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betty-blog1 · 5 months ago

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The Timeless Charm of Women’s Leather Handbags: A Wardrobe Essential

Women’s leather handbags have long been admired for their elegance, durability, and enduring appeal. A leather handbag is more than just a practical accessory—it’s a fashion statement that conveys sophistication. Whether it’s a tote, crossbody, or clutch, a quality leather bag can elevate any outfit and become a timeless piece in your wardrobe. In this post, we’ll explore the lasting appeal of women’s leather handbags, the various styles available, and tips for keeping them in great condition over time.

Why Leather Handbags Remain a Classic

Leather handbags have been luxury items for centuries, and here’s why they continue to be a top choice:

Durability: Leather is valued for its strength and resilience. A well-maintained leather handbag can last for years, and in many cases, it becomes even more beautiful over time as it develops a unique patina.

Classic Style: Leather’s natural beauty adds sophistication to any ensemble. Whether it’s smooth or textured, leather is always associated with quality and elegance. A leather handbag is always in vogue, making it a sound investment.

Versatility: Leather handbags come in many shapes, sizes, and colors, making them suitable for any occasion. From a sleek crossbody for casual outings to a structured tote for the office, leather handbags can fit into any situation.

Sustainable Fashion: Ethically sourced leather can be a more eco-conscious choice because its durability reduces the need for frequent replacements. A high-quality leather handbag is both a stylish and environmentally responsible option.

Popular Styles of Leather Handbags

Leather handbags come in a variety of styles to match different needs and preferences. Here are some of the most popular ones:

Tote Bags Tote bags are spacious and practical, making them ideal for busy women. They’re perfect for carrying everyday essentials such as a laptop or personal items. Leather totes combine functionality with a polished look, making them versatile for both work and casual settings.

Crossbody Bags Crossbody bags offer hands-free convenience while maintaining a chic look. Great for running errands, traveling, or casual outings, leather crossbody bags provide just the right amount of space for daily essentials while adding a stylish touch.

Clutch Bags Clutch bags are perfect for evening events and formal occasions. A leather clutch exudes elegance and can complement any sophisticated outfit, whether you’re attending a party, wedding, or night out.

Satchel Bags Known for their structured design, satchels are versatile and practical. With a top handle and often a detachable shoulder strap, a leather satchel is perfect for both work and casual outings, offering style and functionality in one.

Hobo Bags Hobo bags have a slouchy, relaxed silhouette, making them ideal for everyday use. Made from soft leather, these bags offer a balance between comfort and style while providing ample space for your essentials.

Backpacks Leather backpacks are the perfect blend of practicality and sophistication. Great for work, travel, or school, they offer plenty of space without compromising on style.

Caring for Your Leather Handbag

A leather handbag is an investment that, with proper care, can last many years. Here are a few tips to ensure it stays in great shape:

Regular Cleaning: Use a soft, dry cloth to wipe down your handbag after use to remove dirt and dust. For deeper cleaning, use a leather cleaner specifically designed for handbags, and avoid using water, as it can damage the material.

Condition the Leather: To prevent the leather from drying out or cracking, apply a leather conditioner every few months. Conditioning helps maintain the leather’s natural oils and softness.

Protect from Moisture: Leather isn’t naturally waterproof, so keep your bag away from rain or spills. If it does get wet, gently blot with a cloth and allow it to air dry, avoiding direct heat that can cause the leather to crack.

Store Properly: When not in use, store your handbag in a dust bag or pillowcase to protect it from dust and light. Stuff it with tissue paper or fabric to help it retain its shape, and keep it in a cool, dry place to avoid fading or warping.

Rotate Usage: If you have multiple handbags, rotating their use will help prevent excessive wear on any one bag, extending its lifespan.

How to Style Leather Handbags

Leather handbags are incredibly versatile, making them easy to style with various outfits and occasions. Here are some ways to integrate them into your wardrobe:

Casual Looks: A leather crossbody or hobo bag pairs perfectly with casual outfits. Match it with jeans, a relaxed top, and sneakers or boots for a chic yet effortless look.

Professional Settings: A structured leather tote or satchel is ideal for the office. Pair it with tailored pants, a blouse, and heels for a professional look that balances style and practicality.

Evening Events: A sleek leather clutch is the ideal accessory for evening wear. Pair it with a dress or elegant jumpsuit for a polished, sophisticated look.

Travel and Weekend Getaways: For travel, a leather tote or backpack is a practical yet stylish choice. These bags offer plenty of space for essentials while ensuring you stay effortlessly chic on the go.

Conclusion

Women’s leather handbags are more than just practical accessories—they are timeless pieces that add a touch of elegance to any outfit. With their durability, classic appeal, and versatility, leather handbags are an essential part of any wardrobe. By choosing the right style and properly caring for your handbag, you can enjoy its beauty and functionality for years to come. Whether you’re dressing for work, a night out, or a casual day, there’s a leather handbag to complement every occasion and style.

#leather bag #leather handbags #woman #fashion #leather fashion

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yeyinde · 13 days ago

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my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around.

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry.

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long.

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare.

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for.

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried.

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could.

Domineering. Grossly possessive.

He has you already, but that's not enough.

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be.

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse.

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out.

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life.

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous.

Dismissive.

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe.

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only.

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm.

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time.

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy.

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time.

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away.

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content.

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him.

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile.

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce.

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut.

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable.

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct.

Good girl.

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye.

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

#*infidelity but does it really count when your wife is getting in the way of your family 🙄#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #while i def have my suspicions that white ariana is the anti-christ i did listen to needy on repeat while writing this #captain john price #john price #captain price #pricefics

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creativeartandcraft · 1 year ago

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Creative Art & Craft

Leather Convertible Backpack

16" Laptop Messenger Bag

#handbag #leather backpack #bags & purses #leather briefcase #marketing #leatherhandbag #leatherbag #leather purse #leather #woman's hands holding #genuine leather handbag #genuineleather

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gallantmarket · 1 year ago

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Women Soft Leather Handbags

#Woman #Female #Leather #Handbag #bag #Crossbag

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imorynn · 4 months ago

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༊*·˚ ━━━ ¡ 𝐀. 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐆 • 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 !

༊*·˚ warnings : fluff & SMUT ( MDNI 18+ )

༊*·˚ tags : @thoroughly--confused @weemswife @urdaddddd69 @mrsines @confuseuniverse @kenzie-floops @evilregal2002 @alicemaximoff @angeliccss @multixfan @spicyredbitch @ofgoldandbraid @nutritionat @bigbaddoctorwolfe @mgruiz @cultiest @aggieharkness @amethyst-bitch @im-a-carnivorous-plant @likealayka @emilynissangtr @gilmoresliarss @jessicaslittlelovesickmess @gayestswiftie @delusionaforolderwomen @greek-freak101 @justasmallfellow @hotmilfyfrap @thegoddamnfeels @lalchimiedecupid @liliastriangle @czl4t @vii-v @asimpforwomen @daddyriovidal ( those who liked / wanted to be tagged !)

༊*·˚ author’s note : this was so enjoyable to do 😭😭 the list is quite lengthy — and there was so much more to bring together, lol. I hope this is enjoyable to read and that I somewhat did Patti LuPone’s character, Avis Amberg justice with these headcanons ! Lemme know your thoughts ! Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate ! 🍂 Mwuah !! <33

SFW :

༊*·˚ AVIS AMBERG is incredibly careful about your rendezvous, choosing discreet locations like upscale hotels or isolated spots far from prying eyes.

༊*·˚ Her visits to the Golden Tip Gasoline are calculated, never too frequent or predictable, to avoid raising suspicion — especially when it comes to being seen with a young gal such as yourself.

༊*·˚ Important, fleeting note : you’re the first female to work in the Golden Tip Gasoline.

༊*·˚ When Ernie sends a note your way that a favored and certain customer of his was willing to pay double of what was usual to maintain discretion and to steal a moment with you, you knew by that smirk and glint in his eyes that you couldn’t say no.

༊*·˚ Avis is a woman who knows the power of her allure, no matter her age.

༊*·˚ Flustered — you’re indeed very fucking flustered the first time especially given her STRAIGHTFORWARDNESS, yet it’s endearing to her.

༊*·˚ You do love how blunt she is though and eventually get used to it.

༊*·˚ She wants to do it again, and you would be lying ( and fucking stupid ) if you said you didn’t want to — 3 to 4 ‘acts of services’ of exhilaration and fun escalated to a full-on affair.

༊*·˚ She flirts effortlessly with you, her smoky voice dropping to a whisper whenever she addresses you, her lips always curving into a faint, knowing smile while basking in the way you flush at her words.

༊*·˚ ESPECIALLY WITH THE NICKNAMES SHE CALLS YOU —

༊*·˚ “ Darling girl,” “mama’s girl,” “doll,” “sweetheart,” “kitten,” “you little minx” “darling”

༊*·˚ Or when the faint yet pigmented traces of her red lips taint your cheeks, your jawline, your temple, or trail along your neck and collarbone — SHE BEAMS WITH PRIDE AND SATISFACTION WHILE ALL YOU CAN DO IS JUST STARE AT HER WITH A STUPID LOVESICK SMILE. ( this is fucking headcanon for Lilia Calderu as well — DISAGREE WITH ME IF YOU DARE. )

༊*·˚ Avis loves teasing you. CANNOT resist gently poking fun at you, whether it’s the way you blush under her gaze or stumble over your words when she leans in too close. Her teasing is always playful, her tone laced with affection.

༊*·˚ She brings touches of her opulent life into your world. Perfume lingering on the clothes she’s discarded, the soft leather of her handbag brushing against your arm, or the way she lights a cigarette with a gold lighter — it’s a stark contrast to your simpler life and a reminder of the gap between you.

༊*·˚ 100 % a good and attentive listener !!!

༊*·˚ Despite the differences in your worlds, Avis genuinely wants to know about your thoughts, dreams, and past. When you speak, she watches you closely, her brown gaze unwavering, her attention making you feel more seen than you’ve ever been.

༊*·˚ From the way your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt when you’re nervous to the way your voice becomes faint when you’re tired, she’s attuned to all your quirks. She has a sharp eye for detail, and while she doesn’t always mention these observations, her actions show she’s paying attention.

༊*·˚ You remind her she’s more than her reputation. Avis is used to being seen as a symbol of wealth, power, or beauty, but she loves when you make her feel like a person. A woman. Someone who’s flawed, complex, and deeply loved for who she is—not what she represents.

༊*·˚ Show her that she’s cherished, even in small ways.

༊*·˚ Avis adores the little things you do to show your devotion — like carrying something for her, warming her hands with yours, or whispering her name in a way that’s just for her. Or even small love-written notes you may sneak into her purse or leave behind.

༊*·˚ It’s in these gestures that she feels truly adored.

༊*·˚ You make her smile. Like, truly, REALLY smile, cheekbones slightly accentuated — there’s this smoldering depth in her eyes when she looks at you as you speak or does something, and when you catch her looking at you like that, your brain just cuts circuits and you feel yourself melting into a puddle because what the fuck —

༊*·˚ In her world of facades and half-truths, your openness is refreshing. Even when you hesitate or stumble over your words, she appreciates the sincerity in everything you say.

༊*·˚ Admires how you respect her boundaries!! Avis values your understanding of her limits. She loves that you don’t push her to share more than she’s comfortable with or question the life she’s built outside of your relationship. Your respect for her choices deepens her trust in you.

༊*·˚ Expect to hear her talk shit about people, even those she loves ( Ellen included, sorry pooks —), in the industry — and expect her to be RIGHT because her words are not spoken without blunt TRUTH. You never disagree with her, although you do shed slight light depending on who it is ( except Ace. Fuck Ace. )

༊*·˚ Though she’d never admit it, Avis is sentimental about your affair. A small book you’d been reading in the passenger seat of her car, the handkerchief you left at her hotel once—all these small things find their way into her collection of keepsakes.

༊*·˚ Avis isn’t outwardly possessive, but there’s an edge to her when she perceives competition. If she catches a whiff of you being overly friendly with someone else, her smiles get tighter, and her touches that night are more deliberate, as if reasserting her claim.

༊*·˚ She pays Ernie fucking extra for your attention to only be provided for her.

༊*·˚ You have to make it clear on more than one occasion that she does not have to pay for your attention, when she’s already captured it entirely —

༊*·˚ You seek her approval and praise. When she throws a compliment or words of advice your way, you greedily and most eagerly consume that into your brain and heart.

༊*·˚ While Avis does here and there tease and dangle the age card on you, you trust and deeply value her judgment, her choice of words, her opinions, and thoughts, and not just because she is someone you adore and become a literal hole for, but because she IS Avis Amberg, a regal and intelligent woman who’s walked the earth longer than you have.

༊*·˚ She more than anyone understands the things one must do and sacrifices one must make to survive in this world. She understands why you do what you do — such as work at the Golden Tip Gas.

༊*·˚ “You’re smarter than this place, doll. Don’t let it keep you boxed in.”

༊*·˚ It’s her way of lifting you up while reminding you that she sees your potential beyond that place.

༊*·˚ Definitely encourages you to pursue your dreams, and depending on what your ideal career is, she will push and pull at strings so her girl can get one step ahead to where she wants to be.

༊*·˚ Avis definitely fusses over you sometimes. If she notices you’ve been overworking or looking too tired, she might hand you a flask of expensive whiskey or tuck a crisp bill into your shirt pocket with a teasing comment about taking care of yourself.

༊*·˚ Avis is NOT afraid to show you tough love. Does not like to sugarcoat things. Her maternal streak doesn’t mean she’ll coddle or indulge weakness. She’ll tell you the truth, even if it’s hard to hear, but her words are always laced with an undercurrent of care.

༊*·˚ Not only supports but pushes you, and it’s because she believes in your potential and wants you to succeed. “You’re strong, don’t let the world treat you like a little bitch, darling.”

༊*·˚ You smother her with affection, SHE SMOTHERS YOU WITH GIFTS.

༊*·˚ The first time she gives you something, you’re hesitant to accept it. Her brow arched, a soft laugh escaping her as she leaned closer to murmur, “It’s for me as much as it is for you, kitten. Humor me, won’t you?”

༊*·˚ Avis knows you might hesitate to accept her generosity, given your position and hers. She always reassures you with a soft smile and a murmured, “It’s nothing, darling. Let me take care of you.” Or , “Don’t argue with me. Mama likes to spoil her girl.”

༊*·˚ A novel by an author you may have mentioned in passing, or a scarf in your favorite color, or a bracelet with a charm that carries a secret significance between the two of you, she’ll get it for you.

༊*·˚ When you proudly wear or use something she’s gifted with gleam, those brown pools of hers shimmer with unmistakable pride. She may trail her fingers along the edge of the fabric she bought for you or comment softly, “You make it look better than I imagined.”

༊*·˚ She sometimes indulges in a more extravagant gift — a pair of earrings, a silk dress, or something that feels out of reach for your world. When she does, her tone is casual, as though it’s no trouble for her to provide such luxuries, but her eyes gleam with satisfaction when she sees your stunned expression.

༊*·˚ Avis is a proud woman, and though she’s not one for grand declarations, she doesn’t like it when you question her affections. “Must I always remind you how much you mean to me?” she’ll say with a soft sigh, cupping your chin to force you to look her in the eye.

༊*·˚ There’s a touch of insecurity on your part. Being with someone as poised and powerful as Avis can feel overwhelming. Sometimes you wonder why she’s with you, a nobody compared to her glamorous life. But she has a way of dispelling your doubts with a single look or a soft-spoken reassurance.

༊*·˚ While Avis trusts your independence, she doesn’t take kindly to anyone mistreating you. If she senses someone’s being disrespectful, her words turn sharp, her demeanor icy, as she swiftly puts them in their place.

༊*·˚ She HATES leaving you after stolen hours with one another. Parting way is always the hardest for Avis. Though she masks it well, there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes every time she has to walk away, as if she’s silently wishing she could stay longer. ( those brown eyes of her soft and warm and SAD while her red-tinted lips frown as she stares at you, touches lingering, pecks to your cheek frequent, longer than the last before she departs — UGH. )

༊*·˚ You despise Ace. Period. It physically pains you that she has to go back to the man called her husband — the man with far more power than you could ever have. A MAN for Christ’s sake. Your jealousy — and despise — is both endearing but somewhat common to Avis.

༊*·˚ You bring out a softness in her. With you, Avis lets herself relax in ways she doesn’t elsewhere. She enjoys quiet moments together—sharing a cigarette, lying side by side in silence, or just watching the way you look at her like she’s the only, most precious person in the world. She tends to forget what it feels like, being looked at in that way, feeling that way. ( poor baby —)

༊*·˚ She ADORES how you notice the small things. Whether it’s a new piece of jewelry she’s wearing, the way her hair is slightly styled differently, or even just a minor change in her tone, Avis is deeply flattered when you pick up on the details. She loves being seen by you.

༊*·˚ She knows when you’re upset. You can’t hide your emotions from Avis. If you’re feeling down or anxious, she has a way of coaxing it out of you with a quiet patience that makes you feel safe.

NSFW !!!

༊*·˚ AVIS AMBERG THRIVES in control — a tantalizing balance of tender and firm.

༊*·˚ In the bedroom, this translates into her taking the lead with a firm but sensual dominance. She delights in directing your actions, telling you how to touch her, how to undress, or how to position yourself for her pleasure. She enjoys you being obedient, and your eagerness to please only enhances her desire.

༊*·˚ She might instruct you to undress in front of her slowly, letting her take in every inch of your body, her gaze deliberate and appreciative.

༊*·˚ “Good girl,” she’d breathe out, her voice a velvet-like mix of approval and arousal, as you follow her instructions without hesitation.

༊*·˚ She relishes in control though tempers it with a warmth that makes you feel safe, adored, and completely hers.

༊*·˚ She’s a MASTER of seduction.

༊*·˚ Avis takes her time with foreplay, savoring the build-up as much as the act itself. Her lips, her hands, and her voice are all tools in her arsenal, and she knows exactly how to wield them to leave you breathless.

༊*·˚ Avis would be drawn to your reverence for her. Your willingness to treat her like a goddess would resonate deeply, feeding her need to feel adored and desired in ways she doesn’t receive in her conventional life.

༊*·˚ Babygirl isn’t one to rush, if you’re eager to get to it, she manages to get you to slow down with those eyes and red lipped smirk of hers. Whether it’s the slow drag of her lips down your neck or the way your fingers explore every inch of her skin, she likes for one to take their time, as though committing the feel of one another to memory.

༊*·˚ Quiet isn’t her issue! Avis isn’t afraid to let you know how much she’s enjoying herself — very vocal. Her moans are soft yet commanding, her whispered praises intoxicating. She’s also insistent on hearing you, encouraging every gasp and groan with murmured affirmations.

༊*·˚ She DEMANDS your focus. When you’re with Avis, she expects your UNDIVIDED attention. She’ll gently guide your hands to where she wants them or softly command you to look at her, ensuring every moment is intentional and shared.

༊*·˚ She enjoys hearing how beautiful, powerful, and sensual she is, and she’d savor how eagerly you want to please her.

༊*·˚ You kiss every inch of her body, whispering how divine she is, how much you want to please her, and how lucky you feel to have her.

༊*·˚ “That’s it, darling,” she’d exhale, fingers threading into your hair when you’d kneel before her. “Show Mama how much you adore her.”

༊*·˚ While Avis exudes control and dominance, she would also crave moments where she can let her guard down.

༊*·˚ With you, someone younger and fresh with possibility, she’d explore the thrill of trusting someone to take care of her—even if only briefly.

༊*·˚ On rare occasions, she’d allow herself to lean into your arms, guiding your hand to undress her or worship her body as she sits / lays back, watching you with a mix of amusement and surrender.

༊*·˚ Avis lives for the thrill of secrecy.

༊*·˚ The illicit nature of your rendezvous adds an irresistible tension that heightens her arousal.

༊*·˚ She delights in taking risks — stolen touches in public spaces, breathy moans silenced into the palm of her hand, and the ever-present danger of discovery.

༊*·˚ During galas or social events, she’d brush her fingers against your waist, whispering heated promises in your ear about what she’ll do to you later.

༊*·˚ QUICKIES OCCUR WITH AVIS. I JUST KNOW IT IN MY BONES. Sometimes, when time is short, she’ll pull you into her car and park in the nearest empty parking lot— DOES NOT GIVE TWO FLYING FUCKS IF IT IS DAY OR NIGHT, SHE WILL HAVE YOU.

༊*·˚ The urgency of these moments—your hands fumbling, your breath hot against her skin—it’s all just so delicious to her and you —

༊*·˚ The forbidden nature of your relationship feeds her desire, making every encounter all the more electrifying.

༊*·˚ Definitely has a thing for marking you — hidden of course, though sometimes she isn’t afraid to let them peak out —

༊*·˚ Avis is deliberate about leaving traces of your passion, but always where only you or she will see them. Love bites along your inner thighs or scratches down your back are her signature, a private reminder of her.

༊*·˚ Avis, ever meticulous and refined, would likely have a deep appreciation for oral pleasure — both giving and receiving.

༊*·˚ She’s precise, taking her time to tease and savor, drawing out your pleasure until you’re trembling under her touch.

༊*·˚ She’d enjoy teasing you, her lips and tongue exploring every sensitive spot, her movements sensual and deliberate, building you up only to pause and make you beg for release.

༊*·˚ “Patience, my sweet girl,” she’d whisper, her voice rich with amusement. “I decide when you come.”

༊*·˚ Conversely, she’d REVEL in your attention to her, loving the way you worship her body, how you kiss and taste her like she’s the only thing that matters.

༊*·˚ She encourages you to be VOCAL. Avis LOVES hearing you — whether it’s a soft moan, a whispered plea, or her name spilling from your lips. She’ll tease — very subtly degrade you if you try to stifle yourself. “Let me hear those pretty sounds, darling. I want to know how good you feel at being a dirty little whore, hmm?”

༊*·˚ As a woman used to getting what she wants, Avis would enjoy exerting her control through teasing and denial.

༊*·˚ She, and proud she would be to declare this, is highly aware of the power she holds over you and takes immense pleasure in making you wait for her touch, her approval, her satisfaction.

༊*·˚ She might kiss you deeply, her hands roaming your body, only to stop abruptly and smile. “Not yet, darling,” she’d say, commanding while those brown eyes shimmer in mirth. “I want to savor you.”

༊*·˚ Your frustration only fuels her satisfaction, and when she finally allows you to have her, the release is all the sweeter.

༊*·˚ Avis would revel in the age gap between you.

༊*·˚ She enjoys being the experienced, worldly woman guiding you into new realms of pleasure and desire.

༊*·˚ She loves how youthful and vibrant you are, how your innocence (or at least the appearance of it) contrasts with her own sophistication.

༊*·˚ She might call you “Mama’s girl” during moments of intimacy, or when promising you something filthy and exhilarating in the secrecy of stolen moments.

༊*·˚“You’re so eager, you minx ,” she’d croon affectionately. “It’s adorable how desperate you are for me.”

༊*·˚ Avis is a woman of taste, and she’d incorporate luxury into her intimate encounters with you.

༊*·˚ Silk sheets, champagne, and candlelit settings would be her preference, creating an atmosphere of opulence that matches her persona.

༊*·˚ She’d surprise you with a private rendezvous in a lavish hotel room, the bed adorned with rose petals, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume.

༊*·˚ “Only the best for mama’s girl,” she’d whisper against the nape of your neck as you marveled at the setting she’d arranged just for you.

༊*·˚ praise, praise praise !!!! If it was not clear, Avis thrives for praising you!!!! Avis is generous with her compliments, but they’re always laced with her unique brand of authority.

༊*·˚ She LOVES hearing you call her Mrs. Amberg when you’re intimate, but she’s also partial to ma’am or even mama. It feeds her ego and the dynamic between you two.

༊*·˚ Definitely tests your limits. Avis enjoys pushing boundaries, always careful but curious to see how far you’re willing to go for her. A blindfold, a soft scarf tying your wrists, or simply asking you to trust her completely—she knows how to toe the line between thrilling and overwhelming !

༊*·˚ VERY SENSUAL. For Avis, intimacy is about more than just physical pleasure. She takes every opportunity to touch you—tracing patterns on your skin, pressing kisses to your pulse, and savoring the way you respond to her in every way.

༊*·˚ She takes her time with aftercare, as do you. Despite her intensity, Avis is gentle and attentive once the heat of the moment has passed. She’ll brush back your hair, press soft kisses to your temple, and whisper words of reassurance as she holds you close.

#avis amberg x reader #avis amberg #Avis Amberg Hollywood #patti lupone x reader #patti lupone #hollywood netflix #Ernie west #archie coleman #jack castello #claire wood #ace amberg #𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── 🎐ᝰ.#lilia calderu x fem!reader #Lilia Calderu

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toyastales · 1 year ago

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Imaan Hammam for Jacquemus

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kaleldobrev · 2 years ago

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Daddy in a Different Way

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: A simple misunderstanding leads an older woman to believe that you and Jack are together, not you and Dean. But Dean does a “very good job” at clearing things up...But maybe not in the best way.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Age Gap, Light Smut, Daddy kink (if you squint)

Authors Note: Takes place in the same universe as Old Man | Flashbacks are in italics | Even though it’s light smut 18+ only please | MDNI | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

You grabbed your black leather crossbody handbag from the hook next to the floor length mirror that Dean had installed in your shared room about two months after you had moved in.

“Our room is missing something.” You stated as you rolled onto your side, propping yourself up with your elbow and the palm of your hand.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asked, his eyes were still closed, not yet wanting to fully commit to waking up just yet. “What’s that Princess?”

“Floor length mirror.” Your tone serious.

Dean’s eyes shot open, automatically looking at you. “You’re serious?” He asked, not actually wanting you to answer.

You gave him your ‘of course I’m serious Dean’ face, followed by a simple smile. “It’s one mirror Dean.” You said, as you started to trace your pointer finger on his bare chest. “It’s the least you can do.” You paused, tilting his chin toward you. “I’ll make it worth your while.” You leaned in, barely brushing your bottom lip on his.

“You don’t have to owe me anything Sweetheart. You know I can’t say no to you.” He replied, closing the gap between you and kissed you.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you heard Dean come into the room. Seeing him come up behind you, you gave me a soft smile. “You look beautiful today, Sunshine.” His compliment genuine. Wrapping his arms around your waist, you placed your hands on his arms, enjoying the embrace that he had around you. His chin found itself on your bare shoulder before he gave your neck a somewhat seductive like kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. “You and sundresses always do it for me. I don’t know why.” The sundress that you were currently wearing in particular happened to be Dean’s favorite on you, even though he loved every single one that you owned. But for some reason, this sage colored one seemed to be one that he gravitated toward the most.

“I think you like the easy access that they give you.” You turned your head toward him, meeting his gaze; your lips inches away from each other, slightly smelling his spearmint toothpaste.

“That’s one of the reasons.” He confessed, gently starting to lift your dress up. He had gotten pretty far, getting to the point where you could see the waistband of your panties – green lace, the same color as your dress. One of Dean’s fingers found its way into the waistband, and your breath hitched, waiting for the contact that you were craving, despite just having sex with him a few hours before. Yours and his lips touched then, the kiss feeling just as needy and desperate as it was a couple hours before. Dean added another finger as he was hovering over your clit.

“Dean…” You moaned, his two fingers finally making contact as they barely dipped inside you.

“Aw Sweetheart, you’re wet ready?” He voice sounded like honey to you in that moment. “Was this morning not enough for you?” He smirked, slightly feeling how hard he already was against your ass.

“Clearly it wasn’t enough for you either handsome.” Your lips curving into a smirk. You started to move your hand behind you now, gently palming the front of his jeans.

“I’m ready to go when you two are.” Jack said, as you were midway through unzipping Dean’s pants. You and Dean froze in place for a moment, feeling yourself tense up around Dean’s fingers.

“Dammit.” Dean said, his voice sounding more frustrated than he probably intended it to be. He removed his fingers along with his embrace around you; your dress falling back into place.

Jack looked between the two of you, confused at Dean’s reaction. All of a sudden, realization hit them. “Oh.” Jack simply said. “You two were in the middle of having sex and I interrupted.”

You turned to face Jack, ready to say something to them, but Dean was the first one to talk. “We…We weren’t having sex Jack but…we were…being…intimate.”

“With the door open?” Jack asked. Their point was valid, but at the same time, you also weren’t expecting Dean to come up behind you and start fingering you.

“You didn’t see anything right?” You asked. Not that you were embarrassed if Jack had seen anything, but you also didn’t feel like explaining every single sexual thing that you and Dean had done right now to them. To your relief, Jack shook their head, indicating that they in fact didn’t see anything that you two had done.

“Does this mean you two are going to have sex when we get back?” Jack asked, very bluntly.

Dean walked over to Jack, placing the hand that he didn’t use on you, and patted Jack’s shoulder. “Oh, you bet we are.” He winked, before walking out of the room, leaving just you and Jack.

The drive to Target went by quickly, the entire drive filled with song after song that you had requested, as you were the only one besides Dean who had any say in the music that was to be listened to or enjoyed in Baby. “You’re the only shotgun that will always have a say.” Dean once told you.

Once Dean parked Baby, the three of you got out and made your way into the store. Getting inside, you grabbed a shopping cart, despite the fact that you knew you probably didn’t need it; but it was just a force of habit that you did each time you walked into the store, much to Dean’s dismay. “Can I push the cart?” Jack asked, a childish type smile on their face.

“Of course.” You gave them a smile back, releasing your hands from the cart so they could start pushing it. You didn’t know why, but you had loved seeing the enjoyment on Jack’s face when you had told them they could push the cart. With everything that has happened over the years, it was nice to see someone get excited over something so simple.

With no use for your hands now, you went to hold the strap of your crossbody. Seeing this, Dean held out one of his hands. “Hold my hand so you don’t get lost.” He teased. You playfully swatted his arm before taking his hand.

“This is so cute.” You said, grabbing a graphic tree from one of the racks and showed it to Jack. “Do you like this? I think it would look nice on you.” The shirt that you held in your hands was a nice mint color and had an array of different succulents.

“While you two do this, I’m gonna go look at the flannels.” Dean pointed to the small variety of mainly red flannels a few feet away.

“Dean, it’s July…in Kansas.” Kansas in July was honestly one of the worst months. It was always over 100 degrees, and the feels like made it 10 degrees warmer than that; and let’s not forget about the humidity: that was the worst part. Whenever you had left the comfortableness of the Bunker, you instantly felt like you were melting, despite the minimal clothing sometimes you left the Bunker in to try and conquer the Kansas heat.

“It’s always flannel season Sweetheart.” Dean smiled before leaving you and Jack in the graphic tee section.

You let out a frustrated sigh. You were happy to at least convince Dean not to wear his usual jacket today, even if he was still wearing Timberlands and jeans. Before you had met him, him along with Sam would tell you how they both wore jackets no matter the weather, and that honestly baffled you. You had no idea how two grown men would willingly wear heavy jackets in summer, let alone summer in Kansas no less. After you had become more of a stable being in his life, and the other boys lives, you had found yourself gently – sometimes aggressively – convincing Dean that maybe wearing a heavy ass leather jacket in 100 degree weather wasn’t the smartest move; that it was okay to wear a t-shirt and shorts. He had worn shorts in the Bunker, but refused to wear them outside; the place that you had told him that he needed to wear them. “I don’t want people staring at my legs.” He told you.

“I don’t believe flannel is a season.” Jack commented, interrupting your train of thought. “It’s a material last time I checked.” You adored Jack’s slight innocence at times like these.

“You would be correct. But, wearing any kind of flannel, despite a heat wave, is a long-standing Winchester tradition.” You held up the shirt again, holding it up against Jack’s body so you could try and imagine what it would look like on them without having to try it on in the store; something you knew Jack would be uncomfortable with doing. “I think you’d look cute in this.” You nodded to yourself and placed the t-shirt in the cart.

“Can I pick something out for you?” Jack asked.

“Sure. Let’s see what you got.” You smiled, both of you turning around to look at the rack.

As Jack looked through the t-shirts trying to find one that they thought you would like, you couldn’t help but look over at Dean who had quite a few flannels draped over his arm that he would be able to add to his ever growing collection; a few even looked to be in your size, something that made you smile. “I think you’d look nice in this one.” Jack said, holding out the black t-shirt for you to see. It was faded black in color and had the logo for one of your favorite bands: The Clash. “A very fine choice Jack.” You smiled.

Jack handed you the shirt and you placed it in the cart. “Can we listen to them when we get home? Or are you and Dean going to have sex?” Jack asked bluntly, but quiet enough so only you would be able to hear the question.

You placed your hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, we can listen to them on the drive home. How does that sound?” You smiled, coming up with a compromise that you knew they’d be good with. Jack nodded, liking your compromise.

“Well aren’t you two just the cutest.” An older woman who appeared to be in her mid to late 70s said. At first, you and Jack looked around to see if she was talking about anyone else that was around you, but the two of you were the only ones in sight. Seeing you two looking around, she laughed gently, amused. “Yes, I’m talking about you two.” She walked closer to you. “How long have you cuties been together?”

“Oh, we’re not together.” You stated.

The woman gave you and Jack a rather confused expression, as if she didn’t understand why you had said you two weren’t together. “Oh sweetie, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Trust me,” she leaned in to whisper, so only you could hear her. “I know true love when I see it.” You couldn’t help but give her a wide-eyed expression. “I used to look at my Harold like that.”

“We aren’t together.” You firmly said again. You looked over at Jack who simply just held their hands on the shopping cart, trying their best not to make eye contact with the woman. You knew that they were starting to get uncomfortable. “We get it all the time though.” You stated. Which was true. Whenever you and Jack did things together without Dean, it almost seemed like you and Jack were together given the fact that you two relatively appeared to be the same age, despite you being a few years older than they were. “I’m actually with that handsome man over there.” You directed her attention to Dean, who was currently holding up an interesting looking colored flannel with a disgusted look on his face. You had never seen a man look so disgusted while looking at flannels before.

The older woman turned back to you after looking over at Dean. “Sweetie, there’s no way. He’s old enough to be your father.” Her comment made your heart sink a bit, but it was a comment that you were relatively used to hearing whenever people had seen you and Dean together. You and Dean had a 15 year age gap, and you didn’t particularly look your age at times; it all depended on if you were wearing make-up or not, and the type of clothing you had on at the time.

“He’s not actually.” You firmly stated. “I know it looks like he is but –” You started to say, but the woman seemed to have no interest in your explanation, simply ignoring what you had to say because she seemed too invested in the ‘relationship’ that you and Jack apparently were in, in her eyes.

“How long have you two been together?” She repeated her question. You and Jack looked at each other, their cheeks starting to get a slightly light pink out of embarrassment.

“Again, we aren’t together.” Your voice sounding more firm this time.

In that moment out of your peripheral you noticed Dean starting to make his way back over to the three of you. His once happy expression quickly turned into what seemed like concern. “Everything okay here Sweetheart?” He asked you.

“Oh, everything’s fine dear.” The woman stated, not realizing that he was calling you Sweetheart and not her. She gently took hold of his arm, almost as if she was flirting with him; which you were pretty sure she was. “I was just complimenting your daughter here on how nicely her and her boyfriend looked together.”

Dean looked at the woman’s arm on his before looking at you and Jack for a moment. Dean let out one of the biggest laughs you had heard from him in a while. “What’s so funny?” The older woman asked.

Dean wiped his eyes, as if he had just been cry laughing. “What you just said.” He pointed at you and Jack. “Them two? Now that’s…wow, I needed that laugh today, thank you.” He said. The old woman’s expression grew even more confused than it was before.

“You’re not…her father?” She looked at the three of you, removing her hand finally from his arm.

“Biologically? No. But she does call me daddy sometimes in the bedroom.” He winked at the older woman, his comment making her gasp quietly before she left the three of you alone.

“Dean!” You couldn’t believe what he had just said. Well, you could, but you didn’t think he would say something like that to a woman that just seemed to be a bit too nosy for her own good.

“What?” He asked.

“Y/N, do you really call Dean your father?” Jack asked very seriously. Jack was aware of some of the nicknames that you and Dean had or would call each other. Sweetheart, Hon, Honey, Babe, Baby, Sunshine. But Daddy was a new one for them.

Dean was about to open his mouth to answer Jack, but you quickly covered it with your hand. “We’re not gonna talk about that.” You simply said, sounding just a bit defensive in your response.

Tag List: @roseblue373

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#dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean x reader #spn imagine #supernatural imagine #spn one shot #supernatural one shot #reader insert #female reader #spn #supernatural

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writersblockedx · 2 months ago

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Winter's Protection: Chapter Two

Pairing - Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader Summary - Your bodyguard takes things a little too far when you're threatened at a party. Warnings - Reader experiences sexual assault, violence, drinking Words - 2.4K

Read Part One Here Masterlist

It was a strange norm to get used to. Coming down to the solider cooking, reading, living a life in your own room - without any invitation. You barely spoke. Odd bickering moments when you begged for privacy, but he always won such with the threat of your father.

But of course, the time came when you were once again invited out for drinks with your friend group. A time when you would usually let loose, leave any kind of security and escape into a free city. Alas, you highly doubt the winter soldier was going to let you go so easy. You did as you always did. Getting ready without even mentioning the fact you were leaving. Maybe then he would let you slip away, maybe.

Though, it hadn't taken him long to realise what was going on when you wandered downstairs with your hair in rollers and your glamour makeup glistening. "You're going out." The soldier observed, taking in your frame for just a moment before he stood from the sofa.

You pulled your handbag over your shoulder as you faced the man, "Is that a problem?" His head shook. He stayed silent; how predictable. "And, let me guess, you're coming with." Another silent nod of recognition that he had heard you.

A sigh fell from your lips as you headed for the door, the soldier trailing behind you. "If you've got to join, will you at least drive me?" You turned to him, uncertain of his response.

He gave no nod or shake of his head. He took a moment, and thought on it, before speaking, "Sure."

The soldier slipped into the front seat, slowly revealing his metallic hand that was once hidden beneath the safety of his leather glove. You watched him carefully, placing your bag at your feet in the passenger's side. "Where to?" He requested, switching on the engine, barely glancing at you.

"Roxie's." Your eyes followed him cautiously like he couldn't be trusted. The truth was, none of your bodyguards had ever driven you anywhere. Most of them didn't care to do so, some of them too incompetent. "It's downtown area, near the east quater-"

He cut you off, "I know where it is." He answered ever so bluntly.

So you kept your lips shut as he drove, taking all the back roads and shortcuts. You pretended as if you weren't wondering about how the Winter Solider knew where everything was, how he knew the bar you and your friends attended religiously every weekend. Each thought you had seemed tainted with blood. That seemed your only answer as to why the Winter Solider would ever attend anywhere you had been. He didn't have his freedom, he didn't have weekends, he didn't have nights off, he just had orders. Orders to kill. Or, in your position, to protect.

Even to your surprise, he was able to grasp a spot right outside the front doors of the bar. You didn't move until the engine was switched off. From there, you threw open your door, heel grazing the concrete pavement as you grazed over the neon light which seemed ever so inviting at this time of night. You took one step to the right as to join the queue which waited behind a red rope.

And then a firm grip took a hold of your forearm, forcing you to a stop. "No." He stated and guided you towards the front door.

He ignored your resistance. "What are you doing? You can't fight your way in." Your words were hushed but angered nonetheless. "It's fine, I don't-"

Your words became silenced as you faced the security of the bar. "What can we do for you?" One of them asked, obviously irritated at the pair who had stopped her from doing her job of letting in the crowd of customers.

You could only watch as the soldier placed his metallic hand on the woman's shoulder. It wasn't so much of a threat, it was an introduction: he was the Winter Solider. She quickly sucked in a breath and nodded, "Just through this door." She pointed behind her before stepping out of the way for yourself and the Soldier to walk through.

The two of you slipped into the sea of flashing lights and booming house music. One of which should have helped you ease. Alas, you found yourself in the mix of drunken youth, glaring back at the man. "What the hell was that?" You snapped at him, fury building up within your pupils.

"You wanted to party," He said, nonchalantly. "You're welcome."

You bit your tongue as to not let more anger fall from your lips. You didn't know what might happen if you were to fight back against the Winter Soldier. For now, you were happy not knowing, not testing the limits.

"Y/n!" Came a booming voice from behind the two. You turned, facing your friend once again, she smiled your way until her lips snuck into a smirk at the sight of the bodyguard once again. She gazed him up and down like she about to bite her bottom lip. If she wasn't your friend, you might rolled your eyes. "See you've brought your bodyguard, once again. What's your name, pretty boy?"

The soldier didn't reponce, barely seemed to even have it in him to look down at the girl. "Where are we sat?" You interjected, sensing the irritation that your bodyguard suddenly extruded. Though, it did have you wandering what the Winter Soldier name truly was, if he even true, if he even cared to remember a past memory.

At such question, your friend interlocked your arm with her own. "This way." She pointed to a back booth where old money kids and inspiring lawyers mingled. Also known as your only group of friends. "Oh, and you should know," Her voice became hushed before she continued, "Ryan's here."

The soldier must have sensed the way your chest tensed at the name drop, before you knew it, he was right at your side. You swallowed, "What-? What do you mean? I thought we all agreed to stop inviting him." You protested against the thought of such a touchy man slivering his way back into your life.

"He sort of just invited himself." She shrugged before tugging you along. "Come on,"

The two of you, with the Solider right behind, wandered up to the booth. It was already littered in empty shot glasses, glitter and vapes. Your friends all invited you in, even Ryan passed you a smile which you didn't return. One of the boys, one which came from a famously wealthy family, smirked at he gazed at the bodyguard. "Whose this? New boyfriend?" The soldier didn't move an itch but you still caught the way Ryan seemed to grit his teeth.

"New bodyguard." You answered, taking the glass of champye which was offered.

One of your other friends scoffed between her red lips, "Thought you were ditching all that?"

You gulped at your drink, "Can't upset Daddy dearest anymore, think he'll throw me in a cell if I run away from any more bodyguards." You explained, intending to leave out the part where said bodyguard was in fact a nortious assian for the taskforce your father ran.

Ryan drew forward towards the soldier, a firm hand landing on his shoulder. A movement of which was returned with a harsh glare. "Well, I hope you no how to have fun." He was silent. You watched carefully, wandering if he was about to snap. A moment passed. Ryan let his hand drop from the shoulder and grazed past your figure. "What great company you've brought us, Pierce." He laughed to himself. "Why don't you entertain me on the dance floor?"

There was a sick tone in his voice that made you want to throw up. "Never happening." You snapped back.

"Really?" Ryan smirked to himself. "I recall you having quite the night last night we danced together."

The memory flooded your brain in blurs. It was still disconnected after the month which had passed, still parts missing, yet the thought of what you did remember made your skin shiver. "I was drunk." You seemed to have to remind him - not that he seemed to care.

"Sure," He replied before returning to seats in the corner of the booth.

What you hadn't realised was that the expressionless soldier, had been listening to every word. He was smart like that. Trained to be an eavesdropping, trained to gather information. He watched as you tugged at your friend's arm, dragging her away from the wanna-be lawyer. "Hey, can we go somewhere else?" You begged.

"Bar?" With your nod, the two of you practically rushed away from your group, towards the back of the bar where you placed an order.

For a second, the solider lingered, his eyes trained on Ryan and then way he seemed to be flirting with every girl sat at the table. When he had enough of watching such, he returned to your side. "I want to punch him." He heard you say.

"I know." Replied the friend before offering you a shot of something alcholic. "Here."

You sucked in a breath, chugging the substance as it burned your throat. "I still want to punch him."

And so, another drink was handed your way. This time, with mixer. "It's a double, don't worry." Your friend assured.

Sipping at your drink, you leant your back against the bar, staring across at the crowded booth. "I can't go back up there."

"Okay, so don't." Your brow raised at her comment. "Come here." She extended a hand out for you to take. When you did, even with reluctance, she dragged you towards the sea of flashing lights and intoxicated customers.

From there, the two of you sipped at your drinks while letting yourself sway to the music. Smiles gracing at your lips, focused on nothing but each other. A while back, the two of you would have been on the hunt for someone to make your night worth wild. Alas, for this night, all you needed was one another. And the solider that still watched from afar, not seeming to dare let his eyes from your body.

But such bliss was short-lived. The booming chatter of voices your recongised soon came into earshot. Your entire group had moved from the booth onto the dance floor, Ryan included. Your eyes glanced to your friend, worry written in your pupils. You preyed he kept his distance. But that wasn't ever in Ryan's nature. For the first couple of songs, he kept his distance. For a second, you even relaxed. Maybe he wasn't about to try anything.

"I'm gonna get another drink!" Your friend yelled over the far to loud music.

Even when you shouted back, "What?" She didn't hear. Before you knew it, she was walking away, leaving you seemingly unprotected.

It didn't take him long. He clocked on to your vulnerability the moment your friend left. And like that, he swooped along side you. "You don't seem to want my company tonight?" Ryan observed, his words whispered against your ear.

"No, I don't." You thought you had made it abundetly clear. Maybe he was just dim-witted, or maybe he thought you we're playing a long game of hard to get. Knowing the size of his ego, you were betting on the latter.

"That's just too bad." He continued to speak into your ear. As his words left his lips, you suddenly felt the presence of his hand on your hand. You wanted nothing more than to swat it away, but your body seemed to bretay you; you froze in the same way you did whenever you thought of your last night out with the boy.

Your breath hitched. "What are you doing?" Seemed to be the only question you could muster, despite the desperation to yell at him to get his sticky fingers away from your body.

"Nothing." His smirk returned, as did your sudden want to throw up.

Such only worsened when his hand slipped further down. And it kept going. "Ryan don't-"

"What?" He acted smug, like he wasn't making your whole body crumble from the inside out.

When you felt his hand on your arse, you forced yourself to snap out of it. "Ryan." His name said with a stern snap. He didn't stop, we you felt him pinch, you shoved him away from you. "Ryan!"

Even with your words, he wasn't giving in. His smug expression never left his eyes. "What? Come on, I'm just having fun." You wanted to scream, and you wanted to punch him now more than ever. But God forbid a woman make a scene.

You put a firm hand at his chest, pushing him away with enough force that his hands finally let your skin. "Yeah, well I'm not." You snapped back at him.

You barely had a chance to take another breath before Ryan was suddenly bleeding. A harsh punch to his chin, enough to cause a brusie in the morning. Everyone stopped, staring at the soldier and his metallic hand, now tainted in spots on red. No one had time to do anything before Ryan was thrown onto the floor, alerting the fellow dancers of the scene. Several punches in and more blood casted against Ryan's sickly pale skin.

It wasn't long before a sea of the bar's security crew rushed in. But either their attempts to prey the soldier off were futile. So you found yourself stepping forward, "Stop!" Your hands gripped at his arm, yelling once again, "Stop."

When the soldier raised his hand for the next punch, he slowed. His furious eyes turning to yourself. They seemed to ease. "I'm going." You tugged at him further, a silence instruction that he needed to follow, because they were his orders, not to continue punching some egotistical dick. "Leave him." Suddenly, you felt a rush of power. Oneof which always made you feel sick. Having a human at your will, for whatever you needed, to obey anything you requested. A role you dad had seemed to take on effortlessly in the past.

And so, with the winter solider at your side, you slipped away from the scene. Your body still shaking. Though, you weren't sure if that was at the fault of Ryan's behaviour or watching how easily the Winter Solider could have broken the man in two for you. You wondered what else he had done to men. How easily he seemed to let his hands turn red, dripping with blood. You wondered how you would sleep at night knowing that was the man who now lived alongside you for every breathing moment.

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simp-ly-writes · 4 months ago

Text

Professionals

─────── · · A Black Ops 6 FanFic

Pairing: Russell Adler x Fem!Spy!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You are a MI6 spy with a secret mission different to what the CIA has requested you for; using your information gathering expertise, you pose as Russell Adlers wife as the both of you go undercover abroad, the catch? MI6 wants to know everything about your "husband" just as much as you do.

─ · · TAGS: no use of (y/n), non-canon compliant, flirting, use of pet names, teasing, fluff.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,607 | Part 2

─ · · A/N: I always wanted to try and make one of those series that stems off into prompts and scenarios so use this chapter as the basis! 😊 (I hope this somewhat makes sense lol).

─────── · ·

Monday Night | MI6 Agency, London

It was one of the few nice nights of the year yet here you were sat inside your Directors office. A couple dozen high ranking officers swarming around you, the room tense in wait as the leather of your seat groaned as you took a seat.

One thing happened after another, a team was preparing your looks, another briefing you on culture, customs and speech. You had worked for the secret intelligence service for over two and a half decades, starting right out of university yet had never experienced something quite like this in all your history. All you could do is nod along.

"He'll be sat there waiting when you arrive. He is CIA, Clandestine special officer. A full report will be sent to your room when you arrive, deployment immediately. You are dismissed, officer," was all you gathered from your Director before you were being followed out into a car, your belongings already packed for you, ring box sitting heavy between your hands in your lap. You couldn't find it in you to open it.

"You ready, (last/name)?" one of your fellow operators, Bill asked you, driving the car another office sat shotgun, so much security... you think to yourself, worried for what the hell kind of a mission they were sending you on and with who of all people?

"What am I not ready for?" you ask back, faking confidence yet feeling frustrated by the lack of information you were receiving before going overseas and acting as a double-agent.

"Well, from knowing you, marriage," he chuckles, fixing the rear-view mirror as you shuffle around in the backseat. It was obviously meant to be a joke to cheer you up yet the word marriage rung through your head, echoing on repeat.

"Well it's not like I'm actually gonna get married, Bill. Just got to look all pretty, get the information, and get the hell out. The ring is just another thing of the disguise at the end of the day," you reply with nonchalance before opening the ring box- immediately regretting so as you stare at the most gorgeous ring you could ever dream of.

What the fuck, is all you can mutter underneath you breath before Bill is pulling into a parking sport at the airport. The other officer already running around back to the truck, unloading your gear. Bill lets out a long low whistle after seeing the ring.

"Well, everyone's going to know your a taken woman with that rock on your finger." You flip Bill the finger, placing the ring onto your left hand before throwing the box into your handbag and stepping out of the car. A plane waits for you on the tarmac, engines already roaring and with one wave back to the boys, you are off up in the air on on your way to America.

─────── · ·

Tuesday Morning | Hotel, Washington, D.C.

When arriving to the "Land of Freedom," you quickly hailed a cab to your to-be-shared hotel room for the next few days. Your boss mentioned it as a speed, "get-to-know one another" meeting but in your eyes it would be the opportunity to get the upper hand on information.

Your mission was simple, do the missions the CIA wanted you in, provide them with the information they wanted all the while taking what your agency wanted- who exactly is Russell Adlers and what the hell they were doing with brainwashing.

You were surprised to see how many lanes of traffic there were on your want to the hotel room and once arriving to the five-star hotel, staff members were there awaiting your arrival, "Mrs. Adler, please allow me to hold your belongings and bring them up to your room for you. An assortment of breakfast has been prepared at your husbands request and will arrive in 30 minutes."

White gloves swiftly took your baggage from out of the trunk another holding the door open for you both before leading you up to your room. Deep stained hardwood made your heels click against its surface in tune with the live performance piano. You took in the dazzling crystal chandeliers of the lobby with its panelled walls and luscious plants. The elevator was glass with a gold banister that you leaned upon, examining every exist and staff member positioned for the "just-in-case" that came with the job.

With a ding, you were up to the ninth floor and lead down a cosy lit hallway before being presented with your keycard. A white glove motioned to the scanner before holding the door open for you to enter first.

The room was moody and romantic just as the lobby was fit with golden accents, walls in that signature wood paneling, and floor finished in a plush cream carpet. A kitchenette, small living space and bed set with fresh white sheets and a few too many pillows off to another room set within the suite. You were impressed to say the least once hearing the last of your luggage be placed within the room.

"Is there anything else we could assist you with Mrs. Adler?" the staff member asks, eyes hanging onto your every word- eager to help. You smiled at the young man before shaking your head with a smile. A strand of your hair falling out of place in doing so. "No, I am quite alright. Thank you for your work, I'll be sure to make my husband reward your service this morning." And with that, the door closed behind you as you took in the silence of the space before going digging.

Grabbing your gloves from your purse on the counter you opened every drawer and cranny, looking underneath every piece of furniture in the main room before heading towards the bedroom. The singular bed mocked you as the white sheets glistened through the sunlight peaking through the sheer curtains.

A singular small suitcase sat on an armchair that faced the bed. Delicately zipping it open you took apart its components yet finding nothing out of the ordinary, not a sloppy worker, you praised your "husband" before placing a small tracker into one of the open seams.

Standing back up and looking outside the reflection of another body behind you had you freezing in the moment. A tall man stood behind you by the outline of his broad shoulders, your eyes flickered between the two of you in the reflection. His voice casting goosebumps across your skin before you were reining yourself in, remember who you are, remember what the job is, remember-

"Hello, Sweetheart. Anything your looking for in particular?"

Shit. You turned around, casting a quick signature smile before slowly taking off your gloves and walking over to the side table. You felt his stare watching as you moved around the room as you took a seat on the corner of the bed.

"Just making sure that my husband was leaving me with no surprises after all you do know how much your wife hates them so," you retort now taking your time to stare. You took in the loafers he wore, freshly polished and leather matching the belt looping through pressed dress pants with the collared shirt he wore, a pair of aviators hanging from the unbuttoned part of his shirt.

His muscles bulged from the sleeves, veins casting up from his fingertips and up to his neck, beard freshly shaven and fitting the classy affluent couple look you both were assigned. Your eyes stopped at his face, watching as his head tilted in a silent demand for you to dare ask about the scar running up from his cheek to his nose.

"Already getting protective of me?" Adler teases catching your ring finger twitch at the name with a smirk.

You didn't appreciate him already trying to be above you, "the papers never said my husband would be handsome. How could they leave such an important part out?" you smile, your words genuine but the way in which you cross your legs after saying it as your husband raising a brow before rolling his eyes.

"I'm not the one you're trying to charm over. Save it for when we get overseas, I'm sure they'll enjoy it more-"

"And you didn't enjoy me calling you handsome?" you press forwards watching Adler roll his shoulders before scoffing. "I know I am, didn't need you to say it."

You gasp playfully, standing to tease more of his personality out of him but before you can reach Adler has your wrist in a firm yet gentle grip, cautious of his own strength. "I'm not going to break if you hold me so gently, Mr. Adler."

"Well, Mrs. Adler. If you think I'm going to get handsy you're wrong. Take the bed tonight, I'll settle on the couch."

Breakfast arrived shortly after your teasing match and while eating you appreciated that Adler did in fact hold table manners. Always making sure your coffee and water was filled yet apparently it was a step too far in asking for a bite off his plate as he waved you off.

It was the first day of a mission that you did not know when it would end but as you laid there in the cold sheets listening to Adler hum along to something on the radio before taking a drag from his cigarette. There was the smallest part of you hopeful that he would not hate you after all of this that became overshadowed by the job and everything you had at stake. There was no question but being the utmost professional.

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: what did you think?? 👀 I've got some ideas of Adler finding out you have a side mission, introducing you to members of the team, missions gone wrong-AH! So many ideas, let me know if any of these stand out! 😄💕

#russell adler x reader #russell adler #cod x reader #x reader #fanfic #fanficiton #simp-ly #simp-ly-writes #protective #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #jealous #fanfiction #black ops 6 #black ops 6 x reader #cod bo6 #bo6 #bo6 x reader

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