Chapter Text
Where is she?
Adam stares down at the huge ass fucking shield that’s using their own fucking weapons to attack them and he knows he should care more for the fact there’s an actual shit-you-not uprising before him, but—
Chess isn’t here.
Chess is nowhere to be fucking seen.
Adam sweeps another look over the landscape, taking in the army of cannibals (yeah, he recognises those fuckers; Chess has only been intervening for seven years; he hasn’t forgotten all the different types of sinners in that time) along princess rainbows with her fellow idiots.
There’s no Chess.
Is this it then? Has she fucking ditched him? Written him off? Just like every other fucking woman in his life, has she found something else? Somebody else?
“Sir—“
“Shut the fuck up, Lute.” He doesn’t want to know what she’s going to say, doesn’t want to think about the fucking shield or the shit-show beyond it or—
Something ploughs into him.
Adam’s breath is punched out of him as he hits the ground, groaning and hunching in on himself, but he still manages to squint up at what hit him.
Chess is standing by his side, her hands planted on the substantial swell of her curvy-as-shit hips, scowl on her face and she’s wearing his her jacket.
And not much else.
“What the fuck?” Adam grunts, unable to peel his eyes away from the babydoll she’s got on underneath. It looks strikingly at odds with her usual fighting boots and hastily clipped on belt-and-sword combo. “Why are you showing up to our fight in a fucking nighty?” It’s not a nighty, but like hell is Adam going to admit to knowing what particular style of women’s nightwear it is.
“Show up— you absolute fucker! You’re six months early!” Chess snarls, one fist raised in fury and there’s even that fucking flame in the middle of her horns, face truly monstrous with her rage— wait.
“Hold the fuck up— did no one bother to tell you the extermination got moved up?!” Adam chokes out, looking over his shoulder to the quivering shield of voodoo magic, where princess rainbows looks away sheepishly and her companions all look at each other in an unspoken ‘I thought that was your responsibility?’
Adam snaps his head back around to look at Chess just in time to catch the offence wafting over her face, red cheeks turning that little bit darker.
He knows how dark they can get, has been the reason why they’ve ripened before, and he has every fucking intention of doing so again. More importantly though—
“Do you have any fucking clue what is happening here?”
“…No…” Chess admits with a reluctant huff and Adam can’t help but laugh.
For fuck’s sake.
“What the ever-loving fuck is this?”
When Chess had been crisply informed she had a meeting to attend at the Heaven embassy (one she’d cheerfully informed her dad she most definitely knew about in advance and he had no reason to be worried about it, no siree), the last thing she’d been expecting was this.
Chess blinks, looking down at the photos, the back up at Adam. She tries, she really does, but there’s no way she can do anything but focus on that flush of gold across his cheeks. She wants to immortalise the sight of him right now, but she’s no Michelangelo or DaVinci (they both went to Heaven; a shame).
However, she does have—
“Why the fuck are you taking a photo?!” Adam snaps, slamming a closed fist down on the tabletop and Chess nonchalantly slides her phone back into her pocket.
“Where did you get those photos?”
“Where did I—“ Adam breaks off, eyes narrowing, nose scrunching under the pressure of his scowl and Chess tries not to focus too much on the cute little crinkle of skin over the bridge. She already taken one photo; if she tries for another, she’s quite certain that Adam will try to kill her, deal between Heaven and Hell be damned. “These fucking photos are on every fucking blog, billboard and shit knows what else!”
“Every blog, billboard and shit knows what else in Hell,” Chess corrects with a droll huff, one of her eyebrows creeping up as she considers Adam again. “How do you have them in Heaven?”
Adam flushes that little bit further, rising onto his feet so he can look over his end of the table and so he can try to intimidate her with his height, no doubt. Well, jokes on him because she’s into that shit. He’s staring her down and Chess remains in her seat, relaxed, as he counters with, “We’re Heaven; of course we keep tabs on the shit show that goes on down here.”
“If so, then you’d know our fight in the BDSM club wrecked a huge amount of their stuff. I asked them how I could help them out–“
“And this way their answer?!” Adam slams his hand down on the pictures again, and Chess reaches forwards just enough to slip one out from under his grasp, a sly little smile broaching her face.
It’s a picture of her, dressed in her custom-made leather jacket and not a whole lot else. She got to keep all the underwear from that photoshoot actually, something she’s glad for; which as it’s all either cute as fuck or makes her look like Hell’s hottest piece of ass.
“I don’t see your problem,” Chess says, even though she’s well aware of what exactly Adam’s problem is. It’s plain as day, scrawled across most of the shots via photo manipulation software. “It’s not like they put any photos of you in these.”
“The fucking slogan, you little cunt,” Adam seethes, golden eyes narrowing at her (visible because she’s still got the broken mask he left behind) and Chess grins back, unrepentant. They both look down at the images again, where phrases such as ‘make your angel behave’ and ‘the closest to Heaven you’ll get’ and scrawled tastefully across each picture that features Chess. And yeah, she’ll concede that the one with a super-imposed shadow of Adam at her back, tagged with a ‘so good angels Fall for this’ might be a little close to the bone for Heaven’s taste. But there’s plausible deniability by using a shadow. After all, there are a fuck ton of demons with horns; if this ‘one’ they sued for the photoshoot just so happens to have a similar build and horn-shape to what Adam uses for his mask, well that’s just poor choice on Adam’s part, isn’t it?
It’s really not and Chess is definitely getting a kick out of this, but she’s got to at least play at a little bit of innocence on this.
“I fight against the extermination; of course they’re gonna pick some angel related puns.”
That’s evidentially too much for Adam; he launches himself across the table and Chess is ready for him. They crash into one another with a bang and she has a single moment to feel surprised that he’s here in person, and then he’s pressing her face to the table, one hand tight in her hair, the other on her shoulder.
Chess stills completely. Her heart pounds against the cage of her ribs, prey caught in a trap and ever so flighty for it. Somehow, she manages to let loose a low exhale instead of the breathy moan, or the quiet whimper, that she wants to. Clenching her hands into fists so she doesn’t do something stupid - like try to fist them into Adam’s robe or something - Chess fights enough against Adam’s hold to look over her shoulder at him.
She doesn’t need to say a word; she can see the moment their position registers in his head with how his eyes snap down to her ass, that golden flush so much brighter now and—
Oh.
He’s grinning.
He’s fucking grinning.
“You look a lot better like this,” he laughs, a mean little tinge to his words and Chess bites down on her lip hard enough to sting.
“I suppose I should have done a few shots where I’m more submissive,” Chess drawls back, arching her back and giving up the ghost with a low groan.
It’s enough to snap Adam right out of whatever fantasy he’s dropped into, letting her go as if she burns, stepping back and away and Chess is only half-disappointed as she twists about on the table so she’s sitting on the edge instead.
“Don’t do any more fucking pictures!” he snaps, pointing one dark finger her way and Chess pushes down the instinctive urge to lean forwards and bite it. “And fucking stop referring to me with them!”
He storms off out of the room, a sparkling golden portal sweeping him away, but Chess doesn’t miss the fact he’d snatched up a few of the photos as he went.
Huh.
“Oi,” Chess grumbles, tugging on a stray tuff of Adam’s hair, just behind his ear and doggedly ignoring the half-hearted swat he gives her arm.
They’re sitting on the sofa in Adam’s apartment and it’s so comfortable it’s practically sinful. Really, it shouldn’t be here at all, she should take it back to Hell with her, do him a favour by removing it from Heaven’s pure environment.
It would look so much better in her room at Charlie’s hotel.
“What, bitch?” Adam grumbles, threading a hand through her hair and giving a retaliatory tug of his own. It draws a hiss from Chess’ lips, but it’s not enough for her to bother trying to force his hand away from her. Not when that idiot knows she likes it a little rough; hair-pulling is like a love-tap really.
“What’re you thinking about?”
“What am I— the fuck?” Adam laughs a little, like he can’t quite believe the conversation they’re having. “What kind of idiot asks questions like that outta the blue?”
“If your head is empty, then just admit it.”
“Fuck you,” Adam seethes, pressing the words into the crown of her hair and Chess snuggles a little closer into his side, releasing her own hold on his hair to instead rest her palm over his chest, feeling the steady ‘thump-thump-thump’ of his heart beating beneath the warmth of his breastbone. “You fucking weirdo.”
“I just want to hear your voice,” Chess says quietly, paying no specific attention to the way Adam stills ever so slightly beneath her touch, a sure sign that she’s got his attention. She doesn’t need to look to know he’s staring down at her with that little shocked face, the parted lips, the slightly widened eyes with an ever so subtle sheen to them. It’s not an expression she gets to see often, mainly because she looks away whenever she notices he’s wearing it, always has since the first and only time she’d dared to soak in the sight. It’d made Adam seem a little too vulnerable and she’s too destructive to be near such a fragile thing.
She continues on, pretending like everything is as it was before she’d allowed the admission to slip from her lips. “Figured asking you to sing or something would be too romantic.” Too romantic for them. Because they don’t have that, do they? What they have is lust and thrill and daring; it’s stolen moments hidden from the judgement of Heaven’s watchful eye and the gluttony of Hell’s vicious criticism.
And maybe Chess is greedy to want more than this (to want to have all of Adam, to have him crawl into that metaphorical hole in her chest and fill it, to make this existence feel whole all of the time, as opposed to the quick moments they can steal) but she does. Want it that is.
She wants it more than she’s ever wanted anything ever.
Maybe it’s a Morningstar thing, to always strive for something more, something better, and then to fall and crash and burn once you’ve achieved it.
“You want me to sing for you, princess?” Adam taunts, the derision thick in that final word, though it’s completely at odds with the way he presses his nose into the crown of her hair, inhaling her scent like he can’t get enough of it, like he needs to memorise it, like he’s become so familiar with it he struggles to sense it now among the rest of his apartment.
She’s not spent enough time here for that. Not yet.
His words are a complete contrast to how he curls that little bit more around her, how his wings flutter ever so slightly until one is shielding them from the sun threatening to sear their retinas.
“I’d be happy to listen to you talk about – I don’t know – whatever song you’re learning to play now on your guitar, or your favourite place to get ribs. I’d even listen to you complaining as long as I don’t have to move.” To emphasise her point, Chess rests her cheek on Adam’s chest, nuzzling that little bit closer to him. Her head rises as he takes a deep inhale, and falls as he exhales it in one long breath.
When Adam does open his mouth though, Chess feels a zing of delight tear through her when it’s not word that come out, but a melody, clearly improvised, but carried perfectly in tune all the same.
“The best place for ribs is a joint by the sea. I go there ‘cause my bitch-ass girlfriend don’t cook for me~”
Chess scoffs, digging her elbow into Adam’s side as he laughs at his own cleverness, a wicked smile on his lips when she chances a glance up to look at him. He continues, finger and thumb capturing her jaw in a gentle grasp to implore her to keep looking at him.
“’Cause she spends all her time fighting, her body’s tight, I like it, she’s really fucking weird, but I put up with her~”
Whatever Adam plans to include in his next verse is cut off as Chess presses her lips to his, silencing his little melody in favour of sliding her lips against his. Adam, being Adam, instantly gets absorbed in their kiss, only returning to their previous topic when she pulls back and away.
“Thought you wanted to hear my voice, tits?”
“Mmm, I wanna kiss you more, right now.”
“Hey.”
Adam slowly flicks his eyes open, peering down at Chess, who’s staring back up at him from where her head is nestled on his arm. It’s… it’s a trip, waking up with her next to him, one of her dry, warm hands tracing patterns on his ribs, as if she has no intentions of ever rising to greet the day.
Adam gets where she’s coming from.
He just wishes she hadn’t fucking woken him up.
“Brat,” Adam grumbles, tipping his head to a side so he can nuzzle against the crown of golden hair that tops her head, inhaling her scent. She smells of something fruity (not apples, thank god), and makes this cute-ass noise when he cuddles closer to her. Fuck it, he can cuddle her in the comforts of his own room. No one will ever know he’s gone soft on her, ‘cept form Chess herself, and she won’t say anything because then she’ll be admitting she’s gone soft too.
(Someday in the future, he’ll look back and laugh at the thought that Chess wouldn’t want others to think her soft— not when she could proudly proclaim he’s all hers. The worst is, he can’t even get pissy at her for it, nor when she croons like he’s the best fucking prize in the universe. Take that, Lilith, you bitch!)
“That’s hot-sauce to you, rib-boy,” she retaliates, though the bite to her words is startlingly absent, replaced by an admirable level of drowsiness. She pushes her cold-ass nose into the crook of his shoulder, a wordless apology following as she presses a sweet little kiss there a moment after. Adam doesn’t comment.
Yes, having her offer these tender little kisses is so fucking far away from how they should be acting with each other (how they were acting with each other) that he should be calling her out on it.
But fuck it.
They’re nice.
He can’t remember the last time he got sweet little kisses like that. Not filthy snogs, not desperate clashes of lips on lips, all with the intent of keeping his interest (with the intent of getting the original dick).
That’s not to say Chess isn’t interested - she’s very fucking interested; he’s dicked her down good enough she keeps coming back for more - but she doesn’t kiss him demanding it.
Sometimes, she just fucking kisses him because she can, because she wants to. She doesn’t even expect him to kiss her back.
It makes him want to.
“Fucking put that hot sauce on me then,” Adam grumbles, tracing a sure line down her spine and savouring the way she shivers under his touch, naked ass chest pressing up against his.
And then she swings her leg over his hips, laying herself across his body, chin planted right in his sternum with her hands tucked up just before it.
He is now very much awake.