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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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