There were holes in Adrian's ceiling. Literal, leaky, paint-chipping holes. His landlord called it "urban charm." Adrian called it "mold with ambition."
He laid on a couch he got off Craigslist, half-covered in a robe that had seen too many spills and too few washes. The smell of last night's leftover noodles was still in the air—because that was dinner and he was planning on finishing it for breakfast.
But none of that mattered. Because online? He was a god.
He turned on his second-hand ring light—duct-taped to a broomstick—and opened his streaming setup. A janky webcam, a mic held together with a sock, and a custom overlay that looked expensive but was definitely bootlegged from Fiverr.
He checked the stream countdown.
00:02:11 until showtime.
Waiting: 128,039.
Adrian cracked his neck and glanced at the mirror. He looked good. Clean enough. Hair messy in a way that screamed I just got out of bed, but also maybe your dreams. A swipe of lip balm, a spritz of dollar store cologne—vanilla-something—and he was good to go.
"Alright," he muttered, adjusting the camera angle with a stack of old pizza boxes. "Time to lie to the internet."
The screen flashed.
Live.
His chat was already rolling like a wave of thirsty demons.
___
@WildeWife420: I missed you like air.
@QueenCream: Just sat down. Panties already off.
@MILFInTheMist: My husband's asleep. Let's misbehave.
___
Adrian leaned in close, lips brushing the mic sock like he was whispering to a lover.
"Good evening, sinners. Miss me?"
The chat exploded.
He smirked. That same smirk that made bank. That made women double-check their battery percentage and adjust their blankets.
"I thought about you all night," he said, shifting in the chair so his robe slipped down just enough to show a little hip bone. "Woke up thinking about hands. Not mine. Yours."
He reached for his mug—half coffee, half regret—and took a slow sip, pinky up like this was high tea with horny royalty.
Behind the screen, there were exposed wires, a weird smell from the wall, and a neighbor yelling at her cat. But none of it touched him. Not while he was on.
Tonight's stream? Just him yapping and doing some tributes that the viewers wanted.
He leaned back, letting the robe fall open just a little more. Not enough to violate terms of service. Just enough to violate self-control.
"So," he purred, "y'all sent in requests. And one really stood out. A little messy. A little bold. A little… red-haired assassin-y."
The chat went feral instantly.
___
@CumForWidow: OH MY GOD AGAIN??
@SnackForNat: Is this the Widow Tribute Sequel??
@SlipperyStark: You're playing with fire, baby.
___
Adrian chuckled. "You naughty things really want me to get assassinated, huh?"
He reached offscreen and pulled out a new photo—Black Widow again. But this time? A candid someone had snapped during a mission. She looked pissed. Which, for Adrian's chat, was practically porn.
"I'm not saying this stream is dedicated to her," he said slowly, voice dropping, "but if she's watching… I want her to know I'm a very... obedient man."
His tone was full of sin. But his mind was running math.
Because ever since that first Widow stream? Everything had changed.
Fan art flooded his inbox. Some cute, some thirstier than the Mariana Trench. His face—barely recognizable thanks to good lighting and better filters—was now being drawn with muscles he didn't have and poses that'd snap his real back in half.
Some fans tagged Natasha Romanoff directly.
Some tagged actual Avengers.
He slowly lowered the camera angle, grabbed a red silk blindfold from the side, and let it dangle from his fingers like a promise.
"So who's ready to be bad?"
The chat howled. Emoji storms. Horny confessions. Even someone claiming they saw Thor's hammer twitch on stream. (Debatable.)
The next hour was pure chaos. Moaning, teasing, tributes with candles and slow music. At one point, someone in the chat proposed marriage. Twice.
And just when Adrian thought things couldn't get any hotter…
Ping. Ping. Ping.
His DMs blew up.
___
@SpitOnMeSarge: I'll give you ten grand if you say my name while spitting in a glass.
@MutantMommy: Can I send you my underwear? No joke.
@WandaWannaPlay: I showed your stream to a friend. She wants to watch you with me next time. Bring rope.
___
He tried to play it cool, but his face was turning redder than his balance sheet.
Then he saw it.
A message request from a verified account.
@MoniqueMonroeOfficial.
Adrian blinked.
No way.
He clicked the message like it might vanish if he breathed too hard.
"Hey cutie. Loved your Widow stream. Wanna collab? Think our fans would die for it. Call me. I don't bite... unless it's part of the script. ;)"
Adrian's brain blue-screened.
Monique Monroe. The Monique. Queen of late-night thirst traps. A-list model, minor celeb, once rumored to be dating a mutant, and now? Apparently, watching his stream while wearing God-knows-what.
He checked the username again. Verified. No typo. No scam link to crypto hell.
His stomach twisted, but this time in a way that said opportunity instead of impending lawsuit.
He slowly turned to his webcam—still hot, still on, still pointed at his face.
He leaned in.
"Hey, uh… minor update. We might have a very special stream coming soon."
The chat exploded like a volcano made of lust and exclamation points.
___
@WildeWife420: YOU BETTER NOT BE JOKING
@CreamMeTwice: COLLAB WITH WHO? SPIT IT OUT
___
He grinned. It was shaky. Like a man trying to look confident while internally screaming.
He ended the stream quickly after that, throwing out a wink and an "I love it when you beg," before slamming his laptop shut and throwing himself backward onto the couch.
The springs creaked like they were protesting this nonsense.
"I'm not ready for this," he muttered.
Then checked the message again.
And smiled.
"...but I'm sure as hell not saying no."