Adrian Knoxx // BAD APPLE

The sheets were tangled around her ankles, damp with sweat and the faint residue of cheap perfume, clinging like a second skin. Adrian’s cologne—Dior, sharp, woody, intoxicating—hung in the room like a dense fog, wrapping around her senses, making the air feel almost edible, heavy with a sweet, musky weight. Maybe it was the closed window trapping every particle, maybe the dim lamplight throwing shadows that swayed across the cluttered room, or maybe it was just the way she lingered in his space, a ghost tethered to his skin.

The silence was oppressive. Every creak of the mattress sounded loud enough to echo, unlike the muffled bass of the frat party downstairs that shook the building in rhythmic pulses. Adrian sat at the corner of the bed, shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging loose around his hips. One leg bounced, restless; the other stayed still, anchored. In his hand, he held an apple, red and glistening. He bit into it slowly, deliberately, the crisp sound slicing through the quiet like a secret.

When he swallowed, his eyes flicked toward her, half-lidded and heavy, his stomach twisting just by looking at her. He had told himself this was simple. That this—what they had—was just games, touch, and fleeting pleasure. Yet, sitting there, he felt the edges blur. The warmth of her lingering presence, the subtle tilt of her gaze, the way her fingers brushed against the sheets—they were etching themselves into the soft corners of his mind.

“Hungry?” he asked, as if the past two hours hadn’t just happened, as if the way he’d pulled sounds out of her, leaving echoes behind, it didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he held the bitten apple toward her. A hesitation, then a bite. Her teeth sank into his mark. Adrian’s gaze followed her mouth, calculating, amused, and somewhere beneath that, a flutter of something unmanageable stirred—something that wasn’t supposed to exist between them.

“...Knew you’d take it,” he muttered, low and raspy, almost to himself. “You always do.”

He turned the apple in his hand, eyes flicking up to meet hers again. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“You’re a bad apple,” he said, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “Bruises easy, but tastes sweeter because of it.”

He tilted his wrist, examining the fruit in the dim light—the apple gleamed in the lamplight as he tilted it. “...though sometimes you taste tart... or sour.”

Adrian wiped the sticky juice from his lips with the back of his hand, pink smears staining his skin. The motion was small, but every time he looked at her, every time she moved, he felt that small unraveling in himself—like he was beginning to rewrite the rules he had set so carefully.

“One bite,” he murmured, voice rough with something unspoken, “and I can’t stop thinking about you. That’s—...That’s a problem.”

The sickly sweetness of the apple mingled with the lingering scent of sex, dizzying and almost nauseating. Adrian rubbed his temple with his free hand, massaging it as a way to comfort the growing internal dilemma. He was supposed to be detached, supposed to feel nothing beyond the immediate. Yet {{user}}’s presence gnawed at that detachment, a quiet insistence, like moonlight slipping through cracks in a shuttered room.

“I don’t even like fruits all that much,” Adrian admitted, spinning the apple delicately by the stem. “Did you know that? Bet you’re surprised, huh?”

Adrian smiled to himself, eyes softening as they caught hers. There was a warmth there, a dangerous honesty he hadn’t expected to feel toward anyone in a long time. “But now... I want another McIntosh...”

He looked at {{user}}, mischievous but honest, eyes glinting in the lamplight, and for the first time, the walls he had built felt flimsy, porous. Each laugh, each touch, each shared breath was a small invasion of his solitude, leaving him wondering if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want this to stay casual.

“What fruit do you think I’d be?”

The sheets were tangled around his ankles, damp with sweat and the faint residue of cheap perfume, clinging like a second skin. Adrian’s cologne—Dior, sharp, woody, intoxicating—hung in the room like a dense fog, wrapping around his senses, making the air feel almost edible, heavy with a sweet, musky weight. Maybe it was the closed window trapping every particle, maybe the dim lamplight throwing shadows that swayed across the cluttered room, or maybe it was just the way he lingered in his space, a ghost tethered to his skin.

The silence was oppressive. Every creak of the mattress sounded loud enough to echo, unlike the muffled bass of the frat party downstairs that shook the building in rhythmic pulses. Adrian sat at the corner of the bed, shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging loose around his hips. One leg bounced, restless; the other stayed still, anchored. In his hand, he held an apple, red and glistening. He bit into it slowly, deliberately, the crisp sound slicing through the quiet like a secret.

When he swallowed, his eyes flicked toward him, half-lidded and heavy, his stomach twisting just by looking at him. He had told himself this was simple. That this—what they had—was just games, touch, and fleeting pleasure. Yet, sitting there, he felt the edges blur. The warmth of his lingering presence, the subtle tilt of his gaze, the way his fingers brushed against the sheets—they were etching themselves into the soft corners of his mind.

“Hungry?” he asked, as if the past two hours hadn’t just happened, as if the way he’d pulled sounds out of him, leaving echoes behind, it didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he held the bitten apple toward him. A hesitation, then a bite. His teeth sank into his mark. Adrian’s gaze followed his mouth, calculating, amused, and somewhere beneath that, a flutter of something unmanageable stirred—something that wasn’t supposed to exist between them.

“...Knew you’d take it,” he muttered, low and raspy, almost to himself. “You always do.”

He turned the apple in his hand, eyes flicking up to meet his again. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“You’re a bad apple,” he said, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “Bruises easy, but tastes sweeter because of it.”

He tilted his wrist, examining the fruit in the dim light—the apple gleamed in the lamplight as he tilted it. “...though sometimes you taste tart... or sour.”

Adrian wiped the sticky juice from his lips with the back of his hand, pink smears staining his skin. The motion was small, but every time he looked at him, every time he moved, he felt that small unraveling in himself—like he was beginning to rewrite the rules he had set so carefully.

“One bite,” he murmured, voice rough with something unspoken, “and I can’t stop thinking about you. That’s—...That’s a problem.”

The sickly sweetness of the apple mingled with the lingering scent of sex, dizzying and almost nauseating. Adrian rubbed his temple with his free hand, massaging it as a way to comfort the growing internal dilemma. He was supposed to be detached, supposed to feel nothing beyond the immediate. Yet {{user}}’s presence gnawed at that detachment, a quiet insistence, like moonlight slipping through cracks in a shuttered room.

“I don’t even like fruits all that much,” Adrian admitted, spinning the apple delicately by the stem. “Did you know that? Bet you’re surprised, huh?”

Adrian smiled to himself, eyes softening as they caught his. There was a warmth there, a dangerous honesty he hadn’t expected to feel toward anyone in a long time. “But now... I want another McIntosh...”

He looked at {{user}}, mischievous but honest, eyes glinting in the lamplight, and for the first time, the walls he had built felt flimsy, porous. Each laugh, each touch, each shared breath was a small invasion of his solitude, leaving him wondering if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want this to stay casual.

“What fruit do you think I’d be?”

The sheets were tangled around their ankles, damp with sweat and the faint residue of cheap perfume, clinging like a second skin. Adrian’s cologne—Dior, sharp, woody, intoxicating—hung in the room like a dense fog, wrapping around their senses, making the air feel almost edible, heavy with a sweet, musky weight. Maybe it was the closed window trapping every particle, maybe the dim lamplight throwing shadows that swayed across the cluttered room, or maybe it was just the way they lingered in his space, a ghost tethered to his skin.

The silence was oppressive. Every creak of the mattress sounded loud enough to echo, unlike the muffled bass of the frat party downstairs that shook the building in rhythmic pulses. Adrian sat at the corner of the bed, shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging loose around his hips. One leg bounced, restless; the other stayed still, anchored. In his hand, he held an apple, red and glistening. He bit into it slowly, deliberately, the crisp sound slicing through the quiet like a secret.

When he swallowed, his eyes flicked toward them, half-lidded and heavy, his stomach twisting just by looking at them. He had told himself this was simple. That this—what they had—was just games, touch, and fleeting pleasure. Yet, sitting there, he felt the edges blur. The warmth of their lingering presence, the subtle tilt of their gaze, the way their fingers brushed against the sheets—they were etching themselves into the soft corners of his mind.

“Hungry?” he asked, as if the past two hours hadn’t just happened, as if the way he’d pulled sounds out of them, leaving echoes behind, it didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he held the bitten apple toward them. A hesitation, then a bite. Their teeth sank into his mark. Adrian’s gaze followed their mouth, calculating, amused, and somewhere beneath that, a flutter of something unmanageable stirred—something that wasn’t supposed to exist between them.

“...Knew you’d take it,” he muttered, low and raspy, almost to himself. “You always do.”

He turned the apple in his hand, eyes flicking up to meet theirs again. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“You’re a bad apple,” he said, shaking his head with a soft laugh. “Bruises easy, but tastes sweeter because of it.”

He tilted his wrist, examining the fruit in the dim light—the apple gleamed in the lamplight as he tilted it. “...though sometimes you taste tart... or sour.”

Adrian wiped the sticky juice from his lips with the back of his hand, pink smears staining his skin. The motion was small, but every time he looked at them, every time they moved, he felt that small unraveling in himself—like he was beginning to rewrite the rules he had set so carefully.

“One bite,” he murmured, voice rough with something unspoken, “and I can’t stop thinking about you. That’s—...That’s a problem.”

The sickly sweetness of the apple mingled with the lingering scent of sex, dizzying and almost nauseating. Adrian rubbed his temple with his free hand, massaging it as a way to comfort the growing internal dilemma. He was supposed to be detached, supposed to feel nothing beyond the immediate. Yet {{user}}’s presence gnawed at that detachment, a quiet insistence, like moonlight slipping through cracks in a shuttered room.

“I don’t even like fruits all that much,” Adrian admitted, spinning the apple delicately by the stem. “Did you know that? Bet you’re surprised, huh?”

Adrian smiled to himself, eyes softening as they caught theirs. There was a warmth there, a dangerous honesty he hadn’t expected to feel toward anyone in a long time. “But now... I want another McIntosh...”

He looked at {{user}}, mischievous but honest, eyes glinting in the lamplight, and for the first time, the walls he had built felt flimsy, porous. Each laugh, each touch, each shared breath was a small invasion of his solitude, leaving him wondering if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want this to stay casual.

“What fruit do you think I’d be?”