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syoddeye · 24 days ago

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like i'm winning it - 03 demotion

ghost x f!reader | 3k words | series page | ao3 cw: alcohol, terrible boyfriend, skin picking, crude/bad jokes, mean!Ghost You hate being alone with him.

"I thought we were going to Palm Springs."

"What? Baby, no, no. I told you last week, it's all business—you'd be bored out of your mind."

A sharp slice of pain. You worry the edge of a hangnail, peeling until blood beads. You bring your thumb to your mouth, and pull the cuticle between your teeth.

"Maybe, but I'd be bored out of my mind by a private pool."

Win steps out of the ensuite, his monogrammed toiletry bag dangling from one hand. The boyish sweep of his hair falls across his forehead just so as he flashes his perfect teeth at you. Catching you perched at the bed's edge, he chuckles, tossing the bag into his suitcase before crouching, hands landing on your bare knees.

"Trying to make me late?"

"Maybe," He pushes the hem of your dress higher, his movements unhurried, like he's weighing the pros and cons of rearranging his AV in real-time. His eyes flicker, that peridot gleam catching the light before he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then he pulls back, returning to his suitcase.

"Not going to work this time, Stella." He teases, rifling through a stack of shirts. Stella. His nickname for you, the one that stuck—vintage, like out of an old movie, all tied up in his joke about your 'inevitable stardom.' It's not great , but it's better than—

"Princess." Ghost flatly intones from the doorway. "Your carriage awaits."

You don't look at him, instead grabbing Win's sleeve. "Fine. If I can't go, any news about that pharmaceuticals ad? Did they call?"

"Right," Win's tone is breezy, but his hands stall. A tell. You know the answer. "Nothing yet. These things take time, Stella." He doesn't meet your eyes. Ghost shifts in the doorway.

You release Win's sleeve, staring at the line of silver in his skin. There's a balance to maintain. You can't push him. Ghost clears his throat, but you don't bite. Win meets your gaze, a hint of apology that smooths into a grin. "Look, no one books these without a callback, you know that."

He's right. You do. Lumina Vitae was a favor. It's not like work's been scarce. Voiceovers, background gigs, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it commercial hawking a sports car worth more than your life. Enough to drop some hours at the galleria. Enough to hope it means something.

"Have a good trip. Say 'hi' to your dad for me. Call me."

He hesitates, glances past you. "Of course, baby." The kiss that follows is sudden, hungry, a break from his usual ease. It's the same energy when he visits the club, showing off like he owns it.

When he pulls back, you repeat with a shaky breath. "Call me."

He nods, but there's hesitation—his eyes dart to Ghost, then back. "Make sure she gets to the car."

You try not to smile too obviously. Win's protectiveness borders on caricature sometimes, but it lands right. The building's airtight, cameras and turrets covering every inch, yet he insists. He knows how to make you feel wanted, even when he can't fix everything. When he can't whisk you away or make a job appear. It's sweet. It's thoughtful. The warmth of it sticks with you, until it's Ghost in the lift with you instead of him.

Ghost looms beside you, leaning against the railing. You focus on the floor counter, watching the numbers tick down.

You hate being alone with him. Ever since that night at the warehouse, since he cornered you in this very elevator—you try to avoid it as much as possible.

His words always cut with surgical precision. Each snide remark calibrated to sting. At first, after Win's little security theater, you figured the comments were part of the act. Pressure tests to keep you on your toes, random snaps at your heels. But you don't feel sharper or more alert. It's smothering. He has a way of making his presence feel like a loaded gun pressed to your skull, and you've pleaded, more than once, for Win to send him away when you're around. But no dice. Where Win goes, Ghost follows.

Please don't talk. Please don't talk. Please don't–

"Such a shame we won't 'ave ya on the trip," Ghost doesn't look at you, but you feel his eyes in the wall's reflection. "Sunshine, spa days, little umbrella drinks by the pool. Is that what you thought would happen?"

You stiffen, say nothing. He doesn't need a reply to keep going, though. "Hate to break it to you, but 'e's never gonna introduce ya to 'is old man. Never was. Thought you'd've caught that by now."

The numbers drop—forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight. Your stomach knots tighter with every floor.

"I keep tellin' ya. You're a distraction. Flavor of the week. Eye candy for Junior when 'e's got downtime. You're on the menu, not the itinerary."

That one bruises.

After a short eternity, the doors slide open with a hiss. Ghost gestures for you to step out, one hand sweeping dramatically toward the lobby and the rain-slicked curb beyond. You clutch your bag tighter, wishing you'd grabbed one of Win's coats. The rain is relentless, dropping in sheets that turn the perpetual haze into a smear of blues, pinks, and violets across the pavement.

At the curb, one of Win's cars idles. The driver's just a silhouette. Ghost waves you toward it, his smirk razor-thin. "Go on then. Maybe next time, yeah? If there is one."

You glance back once you're inside, but his face is already gone flat and unreadable before the door slams and the car pulls off into the night.

The pharmaceuticals commercial gig comes through. It's the kind of consolation you need. It's not Palm Springs, but it's work. Another rung on the ladder to climb.

On the day of the shoot, you show up ready to channel some professional gravitas, only to feel like you're not playing a doctor so much as playing doctor.

The set is almost what you pictured: white-on-white everything, big red pill bottles lined up in rows on shelves, but then there's a king-size bed in the background and the two naked models sprawled across it. Their poses a little too languid to be for an iron supplement or allergen shot.

You're directed to a garment bag with your name on it, and when you unzip it, your expectations plummet. The lab coat is…not a lab coat. Hemline somewhere mid-thigh, neckline plunging low enough to threaten a serious wardrobe malfunction. There's also a misunderstanding over footwear—the stylist assumed you'd had stiletto implants, apparently—and you're squeezed into a pair of pumps a size too small.

And the meds you're peddling? Fuelibido: Make Them Melt!

Staring at the prop horse pill in your palm, morbidly curious about how it's taken, you briefly consider walking out but shake it off. Fortunately, you know all you need to do is to swallow your pride.

At least your lines are brief. Tight, punchy sound bites. The whole thing is a blur. Your co-star fumbles their grip on the free, promotional prostate massager five takes in a row before finally nailing it, and by then, your feet are screaming.

Then there's the pay. Instant. As soon as you sign out with a frazzled assistant, you hear the soft ping in your skull. Your cut zips into your account in real time, lighting up your new HUD. You're still getting used to the sensation, the faint vibration in the back of your head, but you grin automatically when you hear it now. All Pavlov-like. You step off set, shoes in hand.

You're barely dressed when a throat clears behind you. Peering back, you see a man whose entire head is encased in a matte black helm. It's featureless except for two oval eyeholes, and through them, there's nothing—just void.

He speaks, and his deep rumbling is immediately filtered through a translator. You catch the tail end of what you think might be Russian, the English following closely, modulated and slightly amplified. Painfully scripted.

"I am authorized to inform you that my employer found your performance engaging. We are always in search of new talent. Our engagements span several key industries. We have a proven track record—"

You tune him out once you realize what's happening. Someone's trying to poach you. You. You, with a handful of commercials and mobile ads under her belt.

You think of the garment bag hanging on the rack behind you, the name under yours in bold lettering: Goforth Agency. Is this about you, or them? You can't tell if you're being scouted or if this is just how agencies like Goforth work, drawing everything into their orbits, junk included, without even trying. The helmeted man continues talking, but you're done.

"I am sorry, Mr…?" The man stops, but does not offer a name. "Right. Well, I'm already under contract." So many forms. "Best of luck."

You pull your coat on, force a tight smile, and brush past him, your heart pounding too fast. Your head's buzzing.

Mere months into the real deal, and here you are, already in someone else's crosshairs.

It's really happening.

You arrive home to synthetic blue roses, the expensive ones, for a job well done and an apology. Win's trip's been extended. Another week, maybe two. Something about his father, a crisis, and all their meetings getting pushed back. It's not important. What is important is that you need to record audition self-tapes and that he'll send a car tomorrow to take you to a rent-a-booth before work.

He sends a picture in lieu of a call. Him, lounging poolside, the water a glimmering cyan, and an orange drink in hand. The sunlight glints off the silver tracks in his skin, and you follow them, naturally, to the waistband of his shorts. The frame cuts off the best part.

>> Wish you were here.

> Me too :(

>> You staying out of trouble? No one bothering you?

That gives you pause, your ego lifting its head, recalling your run-in with the helmeted man. You smirk as you dictate your response, carefully applying your eyeliner.

> No trouble, but I did get approached by a rep at the Fuelibido shoot.

>> Name?

> Didn't waste my time. Said thanks but no thanks, and left.

There's a delay. His typing starts and stops.

>> What did he look like? What was he wearing?

> Tall. A little smaller than Ghost. All black everything. Black helmet, didn't see his face at all. Why?

>> Next time it happens, get a name.

> Am I in trouble?

>> No, you did good, Stella. >> Tell me immediately if he bothers you again.

You hesitate this time. It feels like you stepped in shit. He sends another message while you putter.

>> Can't let someone steal my favorite star.

> Of course, Win. I'll tell you.

>> Keep up the good work, and you'll earn yourself a bonus. ;)

You smile reflexively at his cheeky tone, then tap your mirror to send a live capture. Seconds later, his reply lights up your HUD with lines and lines of flames. A gentleman, your Win.

Your feet have been killing you since morning. Spending the rest of the afternoon horizontal sounds like heaven, but you gather your things and trudge out the door. The second act of your day waits, and it's only marginally better than peddling dick pills.

The club's slow. Not unusual for a weekday night, but it lands you in the stockroom, elbow-deep in crates of vodka while a barback chatters aimlessly beside you. You pray for something—anything—to happen out front.

Then Mal sticks their head in like you summoned them.

"Small party. Upstairs. Garnet booth. Single bottle, mid-shelf. Got some money to burn. Sending you the details."

You're already brushing past them, murmuring thanks as your heart ticks up. You check your hair in the fridge's steel door, grab the selected bottle, fasten the sparkler, and head for the floor.

The doors swing open, and you pick up speed, double-timing it up the stairs as the sparkler sputters, warming up to its full show. Slowing only near the top, you adjust your grip and smooth your expression, pulling on your brightest, most practiced smile.

Small group, indeed. No overlapping voices, no bodies spilling out of the edges of the private booth. Maybe it's a promotion, a deal. Whatever it is, you've got your lines ready.

But then you skid to a halt and nearly drop the bottle.

Ghost.

He's sprawled across the booth, legs spread wide, arms draped over the back. His suit jacket is neatly folded on the chair beside him, and the shirt's top buttons hang open. Your mind flashes to the glimpse of his heavily modified torso you got at Win's place.

He tilts his head, and you know he's smirking behind the slab of polycarbonate shielding his face.

"Hate champagne."

Ghost says for the fifth time since you sat. Sat between his legs on the table's edge, just like Win had you sit the night you met. You stare at his middle, and Ghost swirls his glass, which looks more like a test tube than a flute in his mitt.

"I can get you something else," you repeat flatly. This is the summary of his visit so far: you, trying to do your job with a plastered-on smile, and him, being a useless asshole. Summary of your relationship, really.

"No."

You glare, catching him hook a finger under his mask to pull it away to drink. You watch his throat bob as he polishes it off, then look over your shoulder instead. The club's still dead.

"If you don't want anything, can I at least go—"

"No."

Your arms cross instinctively, patience fraying. "If you're just going to make me sit on my ass all night—"

"You're getting paid. You're comfortable."

"Not really." You hug yourself tighter, glancing away, mumbling about your aching feet. "Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be in Palm Springs with Win? Umbrella drink in hand?"

Ghost slowly leans forward, forcing you to uncross your arms and press onto your palms behind you, ducking awkwardly to avoid him. He sets his empty glass near your hip.

This close, you can't help but look at the gap in his shirt where the buttons hang undone, at the triangle of skin. The protruding veins and cables in his neck. The champagne's scent clinging to his breath, mingling with tobacco and a twist of mint. You resist the urge to scrunch your nose. He's technically a guest, and you're still on the clock.

"Junior sent me back early." He reclines. "His old man's got more than enough security."

"So you were sitting on your ass and decided to take it out on me."

The sneer is immediate. "Not 'ere by choice. Since you failed to get a name or a solid description of the man who approached you, I'm on babysittin' duty."

Babysitting? Because some other agency took an interest in you? Your ability to sell junk pills? Your legs in a skimpy lab coat?

"That's a terrible demotion," you place a hand over your heart, voice laced with mock sympathy.

"So we're agreed."

You pause, picturing the mystery man. His helmet. The void behind the eyeholes. All this feels like overkill for some faceless rep. Then a dreadful thought pushes him to the side.

"Is Win worried I'm going to jump ship? Are you? " The questions rush out. You think of the elevator incident, Ghost's gravelly warning: One step out of line, and you'll be in the landfill. You shake your head. "Because I'm not. I like Win. And the–the contracts. I'm not stupid. I know I'd lose everything."

"No, but he's invested in you." He knocks a knee against yours. "Too much, if you ask me, but enough 'e wants to make sure no one else throws as much money at you."

"Right." You glance at the bottle, the small puddle in the bucket, then at him. "The club's secure, though," He snorts. "And I'd rather be doing something useful than sitting here, so…can I go back—"

"Aren't you supposed to dance?"

You clench your jaw so tight you think you might crack a tooth. "No. Not in my job description."

"Seen other bottle boys and girls do it."

"It's optional," you snap. "Up to the individual. And I don't dance."

His chin tips toward his chest. There isn't a trace of red in them tonight, just a dark, cold brown. "And if I gave you five grand?"

Your lungs empty in a silent rush. You stare at him, waiting for the giveaway. Anything to prove it's a joke. It's—fuck, it's strange. Equal parts frustrating and weird that your rejection isn't as immediate as it was with Max.

In your head, you know this is another of Ghost's twisted pressure tests. He doesn't actually want you to dance for him. He just wants to see you squirm. But the thought creeps in anyway, uninvited. You picture it. The narrow space between his legs, the slow roll of your hips, teasing him. Dragging your hands up his thighs and chest. His hands sliding up your sides, gripping you—

You swallow the fantasy down, seeing for what it really is, a product of his mind games.

"No way."

"Took a second." He murmurs, his tone dry, amused. "You think about it?"

You clamp your mouth shut, but he doesn't need an answer.

"Oh, Princess," He dips into a low, dry chuckle. "You did, didn't you? Bet you had it all planned out in that pretty little head of yours. Poor thing." Ghost draws his legs in and slowly stands, forcing you to scoot down the table, knocking the glass over with a clink. You watch as he rises to his full height and then bends to grab his jacket. "I'd tell you not to let it keep you up tonight, but we both know it will."

He pulls it on one arm at a time, then jerks his head toward the stairs.

"Go get your things. We're goin' home."

#like i'm winning it #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #sy writes

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richarlotte · 4 months ago

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Best places to shop designer?

If you love vintage, look at Japan. Especially for vintage Louis Vuitton bags & cases.

It’s affordable, it’s easy to find and fun to shop for, and it’s actually a great time sourcing pieces. I’ve never spent more than $400 on a piece, and everything I’ve bought has been high quality. I’ve bought some dream pieces of mine, and part of what makes the process so fun is taking the time to find what you want. I bought my Croissant, my Speedy 30, my Pochette, Holdall, Toiletry Bag, and Neverfull for less than $300 each, and aside from conditioning the leather, they’re in perfect condition. I’d strongly recommend looking at Japan’s vintage market if you love Louis Vuitton.

Japan is pretty much the best place to look for any designer items, and the vintage market is the best I’ve ever experienced. The yen is also weak compared to the American dollar, so you’re getting more while spending less. I’ve seen a lot of really nice Chanel and Fendi as well; the more popular bags tend to be bought quickly, but it’s easy to find them, and it’s easier to find rare items on the Japanese retail market than it is to find them on the American market. It’s also very easy to find Hermès scarves and other small items; I love buying small things, and I’m not willing to spend $700 on something I can easily find on the Japanese market for $70. It takes skill but again, the hunt is always fun.

I will say that there are brands I’d avoid and certain stores as well. All of my bags have come with receipts and certifications of authenticity that have held up to the authentication process I put them through here in America. The one thing I’d recommend against purchasing is badly made costume jewelry; it’s not worth it at all, and Chanel costume jewelry is very cheaply made and then marked up to obscene prices. I can make a post about where to shop, what’s trendy and what I’d recommend buying, customs/paying, and how I style the things that I’ve purchased so far. Just let me know, and I'll write a guide up when I have time.

Let me know if you’d like any of my shopping recs.

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twinsimming · 2 years ago

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Generational, But Different Bathroom Set 🚿

The bathroom set from The Sims 4: Growing Together is absolutely stunning, so of course I had to convert it! This set contains 8 converted objects, plus the subway tile wall (which I LOVE) and the herringbone tile flooring in the preview pictures. There are two versions of the wall light, one glass and one frosted, and the sink has 39 slots for all of your bathroom clutter needs.

The toothbrush holder, lotion bottle, retainer glass, light switch, and bathmat are all by bioniczombie here, here, and here, the stack of towels under the sink is by kandiraver-sims here, and the hamper is from The Sims 3: University Life.

Décor

Attention-Worthy Wall Mirror: two channels | §100 |

Here for a Reason Hand Towel: three channels | §60 |

Please Hang Your Towels Pegs: four channels | §70 |

Lighting

Vintage Sconce: three channels | §135 |

Vintage Frosted Sconce: three channels | §135 |

Plumbing

Generational, but Different Sink: three channels | §250 |

Generational, but Different Bath: three channels | §2200 |

Generational, but Different Toiletries [edited by twinsimming]: four channels | §100 |

Flooring

Haughty Herringbone Floor Tile: one channel | §4 |

Wallpaper

Half Stripe, Full Hype Tile: four channels | §2 |

| All TS4 presets included and base game compatible |

Credit: meshes by EA, The Sims 4, Sims4Studio, TSRW, Blender, Milkshape, Photoshop, and Gimp.

Download (SFS, package) | Mirror (MEGA, package)

If you like my work, please consider tipping me on Ko-fi.

Experiencing issues with my conversions? Inbox me. Enjoy! 💙

#sims 3 #ts3 #s3cc #ts3cc #4t3 #4 to 3 conversion #download #my cc

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thatsdemko · 2 years ago

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love thy neighbor - t.wolff

masterlist

pairings: Toto Wolff x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of ideas not intended for minors + next door neighbor trope + NO age gap!(for the sake of the fic both reader and Toto are relatively close in age)

a/n: been working on this one for a hot minute! hope you enjoy xx

you never hated your neighbor. to be fair, to hate someone you have to know their name and all you know is he has a extravagant life style to afford vintage Mercedes Benz cars and have shelves full of trophies. call yourself a snooper, but the man across the way was never good at hiding his life from your window.

his lifestyle was far different than anyone in the cul de sac you live in. half of them being retired home owners, plus you two. middle aged adults with paychecks able to afford the expense of a home in Monaco.

you don’t question why he has so many trophies, and you’ll never have the time, but it doesn’t stop your morning coffee imagination at the dinning room table. you have the perfect view inside a part of his space.

yes, whoever created these two houses must’ve been complete creeps or family, because nobody ever has windows that are directly into another persons house. but you never questioned it, you just closed the blinds at night or whenever his light was on too early in the morning for you.

today was a morning he was dressed to the nines. a blazer, white dress shirt(typical fashion of his), and dress pants. he lays two ties out and you watch him decide which one to wear. you feel awfully embarrassed when his eyes catch yours, but he sends a slight wave, and you hold up a finger indicating which option was best.

you can’t hear it, but all you see is him laugh and it makes you wonder what it sounds like. is it husky? more from the belly? is it contagious?

you need sleep, these thoughts about your neighbor are certainly overpowering any senses that coffee can’t seem to help.

—

he’s gone most weekends. his vintage Mercedes sits in the driveway, top on in case of a rainstorm, but his lights in the house are off. he’s got endless amounts of packages piling up outside his doorstep that would have you eager to rip them open if they were yours.

a long day of grocery shopping and dinner at your parents in town took a lot out of you. you shove your key into the lock of your door, hearing the rumble of the infamous neighbors Mercedes speed around the cul de sac until he pulls into his driveway and cuts the engine.

your door is half open, you’re halfway in it, but it’s like you’re watching something out of a movie scene. the way he gets out of the car is like in slow motion. his rolled up white dress shirt sleeves have creases across the arms. his brief case sits on the top of his car as he slams the door shut behind him rudely awakening your little stare.

a blush forms to your cheeks as you quickly slam your door behind you once you’ve shoved yourself inside. your back rests against the door, heart beating against your chest it’s almost as loud as the knock that comes next.

you jolt away from the door, moving yourself onto your tippy toes you see him. he’s holding one of your bags of groceries you left at the door step, he’s got one hand clutching his brief case, the other gripping the plastic bag full of embarrassing items (ie: tampons and other toiletries).

if you could hate one person right now, it’s you. how could you let yourself get so immersed in him that you literally dropped what you were doing and stared like a little girl in a candy shop?

you swallow the little pride left in you and slowly open the door up a bit. you get a peek at the lines across his face, most likely due from stress, and the way his brown eyes find you. you can feel the thudding of your heart against its cavity.

“I believe you dropped these.” he extends the bag outward towards where you stand, you’re sandwiched in the little space you gave yourself. you extend your hand out, skin briefly touching before you pull away.

“I’m Toto, I don’t think we’ve properly met. and you are?”

his accent. it’s so unfamiliar to your ears. you never would’ve expected his voice to be as deep but light as it was. it was smooth like butter on toast to your ears, it made the hairs on your arm stand up, your back straighten.

“y/n.”

a sparkle shines in his eyes. it’s one you notice once you’ve said your name. he repeats it softly back to you in a question, like it’s not what he was expecting, and he likes it. he always pictured you with a unique name, or maybe one that was a bit basic, but yours fits you perfectly.

“well I better get going. it’s nice to meet you.” he waves you off before he slips into his own house and both of your doors slam in sync.

now that he had a name, there was no stopping your imagination.

—

mornings were the same. they always were.

freshly brewed coffee in front of you, as you watch Toto dance around his kitchen balance a smoothie, a laptop, and a muffin. the man was always busy once the sun shined through his blinds. you wonder if he ever truly gets sleep.

like usual, your mind shifts to him. does he drink coffee in the morning? how many of those white dress shirts does he own? what does his house smell like? does he make a good smoothie?

these questions, once again, couldn’t be drowned with a cup of caffeine, but when he glances over his shoulder and flashes you a wave, the questions silent themselves.

he’s handsome.

you knew this, your heart knew this, your mind knew this, and certainly your body knew this. the hum between your legs was never going to stop when he looked your way.

you lift your coffee cup into the air before taking a sip from the hot contents. it soothes your brains rambles down and puts the energy you need right back into you. the work day was just beginning, and Toto was just heading out the door.

what a shame, you wished he could’ve stayed. oh the things he missed when he’s gone.

—

the evenings are a bit lonely when the sun goes away and the stars crawl in, you watch the rest of Monaco get ready for lavish celebrations while you stick to a movie and a snack.

he’s just arrived home. you hear the rumble of his car in your quiet cul de sac. he kills the engine and before you know it there’s a knock at your front door. it’s rare, you never get visitors, unless for the elder neighbors begging to help you with your garden, but even then they knew to never knock and just help themselves. so this knock was awfully unusual.

unlocking the door to see Toto was a surprise. he stands there, brief case in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, with a goofy grin.

“I don’t really drink wine, did you want this?” he asks, extending the expensive bottle of red outward towards you. he’d noticed in your bag of toiletries the bottle of cheap red wine, and when he’d been gifted the rather expensive one from George for his birthday, he knew someone who might enjoy it more.

“you didn’t poison this, did you?” you take the bottle, and push open your door further to invite him inside.

“it was a gift from work, he would know better to not poison me.” he steps inside your house and allows you to close the door behind him. he gets a good look inside your place, the endless amount of candles, minimal paintings hung on the walls, and your infamous kitchen. the one he’s stolen many glances across at.

“and who is this he we should be blaming if we die?”

“George Russell.”

you chuckle at the name, “he sounds very posh.”

you quickly pull out two wine glasses while he begins to undo the cork; once opened, he pours the liquid into the glasses for the both of you.

“with the money he gets, darling he makes posh look silly.”

you feel the butterflies rumble around your stomach, a blush creep across your cheeks as you take the glass from his hands, skin once again touching for the briefest moment.

“and how much is he making exactly?” you ask leading him to your deck where two Adirondack chairs are placed looking out at the sky. you don’t tend to come out here often, as the chairs were a gift from a friend, but the stars were shining just bright enough to enjoy.

“six million euros.”

you spit out the wine in your mouth, luckily it landed back into the glass, but it wasn’t a very classy move to make. not around the man you’ve been crushing on since you’d moved in. this was the most he’d ever spoke to you, and at this rate, he might not again.

“he could buy Monaco.”

“I could buy Monaco.” he corrects you with a mischievous smile that makes your heart pick up, and your stomach do a back flip. he looks good like that.

“alright what are you mr. Forbes?”

he laughs. it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. it answers your own question, the laugh sounds like it comes from his heart and his belly. it’s a genuine emotion.

“well I have been on Forbes, but is money really a concern to you?”

you shake your head violently at the question. you lean closer to the edge of your seat, legs crossed to try and tune out the hum in between your thighs, “no, never.”

“but I must say, you have to make a lot to afford those vintage Mercedes Benz’s that you drive.” you add to your statement. watching him nod, he takes a look up at the stars, it gives you a chance to take in his side profile. the stress creases across his forehead, the smile lines around his mouth, the dimple in his cheek. every part of him is jaw dropping.

“you don’t come out here very often, why’s that?” he turns to you, it’s his turn to take in your beauty as you stare up into the stars. they were much brighter away from the city, you always liked that the most.

“I didn’t notice you watched me that closely.” you joke, a smile forming to your lips that reaches your eyes. he’s never seen you smile much, you’re usually grumpy in the morning or lost into your thoughts while drinking your morning coffee. he enjoys this much more than the toiletry run in where you both were a bit on the edge of anxiety.

“I’m not home very often. I try to get out when I can, and you should too. I grill, I know how much you enjoy looking at me.” he says, and hesitantly places a hand against yours. his palm is warm, but nothing like clammy, just the kind that heats up your skin in the middle of winter. the skin to skin contact ignites the flame in you to burn like a warning signal, one that he notices. this man did many things to your brain.

“I’ve never seen you in anything but this shirt.” you remove your hand from underneath his and reach over across your chair to the plastic buttons holding the dress shirt together.

your fingers carefully undo the second button, the top one had already been undone since he doesn’t like to wear it that neat anyway. you can feel his breath hitch, his heart beat is pounding against your knuckles that gently glide against his skin.

“do you wear this all the time?” you pull away, resting back against the chair and watch him fix himself.

“it’s work attire.” he finally breathes. you both can hear him exhale all the pent up emotions. he turns to you, fingers reaching towards your collarbone where the charm of your necklace sits. it’s his turn for payback.

“and who bought you this lovely charm?”

“my mother.” it comes out a bit snippy. his knuckles against your collarbone slip away and for a moment you curse yourself for being so hostile to such an inviting man. one you’ve wanted for so long to get to know.

“who taught you how to talk to your neighbors like that?”

“my father. he was an ass.”

he barks out a laugh taking the last sip of his wine. you don’t want this to be over, and you’re thankful it’s not when he offers to pour refills for you both.

you watch him walk inside your house leaving you alone with the beautiful stars of the sky and your tempting thoughts. having him this close wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t any good. you’d want him as much as he was making the efforts to show, and the buzz in between your legs was loud enough for him to hear. he wanted you too. but what would this do for your friendship? truthfully, nothing. Toto Wolff wasn’t a friend, just a neighbor who sometimes gets your mail instead of his. you could live looking across the window knowing he fucked you senseless.

what drama this cul de sac would have, and it seems they haven’t experienced this much since you two came around and played ding dong fuck every other night.

I guess you both took loving thy neighbor a little too seriously, but you’re sure Jesus wouldn’t mind the kind of love you were making.

tags: @oconso @xcicix @imsorare @weasleyswizardwheezes-blog @monzabee @lpab @frreyaa

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god-has-entered-my-body · 6 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

A/N: omg look who's here

word count: 2.5k

content warnings: kissing/making out, suggestive language, mentions of alcohol, cursing, thats it actually wow

“You’re not holding up your part, you need to-”

“Don’t tell me to hold my end when you’re doing fuck all.”

You sigh at the sound of Ross and Adam bickering, nervously picking at your nail beds as they carry in the sofa, Adam cautiously walking backwards whilst complaining about his lack of help. Panting and tired, they almost let it drop straight onto the floor before Matty shouts at them to lower it down properly, going over to save the precious hardwood floor from their carelessness.

Boxes surround you, labeled things like “bathroom” or “kitchen”, the feeling surreal as you look around, taking in the room. The walls are still empty, yet to be decorated by the vintage art Matty had bought to add to your new home. Your home.

Despite Denise's protests, you and Matty had saved up enough to rent your own flat on the other side of the city, a half an hour or so away from his parents and now closer to the guys, who had let George move in soon after his 18th birthday. Though cramped, they found a way to live semi peacefully, with George sleeping on the sofa indefinitely.

You feel Matty come up behind you as you unpack the centerpiece for your coffee table, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently turning you around so you face him.

The toothy grin on his face makes your heart swell with adoration, and you press a light kiss to his lips, humming contentedly as he pulls you in tighter.

“Look at us, all grown up.” You whisper against his mouth, smiling sweetly as Matty nods, looking around the mostly empty space and snaking his hand into the back pocket of your jeans.

You giggle at his little move, pressing yourself further into him. “Fucking insane, isn’t it? Our own place.” he sounds in awe, like he didn't pick this flat out himself and sign all the paperwork with you.

Your moment is interrupted by gagging noises coming from none other than Ross, who’s currently scrunching up his face and telling you to “Get a room, mate, we don’t need to see all that.”, with Adam shooting you both an apologetic look. Matty shakes his head and lets you go, flipping Ross off before finding another box to unpack, bringing it into the bathroom. You follow close behind with a box of your own, wanting to get your toiletries in order before you spend your first night there.

Matty pulls out toothbrushes, towels, creams, and toilet paper, putting the items in their respective places as you cut open the tightly sealed box in front of you. You find more hair stuff, old dye, brushes, and combs, but one thing catches your eye. A box of bleach makes its way into your hands, and you run your fingers over the label as old memories flood your mind.

The way Matty laughed as you put the first layer of bleach onto his hair, begging you to not fry it off or make him orange, earning him an annoyed eye roll and a vague threat. The sound of his laugh will never not make you fall in love with him even more.

“We should re-do your roots, baby, it's been a while.” you say as you turn around, taking the opportunity to run a hand through Matty’s hair, seeing the two or so inches where his highlights had grown out. They’re not extremely noticeable, but you can see them clearly whenever he puts his hair up, the two strands that frame his face looking off and unfinished.

You’re not one to talk, though, wincing as you think back to your bleached hair, how uneven and fried it was afterwards, happy about your decision to dye it back to black.

Matty takes a look in the mirror, narrowing his eyes “Yeah, it has, hasn't it? I look proper trashy now.” turning his head in all different directions to see his hair from all angles. You laugh quietly, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek, smiling against his skin. “You know I don't mind.” you reassure him, raking your nails down his arm.

Taking your time, you unpack the rest of the bathroom, stopping in between to make sure the other hasn't broken anything down the hall. Adam seems to have everything under control, being ever helpful as Ross and George bicker over who has to bring in the dining table, both of them refusing to do it. Their fighting makes you roll your eyes in defeat, calling Matty from the bathroom to help you bring in the parts to build it back up, making sure all the screws were still in the little ziplock bag you put them in.

The first night in your new flat is strange, sleeping in an empty room with just a bed and more. boxes. Both of you are sick to fucking death of the boxes, praying that you’d get the rest done tomorrow in the hopes of having an actual home, decorated and filled with the things you love. Matty’s record player sits on the floor as you cuddle up to him, laying your head on his bare chest.

The sound of his breathing soothes any anxiety you feel, a familiar safety enveloping your body as night falls, moonlight flooding in through the curtainless window. This change is a lot for you, and Matty knows that, but it’s also a fresh start. A new beginning for your relationship, for your lives together.

You fall asleep with Matty’s hand in your hair, rubbing loving circles into your scalp.

☁︎

Matty grins as the bells chime, his eyes landing on you. Shutting the door behind you, you greet the hostess with a smile, noting her name down in your head, and make your way over to him. With your bag slung over your shoulder, the keychains attached to it clink as you walk, lifting the bar door to be greeted with a kiss and hug from your boyfriend, his arms snaking around your hips and pulling you close.

“Missed me that much?” he asks, a cheeky smile spread onto his face. You make eye contact with the shift manager across the room, and she nods at you, shooting you a polite smile before turning to talk to a server. His work knows you, and lets you hang out behind the bar under the condition that you don’t touch anything, and don't distract him from his customers.

Matty’s finally landed a job at a bar downtown, hidden behind a tailor but still popular nonetheless. It fits him, and pays well enough that he could afford the rent by himself if he had to, but you split it equally anyway.

The black stained wood of the place is pleasing to the eye, silver detailing on the tables and bar pulling it all together nicely. You have your chair behind Matty, a bar stool you sit on to keep him company while he works his shifts, mostly in the evening or late afternoon, when the place starts to fill a bit more.

Though very much enjoying the view of your boyfriend in a loose, borderline skimpy white tank shaking and pouring drinks, you take to people watching. The couple at table nine seems to be fighting, charged glances being exchanged as they silently eat their food. The woman at the other end of the bar is looking for someone to take home tonight, dressed up to the nines and sweet talking a man who seems quite a bit older than her.

You play some songs on their jukebox, taking song requests from Matty here and there, and even ordering a few drinks to occupy you. Matty brings you your martini, letting his fingers linger a few beats too long as he hands it to you, using the moment to kiss you softly, the minty smell of gum on his breath.

Time ticks by slowly as you sip your drink, holding idle conversation with a girl sitting at the bar whilst doing your best to stay out of Matty’s way. You’re pulled away by Matty scooting past you, grabbing a tall glass for a customer.

“He’s your boyfriend?” the blonde asks, gesturing to a now quite sweaty, and mildly stressed Matty pouring a gin and tonic. You smile and nod, brushing your hair out of your face. “Yeah, they let me chill here while he works. Pretty cool, yeah?”

“Layla.” she says, holding out her hand for you to shake, and you offer your own name. You talk for a long while, and you make Matty make her a new drink more than once. It feels nice having someone to talk to. Getting lost in conversation, you learn she braids hair for a living, and Layla asks what you do. “I work at the Wetherspoons down the road from our flat, opening shifts when I can.”

It’s not long before Matty taps you on the shoulder, telling you he’s about to go on his break. You politely excuse yourself, smiling sweetly as you follow him outside to the alley, pack of cigarettes already in hand. “Who’s that?” he asks, referring to the person you’d been speaking to for the better part of an hour.

“That's Layla, it’s her first time here.” Matty just hums in response, handing you his nearly empty lighter.

It takes a few tries to light, and the first drag relaxes you immediately. You don’t speak much, just stand there smoking your respective cigarettes until Matty puts his out under his boot. You can tell he’s tired and stressed by the overwhelming amount of customers, and that this break is much needed to get him through the rest of his shift.

“You doing okay?” you ask as his hands find your hips, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck. “You smell nice.” he murmurs into your skin, ignoring your previous question. You let your hands wander the expanse of his back, feeling Matty tense and relax his whole body under your touch.

“M’just tired.” he adds, pulling away to press his forehead against yours, staring into your eyes. The closeness of it all makes you giddy, but at the same time you worry about him.

“Is it always this busy? I don't like seeing you this tired, baby.” you speak slowly, not wanting to sound too overbearing, knowing how much he hates being babied. Matty sucks in a deep breath, standing up straighter before giving you your answer. “It’s Saturday, always gonna be a bit fuller with people going out.” you just nod, rubbing his back lovingly and pressing a soft kiss to his bitten lips.

Matty sighs into the kiss, his hands finding your shoulders as you guide him the brick wall of the alley, pushing him up against it gently. You can tell he likes this little turn of events, letting you direct him and take over the kiss quickly, licking into his mouth as your fingers graze over his torso, grabbing onto his waist. The soft noises he lets out make you smile, pulling away to look at him properly.

“Y’know, some people think i sit there to look pretty for you, when really, you’re absolutely gagging to be whisked away like this, aren't you?” you whisper, digging your nails into his hips as a grin spreads onto Matty’s face, complementing the faint blush on his cheeks beautifully.

“S’nice being appreciated for how hard I work, especially if it's like this.” Matty answers, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip before pulling you back in and kissing you, harder this time.

You feel him up properly, groping his chest and sides while he feels the curve of your ass, kneading the flesh and earning soft moans from you. Making out in the alley isn't really the best way to be spending his ten minute break, but you can't bring yourself to care. It isn't until you’re interrupted by a harsh knock on the door that you pull away from each other, quickly smoothing out your clothes and wiping lipstick off Matty’s lips, shooting him one last cheeky smile before he goes back inside, quickly following behind him.

☁︎

The distinct smell of bleach fills the air as you mix the dye in your trusty bowl, using the back of the brush to do so. Matty sits on the white marble counter, swinging his feet and fiddling with the speaker, turning the volume higher before facing you again. Using clips, you pin his hair up gently, fixing it so it’s easier to put the foils on afterward.

The look in Matty’s eyes as you layer the mixture on makes your heart melt. His brown eyes bore into yours, and you almost lose your concentration more than once, quickly wiping off the stray bleach off the bits where it's not supposed to be.

“Don’t fuck up my hair, I beg you.” Matty warns jokingly, licking his lips as you bit yours, cleaning up your mistake in record time.

“Don't look at me like that then, it’s throwing me off.” you breathe, wiping your hand on a towel before continuing painting his roots. “Like what?” Matty asks, raising his eyebrows at you, questioning your statement. You simply shake your head, smiling fondly as a wave of deja vu washes over you.

“Remember the first time we did this, back when I was a blonde?”

Matty giggles at the memory, making a comment about how fried your hair was after that, and how your mother almost killed you because of it. The mention of your parents shifts the mood, but you ignore that sinking feeling in your chest in favor of wrapping Matty’s hair up.

“I really love you, you know that?” the words sound like they've been coated in love the way they make you so, so giddy when you hear them. Your cheeks flush as Matty smiles sweetly, his hand thumbing at your hip while you work on him. “I love you too.” you answer, loving the way his eyes light up when you speak.

Nothing could replicate the feeling you get when you’re with him, the pure, passionate love the two of you share.

You giggle at the sight of Matty all done up in foils, strips of metal sticking out of his hair wildly. Committing the sight to memory, you kiss him while you wait for his hair to lift, faintly tasting the chapstick on his lips.

#shes here #before you go #mpind matty #the 1975 #matty healy #george daniel #adam hann #ross macdonald #matty healy fanfiction #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy fluff #matty healy x reader #the 1975 x reader #the 1975 fluff

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monkeyssalad-blog · 5 months ago

Video

Detail from a 1950 Lifebuoy ad by totallymystified

#Lifebuoy #soap #beauty #complexion #wash #washing #toiletries #1950 #1950s #fifties #illustration #retro #vintage #nostalgia #ad #advert #advertising #advertisement #flickr

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pretty-little-fools · 11 months ago

Text

#old south toiletries #cosmetics #40's #the old south #vintage #mid 40's #1946

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seancekitsch · 2 years ago

Note

Setting: Cabin

Genre: Mystery

Trope: Undercover Married

Prompt: On a roadtrip together

Kink: Exhibitionism

from the fic prompt generator with Adrian?

ok i hope you were hoping for a full on fic bc here it is

Being Watched

smut, basically the prompt, i got carried away

“Adebayo I just don’t understand why we have to be married on all of these missions,” you sigh into the receiver of your burner phone, the sound of the shower in the cabin drowning out any possibility of your best friend hearing. The shitty flip phone looks ridiculous, and anyone would peg you as undercover at this resort. There are senators here, senators who very well could be butterflies, and you’re here with a flip phone in the honeymoon cabin after driving 6 hours in the Vigilante-Mobile with Adrian singing along to Carly Rae Jepsen. Not that you minded that part, you sang along with him and fed him sour gummy worms while he got you there safely.

“You guys just… work like that,” she responds, not even trying to hide her snickering on the other end. She’s right, check in at the resort went smoothly because Adrian slipped his right arm around your waist and made a show of waving around his wedding ring to all of the staff, kissing the side of your head and gushing about how excited he was that the bed was one of those vintage round ones from the 70s in the cabin. You yourself couldn’t stop blushing while you curled into him and clutched your suitcase close. You looked like a couple madly in love. Leota reminds you to keep your head on straight and to stay safe and all the other things you have to do before you’re rushing off the phone because you hear the shower stop.

It’s only a few moments until your friend, your best friend, comes out of the little bathroom of the cabin with nothing but a towel draped low around his hips.

Fuck, this was going to be harder than you thought.

But wasn’t it always? Don’t you always go through this? Adrian always parades around the hotel or villa or cabin you’re in with that damn wedding ring on his finger and you always practically jump out of your skin, itching to move closer to him under the sheets at night or to kiss his lips in private, away from potential counter surveillance.

A part of you suspects this is just a forced proximity thing. You didn’t always want to fall into bed with your best friend since high school, and you didn’t always wish the wedding rings were real. But now you do, sometimes overwhelmingly so…

“What? Did I scrub too hard and accidentally wipe a nipple off?”

Fuck, you’ve been staring, checking him out like some kind of perv. You shake your head, nervous that somehow Adrian gained the ability to read minds or something from too many hits to the head.

“Nope, I didn’t,” he confirms to himself, looking down at his bare chest to check.

“Sorry, Ade, I must have zoned out,” you physically shake yourself out of it. You can do this.

“Are you gonna shower too?” he asks, and you swear he’s flexing now, his biceps chiseled and shiny in the lamplight. You never thought of yourself as the type to go after muscular dudes, and you still aren’t really, Adrian is just an exception.

You nod, quickly rifling through your bag for your toiletries and speeding to the bathroom door for some privacy.

The click of the door in the latch triggers a sigh you didn’t realize was building in your chest. Just three more days, you tell yourself, three more days of this week long recon mission and you could go home, scrub the smell of his cologne off of you and touch yourself until you passed out to get rid of all this tension in your body.

You fiddle with the nob on the shower and shed your clothes quickly to jump under the slightly too hot spray.

This is exactly what you needed. You let the steam rolling off the tiles and your skin evaporate all the tension in your muscles and your mind. You relax fully. Maybe you can just spend the rest of the night in bed watching shitty cable movies and laughing and your feelings can bury themselves for the evening.

Your relaxation is short lived, though.

“Hey Honey?” Adrian calls through the door; Honey is the codename for when things go sour. Shit.

“Can I come in?”

You fiddle with the nob and quickly end your shower, lucky to be done with the shampoo so you can hastily grab the towel and wrap it around you.

“Of course, Sugar!” you call, back, quickly unlocking the door and open it for him to scurry in, now clad in his sweatpants and an athletic training top that truly did you no favors in sparing you from his looks. He presses his back against the door, looking up around the perimeters of the ceiling.

“What’s going on?” you whisper, clutching your towel tighter to yourself.

“We’re being watched,” Adrian tells you, pushing up his glasses and only letting his eyes dart briefly to your body, “I just saw one of the cameras turn on, little red light next to the smoke detector.”

“There’s supposed to be a light, Ade,” you sigh, “There’s supposed to be a red light. That means it's working to y’know, detect smoke.”

You roll your eyes and turn away from him, grabbing the loose sweatshirt you brought in here and bringing it down around you without disrupting the towel; a talent you mastered from having to bunk with the guys on too many occasions.

“No that’s—“ Adrian stops himself and curses under his breath, “I know that. You have a smoke detector in your apartment.”

You snap your head up to look at him while you grab your sweatshorts.

“Why do you say that like your apartment doesn’t have a smoke detector?”

Adrian just smiles at you.

“Okay,” you physically shake your head to keep yourself from doing the mental gymnastics on that one, pulling your shorts over your thighs, “So, typical plan H?”

You hate plan H. Plan H is a fake-out make-out until whoever is watching stops. You’ve done this countless times, and never has it gotten easier. Once you stop kissing its back to the normal friend shit and the ice cold longing that sinks into your gut. Every time his lips fall on yours you beg and pray to any god that will listen that this will be real, that you won't stop once you realize the coast is clear. Every time he makes you moan it's for real, and he always compliments your acting skills. You’re a shit fucking actor and you know it. You thought he knew it too, for how well he knew you.

You sigh.

“Plan H it is,” and you towel off your hair as much as possible. It's going to get ruined and you'll just have to re-shower in the morning. But if it gets surveillance out of your room, its worth the risk. No one ever wants to watch “newlyweds” go at it. He watches you squeeze the excess moisture from your hair with an expression you can’t exactly place. With Adrian, it’s usually so easy to tell how he’s feeling. Somehow, he never learned how to hide himself or how to be sarcastic or to read emotions. But this look in his eyes you can’t figure out; it’s dark and far off and seems to be trained on your knees of all places, from what you can tell of blotting your hair upside down.

This dance is like all the rest. You come barreling out of the bathroom all hand and lips and limbs and he practically throws you on the rounded mattress. Its like this every time, you throw your leg over his hip and he licks at your jaw and you moan and you cry out genuinely because you're sensitive and you love it.

You let yourself fall onto your back, not even putting your elbows down to break your fall. Adrian’s arms quickly cage you down like a vice, his entire body pushing onto yours, his weight apparent but not crushing.

“Fuck, I’m so glad I can call you my wife,” he says, looking into your eyes but loud enough for any camera to hear. You roll your neck back, opening it up for him to kiss the full expanse of it and play the role of dutiful lover.

“My love,” you gasp, his mouth latching onto the skin above your jugular. He sets your skin aflame, makes you burn. Adrian kisses all the skin on your neck he can reach before he throws the covers over you. This is the finale piece.

And god, how you wish this was real. It feels like torture to be so close to the real thing and to not actually have it. Knowing that you’ll be pent up and jumpy for the rest of this mission and spend an entire night with your vibrator between your legs the moment debrief is over. That the expectation now, that’s what always happens.

What you don’t expect is for Adrian to push himself back from you to pull his shirt from his chest. Fucking hell, you think, your eyes following the reveal of skin, from his happy trail on his abs to the little dusting of chest hair on his sculpted pectorals, the finale being his broad shoulders that lead to arms strong enough to carry you like you’re weightless.

He spreads your legs and pushes himself between them, and you immediately curse yourself for not putting on underwear when you threw on your shorts. That meant your panties were somewhere in the bathroom and there were so many more chances to embarrass yourself now. He slots himself between your legs in a way that looks real. Anyone watching on the other side of that little red light wouldn’t know the difference. That was key to Plan H, something you and Adrian had actually fumbled through practicing in his apartment one night, setting up his phone in different vantage points and testing what motions looked real.

Adrian pulls at the neckline of your sweatshirt, already stretched out from years of wear as you thread your fingers through his curls. God they feel so soft, so much more defined and luscious since you convinced him to ditch the five in one.

Adrian moans against your skin, and you go stiff.

“Do it again,” he whispers, the breath of a laugh on his words and it’s only now that you realized you had tugged on his hair.

You open your eyes to the sight of the mirror over the bed, taking in your appearance. Your hair is tangled and damp, you look like a drowned rat. Adrian however, is all rippling back muscles and reddened scar tissue from a nasty fight the two of you barely got out of making his pale skin look even more beautiful. Shit, this really looks real, the way he’s eagerly nipping at your collarbone and neck, the way he’s flexing his muscles and taking control of the situation. Adrian is many things, your best friend, a possible maniac, weapons expert, slightly emotionally stunted, but he could easily add erotic stand in on a movie set to that list.

You decide to help him out, hiking your parted knees up until they’re around his hips, and one of his hands grips the back of your knee and pushes the leg even farther. Without thinking, you let out the neediest whine you've ever heard, feeling your skin ignite. You have entirely too many clothes on. You watch your own eyes in the overhead mirror, pupils blown wide and a stray tear leaning from the outer corner, your lips fallen open in desperation. You’re fucked.

You tear your eyes away from yourself, desperate to do anything but break your own heart over the fact that this is not at all real and you will have to sleep in this very bed with him tonight. Your gaze drifts to the smoke detector with its damned red light.

It’s singular red light.

Just one, not two.

That means…

“Adrian! Adrian, stop,” your hands move to brace themselves on his chest, putting distance between you where his lips had made connection with the underside of your jaw.

He pulls apart like he’s been burned, all except for where your legs are still hitched around his waist.

“What’s wrong, did I hurt you?”

His eyes are wide with panic, darting around your face to look for signs of pain, of anger, of disgust. You know exactly what he’s doing. He’s been searching for that disgusted look since high school and he’s never grown out of it. You know the look well, having watched him make it towards women at community college, as well as being on the receiving end of it once or twice.

“No,” you say, your hand rubbing at his shoulder to try to soothe him. As much as he tries to say he doesn’t have emotions, you can feel them in his tense muscles.

“Ade, look at the smoke detector again.”

He does as you say, giving you a full view of his toned neck; gorgeous and just there for the biting and if this was real you would have wasted no time in sucking a dark hickey into the expanse of skin there, claiming him as your own for all to see. Not that he’s exactly someone who has people lining up to get with him, but still. If anyone wanted to they just couldn’t.

“It’s the normal amount of lights,” he says, but he makes no move to get off of you. You don’t want him to though, and it’s not like you untangle your legs from his waist either.

“They stopped watching,” he continues, eyes darting around, searching your face for a new game plan.

“I guess we should…” you trail off, avoiding eye contact as much as possible and finally starting to slip you legs away from where you had so hastily wrapped them around him. You had made a mistake there, getting way too into it yourself. This isn't the kind of place where you can get selfish, you think, there are lives at stake.

Adrian’s eyes are dark with something unknown, his expression unreadable as he searches your face once more.

“We don't have to,” his voice sounds so matter-of-fact.

“Adrian… what-” your eyebrows furrow as you wrack your brain trying to figure him out. You start to move your legs, unhooking your ankles and unlocking yourself from Adrian’s hips- when he stops you in your tracks; hand planted on your thighs to keep them in place.

“What if… What if I want to keep going?” he asks a bold question with an equally bold straightforward delivery. What if he wants to keep going? Is this a fucking joke? He isn't the type to joke like this.

“Do you?” you ask, ready to risk it all. The words are out of your mouth before you can weigh the consequences of them.

Adrian scoffs.

“Duh,” he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. As if, of course, of course he would want to keep going, would want to keep ravaging you and throwing you into the deep end of this torture.

“We… Our friendship,” you gasp, grasping at something almost dumbly.

“You mean our friendship that I already totally ruined?” he balks, as if you're late to the party, as if you should already know.

“Ruined?” you parrot, and his left hand shoots to your knee,keeping you from slipping away from him.

“Yeah, I mean like, by falling in love with you and shit. I thought you knew. Chris makes fun of me all the time,” he admits, and finally his grip on you loosens. He gives you every opportunity to move away and get out of this position. That look of bracing for disgust evident in his eyes again in full force and absolutely killing you.

“Adrian,” you say, trailing off, the words confirming in failing on your tongue. Of course you'd heard Chris making fun of Adrian, but he makes fun of Adrian for everything so you figured it was better to ignore it.

Adrian pushes himself off of you to lean back on his knees, starting to pat the bed feeling around for his shirt.

“Wait, Ade!” You almost scream, ready to beg as long as he stays exactly how he is. Between your legs.

He freezes, his expression unreadable to you for maybe the first time ever.

“What if I want to keep going too?” you ask, voice timid and far away, but your arms remain loose and planted around his neck.

“Do you?” he asks, not at all hiding his enthusiasm. You fucking love that about him. He looks so excited. So happy, and knowing it's all for you...

You fucking kiss him instead of formally responding, arching your back and pushing yourself up to connect with him, forcing your lips to make contact so he knows, he knows, that you’re desperate for it. His tongue licks against your lips and you moan wantonly, not unlike your fake recon moan, but this time entirely real and something you fully intended on hiding until Adrian embarrassingly pulled it from you.

You accept his tongue in your mouth eagerly, letting him take the lead and pulling more moans from you, absolutely kissing all of your resolve out of you.

“Fuck me, Ade,” you whisper, puling your lips away from his for a moment, ready to scream the same words if he asks.

“Me?” he asks, “You want me? Jesus, I’ve been waiting so long to hear that.”

“Not as long as me, I promise,” you laugh, and pull him back down onto you, fingers threading into his curls again.

You tug on his hair again as his teeth graze your bottom lip, earning an absolutely sinful groan from his lips. You've heard this man yell and scream and groan in pain but nothing like this; this is like heaven itself, better than any drug you could think of. Better than the indica strain in your vape that Adrian always yells at you for hitting in the Vigilante-mobile.

He bites down on your lip, not worrying about whether or not it hurts, reveling in the yelp you let loose against his mouth. Adrian’s hands travel up your thighs, over your hips and those little sweat shorts, squeezing right against your pelvic joints, and then finally they dip under your sweatshirt, his hot calloused hands against your smooth skin.

“You know,” he starts, open mouth working its way back from your mouth to your jaw, “It kinda sucks they aren’t watching anymore. Woulda been hot.”

Your brain fries and short circuits at his words. You peek an eye open at him, eyes blissfully closed and still continuing his kissing as if that was the most normal thing for him to say. Honestly, you figured Adrian had to be into some kinky shit. You've heard him discuss his threesomes with Chris, and you've seen what the trunk of his sebring looks like. He can protest all he wants but you know the fuzzy pink handcuffs aren't for any kind of “bad guy” he could be up against. Plus, he just kills them. He doesn't exactly take prisoners.

“You wanted an audience for this?” Surprise more evident in your voice than you meant it to be. Part of you thinks you might have slipped and fell in the shower and this is some sort of hallucination or fucked up knock-out dream.

His hips twitch and buck into yours, and you easily respond with a roll of your hips in return.

“Want those fucks to see I finally got the girl,” he responds, rocking his hips back up into you again, but on purpose this time. His hands travel to your chest and your heart breaks for him a little. You know if this goes well you'll be his first real girlfriend. The first girl to spend more than one consecutive night, the first girl to do dishes and laundry with him, the first girl to not run because you know all the ugly shit he’s done and you already don't care.

“Always had me, babe,” you pant. Your back arches off the mattress as you meet the movement of his hips, now working up a rhythm against each other.

“We both just needed to pretend to be married to get it right,” you joke, pushing him back only enough for you to wiggle out of your sweatshirt and throw it towards the edge of the bed. Now you know what Adebayo was talking about on the phone. You guys just work like that. Like a married couple, like a real couple. He laughs and starts kissing down your chest, immediately latching himself onto one breast while he grabs at your waist. You tug on his hair again as your other hand starts to travel his toned back. He’s absolutely beautiful, you think, running your fingertips over the freckles along his shoulder blades that you've memorized at this point.

“Need to-,” you gasp as he bites down on the underside of your breast, and you're sure youll be covered in marks by dawn, “Need to feel you.”

You aren't sure when you became a beggar, or maybe Adrian just made you one.

“Oh you’ll feel me,” he promises, starting to kiss his way down your ribcage, down your stomach. He’s much more of a kisser than you imagined, much more attentive and much more loving. You almost feel bad for not thinking of him like this when you used to touch yourself to the thought of him. That feeling immediately dissolves when he then bites at your hip, his hands pulling at your shorts to give him more access to your skin.

It’s awkward and fumbling to get you out of your shorts, not unlike two teens going at it on prom night, all nerves and fear and curiosity bound in eagerness. He tries to whip them off of your calves, resulting only in jerking your ankles up awkwardly, and the two of you burst into a comfortable laughter as you remove them yourself the rest of the way.

He freezes for a moment, finally seeing you completely bare. At first, it’s extremely flattering, his lips hanging open and his eyes wide as they search your form.

And then you find your arms slinking from their position on his shoulders to try to cover yourself, only to be stopped by Adrian himself. His rough hands wrap themselves around your wrists, pinning them down so they can’t go where you wanted.

“Can’t hide from the Vigilante,” he jokes, bravado evident in his voice.

You only roll your eyes and giggle in response.

“Please don’t tell me you’ll be Vigilante in bed too,” you counter.

“Might chase you.”

You know he’s serious, just like you know he’s serious about wishing the camera was still watching.

Heat floods your body, and suddenly all of this is so real, Adrian, his hips pressed against your bare body between your legs, his dusting of curly brown hair on his chest, the warm eyes behind glasses staring straight back into yours.

“Adrian…” you trail off, not sure what you're trying to say or ask. It's all just, the Adrian of it all.

“No, I’m serious, babe. I might chase you,” and everything in his tone tells you he’s serious.

“Please… Adrian,” you don't even finish the sentence, because he knows exactly what you're asking for. His hands abandon your wrists to find themselves on your hips again and his lips find your own. He kisses you deeply, like a promise, hard and slow as his fingers move eagerly. Featherlight touches you didn’t expect him capable of trail from your hips to the apex of your legs. You’re so thankful you shaved in the shower; you know Adrian wouldn’t actually give a fuck about body hair, but there’s just something about a first impression you can’t help but feel.

You gasp against his mouth the moment his finger dips and bumps against your clit, clumsy, but perfect. He doesn't stop kissing you as he explores further, tracing circles against your clit delicately, and then more forcefully.

You can tell by the way he kisses you that he’s studying, testing the waters to see what gives you the most pleasure, what you react most to. He switches from his circular motion to a rocking back and forth of his fingertip over your clit, and you think it's lights out for a second; Fuck, it feels so good.

“Oh, that's it,” he whispers, lips still smashed against yours. You can only whine in response, high pitched and needy. You try to arch your back, try to move in any way you can to get Adrian better access to you. He only pushes you further, his grip of one hand so tight on your hip it could bruise, the other working hard to make you feel good. But he doesn't even need to work that hard, with the way you are moaning and crying against him. Your skin burns under his touch, and freezes with the absence of it. You come alive like a wire tripped and electrified under him. You love it, and you knew you would, but it feels so different from the idea of him and the real thing. There's so much romance here, even if Adrian’s lack of romance could possibly deny that.

“Fuckin’ love it,” you moan against him, and he tries to roll his hips, incapacitated by his own hand. Quickly he pulls himself away letting his sweatpants clothed cock shove against you.

You can feel it, sort of. You can feel that his cock is big and that he knows how to move his hips but you want to know everything about it, want to memorize every ride and twist and dip of his body.

You pull your lips from his, ripping yourself to the side just long enough to speak.

“Gimme all of it,” you beg, and he absolutely does not hesitate. Adrian removes his hand from where he's working you over to the waistband of his pants so he can free himself for you.

He wiggles his sweatpants down awkwardly, fumbling and tangled up, but frees himself without any comment from you. You can’t say that you were exactly graceful either, the eagerness taking over your motor skills momentarily.

Adrian pauses for a second, letting the moment sink in. You’re bare before each other for the first time on purpose. It’s not like when he would come in through your window unannounced after work and you’d scream and throw shoes at him. It’s full of lust and love and sheer nerves. For both of you, it isn't your first time, but as he pushes into you without weird decorum of virginity, it feels almost alien, but at the same time, this is how it's supposed to happen. He bottoms out with a little smile, searching your face for any sign of pain or discomfort. If he finds any, it fades away quickly with a kiss. His eyes are the prettiest shade of brown, you think, feeling your own little smile grace your lips.

“Guess the newlywed cabin is living up to its name finally,” you joke, stopping again to press a kiss against his lips, “only took, what, multiple missions?”

Seven. It took seven missions.

Adrian snaps at this point. His hips move, completely without warning to thrust back out and into you again, so roughly and perfectly Adrian that it feels too good. It's everything you imagined and more.

“Wish this was happening every time,” He thrusts more, “Imagined us actually married.”

He moans, relinquishing his self control to how good it feels. All of your nerves were already on fire, but his words kick you into overdrive, the same way that when you hold your finger over a candle too long it feels almost cold. Your nails rake down his back as his pace picks up, your legs around his back giving you leverage to thrust back on every snap of his hips.

“Wanna be yours,” you moan, your head thrown back against the pillow to give yourself better leverage to arch your back.

“Wish that fuckin’ camera was still on,” He groans, “Want everyone to know you’re mine.”

He dips his head down, first connecting with the underside of your jaw, then to the side of your neck where he bites down, hard and unapologetic; You know it's gonna bruise up to a dark purple by morning.

“Fuck,” you moan, “Keep that up and they’re gonna.”

Adrian only laughs against your skin, and bites down again. He doesn’t falter or change his pace, his hips always snapping recklessly against you. You feel more full than you ever have, something about Adrian invading all of your senses and overwhelming all of them has you a mess already. You’re sure he’s gonna last longer than you, already your body feeling like it’s floating in space and already your mind drowning in everything Adrian.

“Adri-” you whine, but off by your own voice, as your body jolts under his touch. More accurately, his slap. Its light and playful and just enough to drive you that much further towards the edge.

“Oh… You liked that?”

You nod.

He laughs, scrunching his nose to try and push his glasses back up his nose.

“I knew you would. Had to be kinky if you were into me,” he sighs, before slapping your cheek again a little harder, and you find your moan melting into a laugh. He’s so effortlessly hot while still being adorable Adrian. He knows you so well.

“Fuck me harder, babe,” you beg, finding it harder and harder to form words as tension rises in your body, your body overheated and every nerve like fireworks. Adrian seems to be spurred on even more by the pet name, immediately pushing into you even harder the second you call him babe.

You can feel your orgasm building quickly, now completely sure you're gonna finish before him. He pistons into you, hips pressing flush against you, his balls against your ass. He’s no longer pulling all the way out, instead staying deep inside you and grinding his hips harder into you. It's absolutely driving you wild, moans and whines spilling from your lips. You're close, so incredibly close, and there's no way he can’t feel it from his position. He presses his whole being against you, his sweaty chest against you, his forehead pressed against yours.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is even more perfect than you ever could have imagined. And now you see it, the way Adrian could so easily pretend you were actually married. How easily all of this came to you both, how well you knew each other's bodies without ever doing this before. That deeper feeling without a name.

Your fingers move from his back, surely scratched and maybe even a little ripped up from your nails, and to his scalp, to those bouncy curls that you always look for in a crowded room.

“Fuck!” Adrian practically shouts as you pull at them, rutting harder into you even still. That pushes you over the edge, and you barely register the shaking of your legs or the low moan in your throat as your fist tightens in his hair.

“Goddamn,” he chuckles, hands leaving their place on the mattress to cup your cheeks as he lets you come down from your high and finishes off himself. You whine almost pitifully as you can feel the searing heat of him spilling inside you, and he just soothes you with the sweetest kisses you've ever tasted. He stays there a little while, a lot more gentle and intuitive than you expected of him. He wipes away tears you hadn't realized had fallen and he lets you catch your breath.

“My pretty wife,” he sighs, moving slowly as he finally pulls out of you, the sting of his departure and the cool air of the cabin knocking you like a wave.

“Not your wife,” you correct him, but your voice is full of love and exhaustion.

Not your wife, yet, at least. You can't afford to get ahead of yourself, especially not when you work on this team, but you let the thought pass through your mind without punishing yourself at least.

Adrian just laughs, full and boisterous as he pulls you into his chest and holds you there in an iron grip. You think for a moment, that maybe he does that so you won't leave. You weren't planning on it anyway.

“I still wish the camera was on,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

“I know, babe,” you mumble, eyes getting heavier.

And then.

“Wait, Adrian, can we circle back to the thing where I don't think you own a smoke detector?”

#adrian chase x reader #vigilante x reader #adrian chase smut #adrian chase fic #vigilante imagine

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