with pride as he smiles back and thanks you. You grab his smile between your hands and pull his face towards yours, capturing his bottom lip between your teeth so you can taste it, you hope, for weeks to come.

And if his hand slides between your legs again, you do not stop him.

taglist: @whatevermonkey @nobodys-baby-now

#adrian chase #vigilante #peacemaker #peacemaker tv #adrian chase x reader #vigilante x reader #fic #mine #writing #adrian chase fanfiction

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honeycombstrawberry · 2 years

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healing hearts

pairing: adrian chase x gn reader (established relationship) rating: gen+ word count: 2,688 one-sentence synopsis: adrian assumes the worst when he hasn't heard from you in a couple of days, even though you've only been home sick with the flu. author's note: i have been. so very sick. take care of me adrian chase

>> read on ao3!! <<

There’s an incessant pounding coming from— somewhere.

You’re not totally sure what the source of the noise is. Actually, you’re not even entirely sure that it’s not completely in your own head. It’s certainly hurt bad enough for the last— you lift your head to squint at the bleary numbers on your bedside clock— two days that you could be hearing a pounding by now, to reflect the pounding ache inside of it.

Checking the clock again, just to be sure, you verify— yeah, you’ve been asleep off and on for about two days, now. You don’t know what monster flu you caught, but it’s completely knocked the wind out of you.

You’ve had pretty much no energy since you got back home from work the other day and immediately crashed. The entire time you’d been on shift, you’d started feeling worse and worse; on the commute home, you’d nearly had to stop and vomit on the side of the road several times. It’d been a miracle you made it home in one piece at all, let alone managing to drag yourself into bed.

Since then, you’ve been alternating between struggling to get anything into your body, struggling to keep it there, and— sleeping, mostly. Lots of sleeping. It’s felt almost impossible to stay awake, your body continuously attempting to turn itself off to heal itself.

Your aching head is still throbbing in time with what you’ve determined is definitely an outside-source sort of knocking-pounding.

“Hello?” you try to ask, but your voice is scratchy with disuse and illness. Trying to clear it just hurts, so you give up, grimacing as you push yourself upright. You rasp, “Hold on,” but whoever’s knocking doesn’t hear you, or otherwise doesn’t care.

Your joints hurt like hell, but you manage to get yourself on your feet and moving in the direction of your front door. It definitely takes longer than it would normally; you’ve only made it to your bedroom doorway when you hear a bafflingly loud crash from down the hall, your head splitting with the sudden jarring noise of it.

Instinctively, you push the heels of your hands into your eyes, then drag them up until you can grip onto your hair, for a moment, head throbbing.

“Where are you?” you hear a voice down the hall, and you’re simultaneously relieved and incredibly confused that it’s Adrian. “What the fuck— What the fuck—”

“What?” you ask, your voice still cracking, leaning in your bedroom doorway.

Adrian whirls at the sound you make— barely a word, really, but loud enough to be heard this time, at least— and you’re not prepared for how upset he looks. The expression on his face is inexplicably devastated, agonized with the sort of emotion you don’t really expect to see outside of the direst of scenarios. Even, really— Even then, Adrian’s got a smile on his face, most of the time.

Not now, though. Now, he’s half-dressed in his Vigilante gear, and panicked, and running down the hallway towards you before you can even try to process that he’s here, let alone what the hell is happening right now.

Without hesitating, he wraps you right up in his arms, burying his face in your throat. His hold is tight, and your muscles all ache, but it almost feels good, in a pressure sort of way. The way it settles something inside your chest, too, isn’t something to be ignored; you feel a little bit better just for not being alone, just for having him here. You’re not— Your relationship isn’t serious serious, but you—

He still means a lot to you, more than you think anybody else in your life means to you, at this point. He’s still a source of comfort to you; he still makes you feel better. You hope your relationship will become more serious— maybe even serious serious— but it’s not there yet. But—

Still, here’s Adrian, gripping you so tightly it feels like your ribs move. You hug him back, even though you’re a little confused.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him. Your congestion and scratching throat make you slightly incoherent, but he still seems to understand what you’re saying.

“What’s wrong?” Adrian asks. “What’s wr— I thought you were dead.”

“Why the f—” you start, but then start coughing, your voice too abruptly sharp and rough for your throat, right now. Adrian backs up a little bit, panicked, when you bring your arm up, covering your face as you cough and struggle to breath, for a moment. You nearly end up gagging, at the end, but there’s really nothing in your stomach, so you manage to straighten out again after a moment, dizzy and frowning.

“What’s wrong with you?” Adrian asks, quickly. “Something’s wrong. What happened? Did you get poisoned, is that what this is? Poison? Did someone hurt you? Did—”

“Adrian,” you cut him off, head throbbing. You immediately feel a surge of over-emotional guilt for interrupting him, your illness-addled brain bringing up too much unnecessary feeling in response. Almost tearfully, and embarrassed because of it, you say, “I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Adrian says. “I’m sorry, I should be— I should be quieter, sorry. What can I do? What’s wrong, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you tell him. At his incredulous expression, you tell him, “I’m just sick. It’ll pass.” You hesitate, thinking you’re going to sneeze, but it doesn’t happen, which is kind of worse. Frowning, now, you say, “I just feel like shit.”

Adrian pauses, looking like he wants to push back into you at the same time that he’s not sure he’s allowed to. After a beat, he asks, “Why didn’t you— I tried calling? You didn’t answer.”

You glance backwards into your room, at the bag that you’d dropped on the floor the second you got home. Your phone hadn’t ended up anywhere near its charger, nor your hand; you’d completely forgotten about it, honestly. It’s probably been dead for over a day by now.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, feeling genuinely apologetic, new guilt coursing through you. Your voice almost breaks when you say, “I didn’t mean to, I was just sleeping,” and you flash with an embarrassed heat because of it, forcing you to flush hotter than your fever’s already brought you.

“Oh, hey, it’s okay,” Adrian says. His face is crumpling, tone softening; you feel bad for being the reason it’s there, even if you’re not entirely sure why it’s here at all. “Don’t be upset, I’m not mad, I’m— I was just worried about you, and, like, you didn’t call or message or even, like, view my messages, and I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong but if I had I wanted to give you your space, but then nobody else heard from you and you haven’t posted anything and I was starting to panic a little bit that something happened, or someone took you, or they hurt you because of me, or that maybe you would—”

He cuts himself off, this time, chest heaving. He’s visibly agitated, practically vibrating in front of you, when he lifts his eyes to meet yours. You’re surprised to see the fear in them, and the hurt, because everything— everything is fine. It’s going to be alright; things like this happen. Really, it’s no big deal. People get sick. It’ll be fine.

Adrian, though—

Adrian didn’t know that.

Your chest clenches, your heart doing a strange sort of squeeze at the idea of not hearing from Adrian at all for two days, at the concept of him just dropping off the grid and not responding for no apparent reason. You’d—

In his line of work— or, his preferred line of work— you probably would have assumed the same thing. It hurts something in you, that his fear for you made him this terrified, that your absence rattled him this badly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, mistaking your silence. “I didn’t mean to talk so much again, you probably have a headache, and I’m—” He huffs a laugh that doesn’t sound all that amused, says, “I’m not making it any better, probably. Fuck, I’m sorry. Is there— Can I get you anything? Or I can just go— Actually, yeah, I should probably just g—”

“No,” you insist immediately. You reach out to grab onto him again, tilting right into him. Maybe your relationship isn’t serious serious, but it’s serious enough to be intimate; he wraps his arms around you in return without hesitating, kissing the side of your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he replies. “You’re sick, I shouldn’t— I was being clingy, I didn’t want—”

“No, you’re not,” you tell him. You don’t mean to interrupt again, but you can’t let him think this was anything but what it actually is. “It’s not clingy to want to hear from me. I’d be scared if I didn’t hear from you, either.” You bury yourself in his chest, taking comfort from him. You’re starting to get more exhausted, the longer you stand upright, your joints and spine and muscles and— everything aching; you trust him to hold you upright, though. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I just kind of— fell asleep. And I haven’t been awake that much. I’m— That was stupid. I should’ve thought—”

“Hey, no, come on, don’t do that,” Adrian says. “Sorry, I just— It’s not your fault. You just— You’re sick, you’re allowed to be sick. It’s shitty. I’m not— I don’t— I shouldn’t assume, just because I’m not here doesn’t mean—”

He stops again; you can feel the tension in his body, muscles tight. His armor’s hanging off him in pieces; the rest of it, you assume, is in his car. You wonder what his intentions were if he hadn’t found you here— if he’d thought you were missing and went out searching for you as Vigilante. You’ll have to ask him about those plans, another day; you’re a little intrigued by the instinctive protective streak in him.

For now, though, you’re trying to figure out the tension in what he isn’t saying, not what he isn’t doing. You think over his words for only a second before you get it, all of it clicking into place, a puzzle that fits until it’s a picture you can understand.

“Maybe now’s not the best time,” you say, half-incoherent through your throat and sinuses and emotion and everything else, “but maybe we could think about living closer. Like— together.” His arms automatically tighten around you, his face coming down to bury in his hair. “If you wanted. When I’m feeling better.”

“I’ll move in right now if you want,” Adrian answers immediately. “I’ll— Are you sure? You sure you’re not, like, fucked up on cold medicine? Do you know what you’re saying? What year is—”

“Adrian,” you laugh, even though it makes your chest tight. You can’t help it; it just happens, even through your sickness. “Yeah, I’m sure.” You push your face closer into his shoulder. “It’ll make it easier next time one of us’s sick.”

“So much easier,” Adrian insists. Without missing a beat, he ducks down to scoop you up. It’s so effortless for him, it’s as though you weigh nothing at all; you’re standing, and then you’re airborne, swept up in his arms. “Plus, then we can, like, hang out. We can hang out all the time. And we can— We can watch TV together! And movies! And we can make dinner together, and learn to, like— I don’t know, we can have— hobbies, and go places on the weekend, and decorate together, and I can—” He sets you down in bed again, his monologue broken for a moment when he presses a kiss to your overheated forehead. “—Yikes, you’re hot— and we can get a dog, maybe, or something like a— I don’t know, something cool, like a— house horse or something— And I can see you all the time and I’ll wake up every morning and you’ll be here with me.”

Adrian collapses down in bed beside you, at the end of it all, and you automatically turn towards him, seeking his comfort. You feel cold, even though you know you’re warm; his skin is so nice against yours, and you push for more of it, shoving pieces of his uniform out of the side to get at more of his flesh, desperate for the comfort of him, to feel better.

“As long as you’re sure,” Adrian adds, at the end of it all.

“I’m sure,” you tell him, already halfway back to sleeping.

“Oh, man, I should probably, like— do something,” Adrian says. Before you can ask what he actually means by that, he says, “Do you want soup, or something? I can make chicken, or—”

“Stop,” you tell him, your weak stomach turning at the thought of eating something right now.

He sees the color drain from your face and pulls you back in to rest against him, your head on his chest, ear over his heart.

“Maybe later,” he allows. “I’ll get you some water, though, maybe? Or I can help you change your clothes, or get you comfy. Want me to plug in your phone? Or bring you to the living room, and then you can watch the TV in there if you wanted, or if you wanted to take a shower, maybe, or a bath—” He stops himself, then. After a beat where he seems to think so loudly you can hear the gears turning in his head, he asks, “What do you want, though?”

You’re already most of the way back into what you want, right now. Half-asleep, you tell him, “I just wanna rest a little while,” muffled by his chest. You yawn, jaw cracking, the soft material of his undershirt shifting beneath your face as you do. “I want you.” Tightening your fingers around him, you ask, “Would you—”

“Yes, yeah, obviously,” Adrian answers, before your question is even finished. “I’ll be right here. Whole time, not going anywhere.” He kisses the top of your head. “You get some sleep. Your body needs it, you rest. I’ll keep an eye out for you. On you. Keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, exhausted. You can feel some stirring sort of excitement in the back of your chest, something that’ll probably come into full bloom once you’re healthy and coherent and awake enough to process that the two of you are going to be moving in together. “Can I have a hug?”

Adrian huffs an amused little laugh that sounds so impossibly fond that you want to melt inside of it. You can’t help loving him, hearing the love in his voice.

“Of course you can,” he says. He tugs you in tighter, arms wrapping closer around you, holding you near to his chest. “How’s that? That better?”

It’s so nice. It’s so nice, and so comforting, and you feel so much better— in your heart, and mind, and soul, if not in your body— and you can’t help the next words falling out of your mouth. It feels like he loves you, and you know that you love him, so you murmur, “Lots better. Thanks. Love you.”

Beneath your ear, Adrian’s heart starts speeding up impossibly quickly, faster and faster, thudding harder and harder. You’re already falling back asleep; you’re not coherent enough to realize what’s happening, or even what you’ve said to him.

“What?” he asks, but you’re completely unconscious again. Your head on his chest, eyes closed, breath evening out though it rasps through your tight chest and throat.

Belatedly, he realizes you’ve fallen asleep. He doesn’t know if you know what you’ve said, or if you mean it, but— it feels like you do. It does. And he realizes, then, the words that match the feelings he’s been feeling this entire time: he loves you, too.

You’re fast asleep, and you don’t hear him, but he says, voice half-hushed, grinning, “I love you, too,” and tightens his grip on you, kissing the top of your head again, keeping you held close.

adrian chase taglist, pt. 1

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