#Linen Sofa Covers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wyvernest · 1 year ago

Text

soft s3x and grey sweats

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!gf!reader

warnings: smut, tooth rotting fluff, miguel wears grey sweatpants, soft and loving sex, domesticity, unprotected piv

summary: miguel ft. grey sweatpants

A gentle drizzle splatters on the windows of your bedroom, tapping its soft, irregular crystal drops onto the glass only to wake you from your blissful nap.

You had fallen asleep with your head on his chest, invaded by the warmth of his body next to yours, the fascinating feeling of being home with him. You couldn't ever dare to ask for more than that.

With a spine-bending stretch, you step out of the cosiness of the king-sized bed following the realisation of his absence. Leaping down the stairs, you seek the comfort of him being near you like a throat-gripping vice.

You hear the water running, occasionally overlapped by clattering, dishes clanking and drawers being pushed shut.

You step out into the hall of your open-concept kitchen, linen stockings preventing even the subtlest noises of your movements from reaching him through the ambiance.

Your weight on the wooden floor is merely a gust of wind as you sit yourself into the corner of the sofa in order to watch him from up close.

You hug your legs to your chest in an attempt to adapt to the temperature change of the room, your flimsy top and panties doing little in covering your middle.

He hasn't turned to you since you hopped off the stairway. Arrogance tugs at the furthest corner of your mind after having sneaked behind his hyper vigilance, completely unnoticed. You seize the opportunity to study him in the absence of his piercing gaze fixed upon you.

Your eyes linger over the expanse of his broad back, the navy blue, short-sleeved shirt creasing in thin, cascading lines over his shoulder blades as he shifts his weight to his right, bicep bulging when he stretches his hand up into a cupboard.

You're more than delighted to note the easiness with which he attains things normally out of your reach.

Not only once did you call for his help to get you something from any place higher above you, having him stand behind you when doing so, and without fail him making sure to push his groin up against your ass in the process, prompting you to bend just slightly forward onto the board or sink in front of you before the simplest request for aid turned into you, taking him against any surface around the house.

It became quite the signal after a while. Whenever he heard you, 'Miguel! Come here for a second, baby’, his cock would fatten in advance at the sound of the command.

"Should've stayed upstairs, muñeca. I was making something for you." he snaps you out of your reverie, the sleepy raspiness in his voice deliciously running late over the last syllables of his remorseful disfavour.

While still not facing you, it turns out he was well-aware of your presence.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just watch." you excuse yourself, draping your midriff over the armrest, hands supporting your head on the soft cushions as you thaw at the sight of him cooking for you.

He returns to the kitchen island, his index finger mindlessly following the instructions he was mentally revising, before his eyes find you on the couch, scanning every patch of skin you have on display, as if sizing you up for his dessert.

He allows his vision to wash over your silky smooth thighs, your waistline that moulds into the hill of the pillows, the exact same way it moulds so erotically against him when he pistons his hips into yours.

With your pleading gaze inviting, thighs squeezed together in frustration, he is unsure of what to finish next, the pancakes, or you.

Your attention drops to the chubbed, prominent curve of his stiffening cock in his sweatpants, the shade of it nearly obscenely large, evident on the grey fabric. His hand slips down his crotch, lazily palming his dick through the material. You feel the heat pooling between your thighs, yearning growing unbearable.

"I have to let it rest. I'm all yours now." he suggests smugly, and part of you suspects that he had been needing to take you since you decided to flutter your eyes shut on the bed, arms coiled around his waist.

You shamelessly keep your eyes on target as he sets the dough bowl aside, approaching you with a heaviness in his pace that you know oh so well.

His dick twitches ever so slightly in his pants, hardening until its outline becomes lewdly evident, straining upwards into his pants in all its length and girth that ruptures you unforgivingly whenever he stuffs himself inside you.

Before he can even reach the sofa, your eager hands clutch his waist, feeling the rigid muscles underneath his shirt as you start planting gentle kisses down his abdomen, having him shudder at the contact even through the cotton fibre.

Your soft breasts meet his bulge in the process, offering nothing more than a few mere brushes that only rile him up more than he had hoped.

He drops his weight next to you on the cushions as the only way to avoid the urge to pull his cock out and shove it down your throat through your pretty, plush lips. He opts to rest his head back on the pillows, legs spread wide in front of him, taking up nearly all the space next to you.

Not a single moment is wasted before you take his cheeks in your hands, fingertips grazing his rough, barely visible stubble, pressing rushed, obsessive kisses all over his face.

You slide one leg over his, seeking the pressure of his broad, firm thigh to your clothed cunt.

His own hands are quick to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him, your chest flattened on his. His lips find yours through your loving pecks, deepening the kiss he caught you with, swiftly interrupted by a soft gasp of yours the second your ass meets his boner.

You teasingly lower yourself onto him gently, revelling in the feeling of the tip pressing harshly into the thin fabric of your panties.

Letting your hand travel down his firm chest, down his abdomen and over the sizable bulge in his sweatpants, you cup him through the material, applying just enough pressure to coax a groan out of his throat.

His wide thighs involuntarily flex on your sides and he twitches in your hand, a reminder of his force, his size in comparison to you, his ability to have you any time he wanted despite the position, despite your teasing.

His head leans back on the couch exposing his throat, eyes dazed out and fixed on the view of your breasts peeking from under your crop, visibly satisfied with the angle he found. Your boobs, round and soft, ever so inviting for him to knead in his large hands, he thinks.

Warm palms leave your hips to slide up your waist, disappearing under the cotton shirt, idly groping your chest.

You reel at the feeling of his rough, calloused hands on your smooth skin, touching and fondling in all the right places.

His knuckles protrude every now and then through the thin textile as he keeps massaging your breasts, feeling your pulse quicken with each deep breath you take.

Before you can even decide on your next move, you feel the blistering warmth of a splayed out hand on your back, propping you gently as he tilts you to the side, a familiar bow of such a dirty dance that has your thoughts melting out of your brain, your whole existential purpose being resumed to him alone in a matter of seconds.

He lays you down over the length of the couch with such care, such strength that has you submitting mindlessly, wrapping your frail arms around his neck. Legs up in the air, he has you just like he always does. Your blood boils through you, the ignition of nerves only he could ever cause.

He descends upon you, veiling your entire body in his, hands eagerly running over your body, playing you like an instrument that only sings for him, that only he can hold.

You sigh, taking in the scent of him, letting it invade your lungs like inhalants. The visceral musky cologne, with shades of a pine forest that had your thoughts run wild and senses sharpened.

Half lidded eyes accentuate his savagely, crimson irises and dilated pupils, the sheer sight of you under him never ceasing to rile him up bad enough to make him beg for your touch.

You squirm weakly; quickly enough he takes the hint and hooks his thumb around your panties, dragging them down your soft skin, impatience evident in his movements.

You feel the weight of his hard cock on your thigh, head going dizzy at the thought of its girth stretching you open, the thought of the pained groans that crawl out of his throat when he comes, his dick pulsating inside you.

He stills above you, eyes darting over your face, as if searching for something he had just remembered he was missing, a gaze condimented with adoration, curiosity, and a hesitancy you may only interpret as astonishment.

"No puedo creer que seas mía" (”Can't believe you're mine.”) he mutters, barely above a halted whisper, following the realisation of your rather perplexed demeanour when confronted with such antics. ”Makes me think that maybe", he pauses, "pushing through all the shit in my life made me worthy of you.”, he confesses, vulnerable and wounded.

You've caught smudges of this view of his before, only not this categorical. In a way, you find it quite the most heartwarming yet peculiar thing there is to know about him. He seeks the comfort of believing that all the suffering he endured meant something, a sacrificial lamb for him to ultimately earn the limitless love of your embrace, your affections and unwavering devotion.

It wasn’t pride that clawed at his memories of having conquered and survived when so many others didn’t in the same circumstances he faced. It was relief, the relief of a man that swam the ocean to find paradise.

And there you were, silk-smooth, gentle hands cupping his face with such infatuation he did not think possible, looking up at him like there wasn’t anything more beautiful in existence you would rather see.

His heart had inevitably melted into yours; now soldered together against all odds fate could bestow.

”I love you, Miguel. With or without your scars.”, you pull him into a reassuring, promise-sealing kiss, which he softly reciprocates, regaining his confidence and unyielding want.

His lips ghost over your jugular, relishing in the way your exhales halt in your throat, pausing in expectancy as his hot breath excites goosebumps over the satin skin of your exposed neck.

”I love you more.” he teases, lips latching onto your pulse point, lightly sucking hungry kisses down to the valley where your throat meets your shoulder.

Despite knowing how adamant you were about your own love being immeasurable, let alone any lesser than his, he took great joy in dramatically rivalling you on the matter, beclouding your fondness only to start a competition of who manages to sway the other with their words of pure worship and fidelity.

Whether there was another underlying reason for his racing I love you more’s, you do not know. Maybe a reminiscence of his mistrustful, defensive nature, reflecting its last slither of bewilderment into a seemingly innocent insistence that he, indeed, loved you more than you loved him.

How could he not? You had no knowledge of the things he had to do for his job, what it truly meant to risk everything for someone, to risk your life for another.

And he prefers it this way, to have you shielded away from the horror of finding yourself in that situation, from the heartbreak of even imagining the circumstances in which you may decide to give your life for him in all your passion, let alone pondering upon the choice and place the verdict upon your declaration of love, weighing it down in all gravity and seriousness of the pledge. In the depths of his mind, he dreads it, hearing you say, ‘I love you, I would give my life for you’, although he would do so for you without thinking twice.

He dreads knowing that his presence in your life could scar you so that you may have to die for him, that his soul alone could be stained in your blood, even only in hypothesis.

Therefore, he feels far more content thinking that you don’t quite love him as much, thinking that you, as perfect as you are, would not suffer should anything happen to him. That your attachment to him will only ever bring you nothing but joy.

And oh how he brought you joy. Pure bliss and paradisiacal rapture. Even more so when he held you so dearly against him, painting you in doting kisses, marks of which linger on your skin long after he’s departed.

His warm, broad hand sails down over the plushy mound of your breast, indulging in a layover just to squeeze lightly. To drift below; its tender, round shape fitting in the junction between his thumb and index finger; his palm seemingly continuing its travel down your waist before returning unexpectedly, massaging your soft tit after a run down and up your waist, making the butterflies in your belly grow agitatedly.

The meagre shudders of your body underneath his unpredictable and exciting touch, the silent whines that die in your throat as he kisses down the crook of your neck have his cock twitching in his pants, beads of precum gathering on the flushed tip, staining the material. You feel the unmistakable length of it poke your thigh, hard and thick.

"Eres tan buena conmigo" (”You’re so good to me.”) he breathes deeply, voice hoarse with restraint, lacing his words with a poised thread that wraps around your neck, earning him a fractured moan. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

Grabbing onto his massive shoulders for support, delighted with the way his muscles ripple under your soft hands as he continues his attack on your most sensitive spots he knows so well, you press your leg tentatively into his hard-on, an unspoken, considerate request for him to cease the teasing and chase his own pleasure.

“I want you”, you whisper breathily, finding your voice on the last word, accentuating the singularity of your need, the force with which you crave him, only him. “I love you, Miguel, I wanna make you happy.” you declare desperately, planting another suffocating kiss on his slightly agape lips, having him gasp softly into your mouth, a killer whale surfacing above the waterline for a superficial breath before diving back into the depths of the ocean.

He kisses you with such ardour, savouring the addictive taste of your delicate lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth like you hadn’t seen each other for months, like one of those desperate days in which he has his way with you right after he returns from a bone-chilling mission throughout the multiverse.

After ending the kiss with an unnecessarily harsh smooch, he draws back, making you giggle through unrelenting panting. He scans your face, absorbing the image of you, in your most defenceless self, so full of what can only be adoration for him.

He takes in your half-lidded, love-struck eyes, the look he thinks not even the bestest of painters of the world could capture on canvas. The look he thinks would be perverted in blasphemy should it be, even in attempt, recreated on any portrait, any sculpture, any photograph.

He follows the line of your jaw that cascades sharply into the crook of your neck, the only safe place for him to lay his head at night, the place he reveres to place the sweetest of kisses upon, having you either laugh or melt in his arms.

His vision then lands on your sore lips, exhaling the very air he breathes, uttering the same words that echoed in his head out in the field; ‘I love you, truly, entirely and through my whole being. With my body, heart and soul, oh, I love you.’

He dips his head down your waist in reverence, leaving gentle pecks down the line of your stomach. In any other instance, you would giddily chuckle at his ministrations, a chuckle that would soon turn into a hearty burst of laughter, as he knew just the spots to touch and tickle and make you reel in retaliation when play-fighting on a particularly lazy Sunday evening.

However, now, there was no impulse to laugh. You watch him closely as he reaches the crease of your pelvic bone, looking up to meet your gaze.

You feel your face heat up at the sight of him, a strong hand wrapped around your thigh, the other holding your middle.

Satisfied with the moans he successfully drove out of you, breaths getting heavy at the thought of how wet you have to be by now, he sits up on his knees to hurriedly haul his shirt over his head.

His dick grows harder at the familiar picture of you, laid back on the sofa, eyes glazed with drunken want and the remembrance of his feverish touch on you.

Letting your hands roam his chest and firm abdomen while he disposes of the shirt, you curl your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, carefully dragging them down his bulky thighs, eyes widening as his cock springs upwards from the grey fabric, hitting his stomach before ever-so-slightly bending to the right under its generous weight.

You let yourself fall back into the cosy corner of the couch, parting your legs with lascivious speed while watching him stroke his now glistening cock, eyes trained on yours.

A vigorous, bulging forearm anchors next to your head, the other guiding himself inside you. His mountainous shoulders block any view of the room aside from him, and you obey the impulse to run your hands over his biceps, his pecs, his jaw.

You draw in a sharp breath at the contact of his fat tip on your wet folds, rubbing into the dampness at the entrance before breaching you.

You whimper softly, trying to adjust. No matter how many times you have sex, it always takes you time to adapt to his size, to fit him inside you to the hilt.

His forehead rests against yours as he pushes further in, a gentle hand coming to collect a few unruly strands of hair from your face. It stops to cup your fiery, rosy cheek, his thumb grazing your dainty skin protectively, soothingly, before his arm docks symmetrically to the other, beside your head to balance his weight on top of you.

Your tear-welled eyes flutter shut, the dip between your brows deepening and rising into an unspoken plea for a one-second pause. He stops, knowing of your struggles despite your fervent insistences that he may always bottom out regardless of your aches.

He cannot bring himself to cause you discomfort in any way, even under the greenlight of your sincere consent.

“I know, love, I’m sorry.”, he pacifies you, and you’re overwhelmed by his attentive care, starting to rain messy, fatigued kisses over each patch of skin on his face within reach. He returns the gesture in earnest, covering your features in slow smooches.

It calms you, allowing him to push all the way inside your tight cunt, grunting into your temple as you tense around his shaft the moment his tip presses against your cervix.

A loud sigh that swiftly leaves your agape mouth tells him to proceed. His hips start gyrating languidly, his dick exits you only halfway, coated in your juices, before driving back in with a quiet squelch. You throw your head back on the pillows, legs coiled securely around his waist as he makes love to you, laying you onto a cloud of pleasure.

"Ugh, oh-," he groans, his voice deep and rugged, mirroring his own mind-numbing bliss, “you feel so good”. With his head now leaned into your chest, his heavy breaths are hot on your skin, timed with the drive of his hips into yours.

He starts going faster, yet the force of his thrusts still soft. The second he finds the puffy nub of nerves that snaps firecrackers in your lower belly, you grab at the mattress, gasping and moaning weakly. Muted whines are put out in your throat as you close your mouth to swallow a kiss your body had craved to give him.

His shoulders flex under his weight as he picks up more speed, nearing his high and finding the rhythm you know only leads to those desperate grunts that have you coming only from their sound alone.

He pushes into his thrusts, rubbing the coarse hair above the base of his cock on your clit. Your back contorts and arches in response, gifting him an even more delicious angle for the precise rolls of his hips.

You choke on a pained scream that dissolves into your limbs as you come hard, your orgasm washing over you in drumming tidal waves, crashing onto you with every drive of his fat cock into your soft, drenched cunt.

"Oh-- ugh, yeah- so good," he groans into your rose, kiss-marked neck, seemingly taken aback by the force of his own euphoria, as if he had been expecting a gentle current of ecstasy as result of his intendedly soft and gentle session of lovemaking, instead being met a fierce jolt of elation. He stills, holding a breath from erupting out of his throat into a shaky moan.

The bridge of his nose is pressed perfectly into your neck, a sculpture-worthy puzzle of two souls sewn together. His hot palm seeks the feeling of your smooth skin, landing shy of your waist, holding you against him with the firmness of a man who heeds every longing you had ever voiced, who heeds the closeness you had always coveted as you rode the rapids of your orgasm.

The pressure hammers into you in aftershocks, hauling you back down in fading flutters, pulsing into your lower belly as he tenses, pushing his hips flush against your ass with one final blow, releasing into the warmth of your cunt.

You clench faintly at the feeling of his fat cock spasming and twitching inside you, catching on to the last gust of your high.

He groans in oversensitivity, pulling out before carefully placing his broad hand in between your thighs, tenderly cupping your dripping pussy to prevent his come from staining the peppered grey couch. You flinch at the contact, not having fully recovered from the stimulation.

He leans into you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You turn to him instinctively, unable to find your voice or enough strength in your arms to do anything but gaze up at him with the face he knew so well; the euphoria-painted face you grace him with when his love overflows your body, teeming into your watery eyes.

Sitting up, he unpacks a thin, white blanket from the opposite edge of the sofa, cocooning you into the clean, fresh fabric. You hum in comfort, struggling to chase the warmth of his arms as he tucks the edges of the material underneath the contour of your body.

”Just stay here for a bit.”, he whispers into your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. “ I‘m almost done with your surprise.”

“You want me to help?” you resort to a last-chance inquiry in hopes of finding an excuse to sit beside him for longer, even in the kitchen.

He knows you’re well-intended, but decides to better value the total credit of his courteous offering.

You will most certainly keep the stakes up and stubbornly get dinner ready for him on the very next occasion you find, so he might as well echo your stubbornness and finish his task alone, meeting great satisfaction in spoiling you with the opportunity your body has given him.

“No te preocupes, (Don't worry.) I’ll manage.”

You dramatically reach for him with your extended arms as he heads towards the kitchen. He throws you a sympathetic smile before resuming his cooking, fully aware that a considerable part of him would have wanted nothing more than to rush back into your arms and spend the rest of the evening smothering you into his warm embrace, play fighting you into submitting to his self-indulgent caresses and kisses.

divider by @cafekitsune

spanish translations by @bookished 🤍(tysm!!)

50% requested by @badbitchhour (ik u wanted a wedding night but my brain short-circuited when i tried to write it, it's still coming tho!!! meanwhile made the very soft and emotional lovemaking part til i get around it and start feeling it)

a/n: don't pick on me for the extremely creative! title i wanted to make shit clear from the start. (clickbaiting)

also smut authors try not to use the same words and phrases for every sex scene without using things like 'wand' and 'shaft' (challenge impossible)

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captain-bubble-wrap · 1 month ago

Note

I'm sick and could really use a sweet quinn moment

help? 🤢😩

I hope you feel better!

1:33am.

Quinn laid in bed, in the awkward in between sleep and awake state where everything felt like a dream. He rolled over to find you, however the space where you should have been was empty and cold. Not even the lingering hint of your body heat left was behind. How long had you been gone?

"Baby?" He called out, groggy and with eyes still closed.

When he didn't get an answer, he sat up in bed and checked his phone for the time. Maybe it was way later than he thought, and you had just gotten an early morning for once. Out of character for you, especially when he wasn't on the road, but it was always a possibility. Though, when he reads it's half-past-one in the morning, Quinn knew something must be wrong.

"Babe?" He called out again once he was out in the hallway. Still nothing. He was drawn to the living room, and the fact that the TV was on but the sofa was empty. "Baby, are you okay? Where are you?"

His heart was beginning to quicken in pace; he was now completely awake, given the dread washing over him like ice water. When Quinn turned to look back towards the direction of the bedroom, he saw the sliver of light from the cracked bathroom door. As he approached, he saw something on the floor, jammed between the door and its facing. It was a blanket. ("Odd," he thought.)

"Sweetheart? Are you alright?" Quinn gave a couple light knocks to the door yet there was still no response. "Hello?"

He pushed the door open to find you curled up on the bathroom floor. You were shivering as you laid on the cold tile; the blanket was too far from reach to give you comfort. An hour ago, you felt nauseous and had left the comfort of Quinn's bedroom. Back and forth from the bathroom to the sofa you had paced, just not sure if and when you'd actually be sick, but you didn't want to risk it. The last trip down the hallway, you had dragged a blanket with you around your shoulders. That's when the worst feeling of losing all your groceries had punched you in the gut. You didn't walk this time, there was a silent urgency to hurry. The blanket had been discarded as the door closed behind you.

"Oh, baby! What's wrong?" Quinn said quietly as he knelt beside you. His hand brushed hair from your face as he frowned. He never liked to see you sick, but there was something different about seeing you like this. "Let's get you up off the floor, okay?"

You clenched your eyes closed, embarrassed that he had found you on the floor, and you had no strength to fight him. He pulled you to a seated position before picking you up in his arms. "Want to go back to bed?"

"No," you mumbled, grabbing a fistful of his shirt.

"Okay, okay. That's fine."

Quinn carried you back to the living room, knowing you probably didn't want to go back to the bed for fear that you'd wake him up if you had another episode. You're still trembling in his arms when he sits down on the sofa, still holding you tightly.

"Want me to stay with you?"

"No."

"No?" He asked, confused. "You don't want me to stay?"

"You need to go to bed. You have a game tonight. I'm fine." Your voice was small; like every word took so much strength to say.

"I've a long time till I have to worry about that. Right now, I want to know that you're alright."

You had nothing to say. The sooner he left you alone, the sooner you hoped he'd forget the mental image of you curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor. Or so you hoped.

"C'mon, I'll lay down with you right here. "

"Quinny..."

"Shh, I want to."

The white linen sectional really was comfortable and perfect for laying in your boyfriend's arms, sick or not. Quinn propped himself up in the L-bend, the cushions compressing into his weight. You had mustered the last of your strength to shift your weight to lay between his legs, your head on his chest. He was comforting and warm though the cold chills still refused to leave you.

"Let's cover you up, princess," Quinn cooed, pulling a throw over your exposed skin. His fingers dragged through your hair in a soothing rhythm hoping something he was doing would help. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No." You pull the blanket up over your face. "But thank you." Your words muffled beneath the fabric.

Even though you felt awful, you still managed to bring a smile to his face, doing unintentionally cute things without trying. "You're welcome, baby. Get some rest okay? If you need anything, just tell me, and I'll do what I can."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He'd hold you the whole night; his fingers still tangled in your hair come morning. His heartbeat had lulled you to sleep; his body heat soothed any discomfort your body had held on to. You wouldn't have any more nauseous episodes, which you were most thankful for. Even Quinn managed restful sleep, his gentle snoring barely heard over the TV.

#💌Maven's Love Notes #I hope you feel better!#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #hockey fanfiction

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luxurychristmaspudding · 6 months ago

Text

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x actor!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: for @schnarfer, my copilot, and @itsokbbygrl and @undercoverpena. thank you for your patience while i've yapped and not written about these two <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home.

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt.

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling.

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool.

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming.

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet.

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again.

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams.

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen.

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll.

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight.

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side.

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you.

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you.

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant.

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the songs you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it.

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to get the stamp of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, leading man.

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky.

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to gather his thoughts on the tracks. A big deal. Critically acclaimed films, Oscars and SAG Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint.

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool.

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. He’d suited the cowboy get up in the cuts of Red Sky. Not that you ever thought about that when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Or his hands. His thick fingers, or the bulge that strained against his low slung belt -

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water.

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, cradles you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips.

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac.

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are.

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them.

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response.

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you.

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Feel like I know nothin’ about it, just gon’ be sittin’ there -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. Pick something you remember about the lyrics. Say something about the drums or melodies. Get a selfie for Ellie. That’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in.

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink.

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him.

He can see how her eyes keep flicking this way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?”

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

��Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound like you know enough. It’s not your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions.

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another about orange blossoms, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, he also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he’s going to be so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them.

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers.

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off.

There’s someone he has to meet.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction

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stellayuta · 5 months ago

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Your boyfriend Yuta, albeit known as a gentleman in public has his days when he is an utter, unexplainable freak. Much like your periods derails your mood for a week, there will be certain days each month, where Yuta is so lust driven, that he starts being not so gentlemanly.

Warnings: smut, mdni, 18+

On some mornings when you would be bustling about the kitchen fixing some breakfast or getting ready for work, you'd find Yuta lounging on his cush sofa, head propped on the arm of the seat, eyes watching your every moment hungrily as his other hand would fidget on his lap, tracing patterns in the linen of his pants while maintaining eye contact.

When he'd get back from his missions, dusty and weary, he'd plop himself down on the nearest chair, his katana hanging in between his legs with his head resting on the handle. You'd come round the corner, asking him about his day and he'd tell you, in a low, composed voice - as his hands went up and down the covered blade, smoothly like a cat's movement. You'd eye the shaft of his sword and bite your lip sheepishly.

It had been a few weeks since you and Yuta had last done the dirty, owing to his busy schedule and now, you were needier than ever, trying to get him alone and hot and pounce on him. You would always fail though, because Yuta would have to rush to his work, planting a kiss on your forehead. This was the daily routine now for a fortnight and you were utterly puzzled. Yuta would NEVER say no when you looked at him like you'd suck the life out of his cock.

On one of these busier nights, you unassumingly entered your house, unlocking the door and heading to your shared room with a tired sigh. It would be a bit till Yuta would be back, maybe you could take a steaming shower...

"ugghh..." You hear the unmistaken grunt, a familiar, welcome sound.

What the?

You hesitate at the doorknob but take a deep breath and open the door a crack, just enough to get a view of your bed. There in the eeriness of the moonlight night sky sat Yuta. The angle allowed you to watch him like a peeping tom with a gaping mouth as you saw him stroke and glide a needy hand over his erect shaft that peeked out of his pants. In between his thighs, his katana stood as he held on to it, more like gripped it for his life as he increased the pace of pumping his length.

Your ears bled from happiness at the noises Yuta made, hungry whimpers and angry grunts that echoed and bounced off the walls of the otherwise quiet house. You saw the moonlight illuminate his cock and make it look godly - tall and veiny.

Before he could cum though, he let himself go for a second and you could stand there simply watching anymore. You bust through the door and face him, huffing with longing. He turns and eyes you with sad, doe like eyes - his signature expression. It almost looks comical - sad, teddy bear Yuta plopped on your bed with his vain dick on full display.

"Yuta.." you gasp, approaching him, unbuttoning the top of your dress shirt.

"Please-" you whisper, reaching out and pressing your hands on his chest as he looks up at you. "Please, fuck me."

"Please..." You beg again as he starts removing his white button up and places his katana on the bed. You are quick to rid yourself of your clothes in the meantime. He grabs you by your hips and makes you sit on his lap, back plush against his chest, your thighs spread out on his muscular ones.

He places his chin on your neck as he carefully slides you atop his hardened cock.

"Yuta.. I've wanted this so bad.." you kiss his cheek tenderly. "For so long..."

"Baby, I wanted one peaceful night with you..." He rasped needily, putting his palm on your clit and stroking, just like he was stroking his sword the other day.

"One night away from this damned job so O could satisfy the woman I love."

"Yuta, shut up and go harder!" You whine, trying to bounce on his lap to increase the friction as he keeps his pace devilishly slow.

"two weeks made you this impatient?"

He asks, cocking his hear to side, eyeing you from your left. He begins to accelerate, his fingers intertwining with the folds in your nether region, earning a pleasing moan from you.

"Y-yu-Yutah-I-Pl-"

"What's wrong baby?" He asks, pushing up into you hard.

"Can't form words?"

You can't and so you resort to screaming his name out as your orgasm crashes onto you.

The next few seconds are pure bliss as your eyes roll into the back of your head and your muscles relax atop his body.

"Feel better now?" A sweet voice cuts through your fog. Generic Yuta with his aftercare.

"Okkotsu Yuta." You kiss him harshly.

"If you ever stroke a f*cking sword better than you stroke me, you're never getting head again!"

You relish Yuta's shocked expression as you hop off his dick and go about your merry way.

(I edited the pic a bit. Gege always makes him look so depressed haha)

#jujutsu kaisen #anime #jjk #manga #smut #angst #fluff #gojo satoru #yuta okkotsu #x reader #yuuta okkotsu #x female reader #x y/n #geto suguru #megumi fushiguro #toji fushiguro #nanami kento

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cinnamostar · 1 year ago

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blankets and kisses

pairing : chan x gn!reader

summary : the bitter iciness of winter wore you down, yet your boyfriend knew how to melt away your sorrows

wc : 913

cw : alludes to seasonal depression, established relationship, comforting bf chan, fluffy, not proof read

a/n : this was entirely self indulgent LMAO sorry if formatting is bad though, im on my phone and wrote this kinda quickly bc i felt inspired hehe . also im floridian so i know nothing abt snow or winter so i did my best

in the hushed whispers of the night, you found yourself yearning his comforting embrace, a closeness you always craved and yearned for. the chilling zephyrs brushing against your skin, your hair bellowing in response as you shiver under the icy winds the harsh winter always brought in its company.

you couldn’t bear this season alone, it was taxing to repeat the same mundanity and solitude adulthood had introduced you to. daylight was always so fleeting and witnessing it had become a luxury during these cold months.

it was always the same deep blue morning sky that greeted you as you made your way to work, and after eight grueling hours, the same sky would be waiting to be welcome you once more, except this time with the sun rays barely peeking out from the edge of the sky. you hated this time of year, and you could never understand the holiday joy and excitement everyone seemed to buzzing with around you. what was there to enjoy?

the weather was unpleasant, the low temperatures of the world pricking the tip of your nose as you briskly made your way home, trudging your way through the light sheets of snow that covered the sidewalks. the glacial breeze never relented its attacks on you, always piercing through the layers of warmth you adorned yourself with.

the lack of sunlight allowed dreary, dark clouds take over your mind as you surrendered yourself to exhaustion. how much longer would your days be like this? how much longer would the wintry season plague your mind with somber thoughts?

you crack for the door open to your shared apartment, basking in its inviting warmth that provided you refuge from the world you had just shut behind you. the comforting smell of fresh linen making its presence known as a grateful smile graces your features. you gently place your bag on the small side table, shedding the layers of coats you had worn to endure freezing winds, not caring that they’d remain on the floor.

your mind was too focused on finding solace and reprieve to worry about your belongings as your feet dragged you to your living room. your own personal source sunshine that kept your afloat during these difficult times was waiting for you on the sofa, his head turning to your direction once he heard the pitter patter of your steps.

a smile stretches across his face, his eyes becoming crescents as he lifts himself off the couch to meet you half way.

“hi baby,” chan whispers as his arms envelope you, a chaste kiss landing on your forehead, melting away the restricting stiffness the icy winds had diseased you with. the tension in your muscles loosen under his summery touch, your mind relaxing knowing you had found safety in his arms once again.

“hi,” was all you could muster out, your sleepiness catching up to you as your heavy eyelids flutter shut, snuggling your head into his chest, taking in the comforting thumping of his heartbeat.

chan’s hand found itself resting atop your head, his other drawing gentle circles on your back, “i warmed up some blankets for us to cuddle up in,” he spoke, “i think you deserve some rest.” he knew this time of year was suffocating for you and without fail, he found ways to bring light and warmth into your gloomy world, whether it was through gentle words or acts of love, he was the healing your ailing mind needed.

his words were soothing to your worn-down soul, a small smile appearing on your face as you peer into his eyes, chin resting on his chest. “that sounds so nice, thank you, chan,” you feebly mutter.

without skipping a beat, chan swiftly lifts you up, carrying you to your bedroom as a hearty giggle escapes him, you squealing at the unexpected action. he softly drops you atop the bed, the sheets rippling under the sudden weight as you lost yourself to a fit a giggles, blood rushing to your face as you succumbed to the bustling butterflies that made themselves home in your stomach. chan lays himself next to you, hastily pulling a toasty blanket over your bodies. his arms pull you into him, your body fitting snuggly into his as his leg rests over yours. he cups your face with one hand as his lovingly gazes into your eyes, his eyes sparkling with adoration as he drank in every detail before peppering your face with kisses.

airy laughs continue to leave both of you, overwhelming you as each kiss tickles your flustered skin, leaving burning warmth and desire behind each kiss as your eyes squeeze shut. after bearing his feverish affection, he then places one last, languid kiss on your lips, lingering for a few moments before pulling away, beaming at your dazed state.

“i love you, y/n.”

“i love you too, chan.”

despite the brutal winter season that sapped the happiness out of you, as long as you had chan by your side, you knew you’d be able to uncover the joyful glee everyone else seemed to have. his very presence shooed away the heavy snow clouds that darkened your thoughts, rays of sunshine peaking out to thaw out the icy shell that encased your heart, reminding you that this too shall pass. somehow, in the midst of harsh snowstorms, he was a blooming flower that emanated infectious jubilation, and you were blessed to be able to bask underneath it.

#cinnamostar writes #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #skz fanfic #skz fluff #bang chan x reader #chan x reader #chan x you #bang chan x you #bang chan #skz chan fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids chan #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines

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cherryl4na · 7 months ago

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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ `"lamborghini miura and date nights pt. 1"

abstract || you and lando enjoy life outside of all the chaos that comes with him being 'The Ace'

fem!reader || fluff. steamy. mafia au. lamborghini miura. will be a pt. 2. heavily inspired by the suit at a mclaren event and the outfit at cannes. 3.6k words

Lando Norris’ penthouse is the epitome of luxury and power, a sanctuary high above the city’s restless heartbeat. The expansive living space is a testament to modern elegance, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the skyline, the city lights twinkling like distant stars.

When stepping out of the private elevator, you’re greeted by a foyer with polished marble floors, leading into an open-concept living area. The décor is a blend of classic and contemporary, with rich, dark wood paneling and sleek, minimalist furniture. A grand piano sits in one corner, its black lacquer finish reflecting the soft glow of the overhead designer lighting.

The lounge area is dominated by a large, plush sofa that faces a state-of-the-art entertainment system, and a glass coffee table holds an array of high-end spirits and crystal decanters. Original artworks adorn the walls, and a collection of rare books fills the built-in shelves, revealing Lando’s taste for the finer things in life.

The dining area features a long, ebony dining table surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs, perfect for hosting intimate gatherings or conducting discreet business meetings. Adjacent to it is a gourmet kitchen, fitted with professional-grade appliances and a sleek breakfast bar.

The penthouse also boasts a private gym, a spa-like bathroom with a Jacuzzi and a rain shower, and a walk-in wardrobe that houses an impressive collection of designer suits and racing memorabilia.

Lando’s personal quarters are a sanctuary within a sanctuary. The master bedroom is spacious, with a king-sized bed taking center stage, draped in the finest silk linens. A private balcony extends from the bedroom, offering a secluded spot to take in the breathtaking views or simply enjoy a moment of solitude.

Every detail in Lando’s penthouse speaks of a man who commands respect and enjoys his success, yet values privacy and comfort above all else. It’s a space that’s both a showpiece and a retreat, reflecting the complex character of ‘The Ace’ himself.

As of now, the evening had settled over the city like a velvet shroud, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the twilight sky. Inside the luxurious penthouse, Lando Norris watched you with an intensity that belied his calm exterior.

You stood before the full-length mirror, the soft fabric of your Versace dress cascading down in waves of midnight blue, a stark contrast to the elegance of your skin. The room was filled with the quiet rustle of silk and the subtle scent of vanilla from your perfume. It was a rare occasion, this dance of preparation, and Lando found himself captivated by the ritual.

He leaned casually against the mahogany door frame, arms crossed over his chest covered with a white Nordstrom silk shirt that has been left unbuttoned just slightly to exude enough sensuality but keeping it decent, his two usual gold chains around his thick, tan neck as his eyes followed your every move. There was something about the way you moved, the confidence in your gestures, that drew him in. It was a dance he had seen many perform but none with such genuine disregard for the world’s expectations.

“You don’t have to impress anyone,” Lando finally spoke, his voice a low rumble in the opulent room.

You met his gaze in the mirror, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m not trying to impress,” you replied, your voice steady. “I’m trying to remember who I am beyond all this,” you gestured vaguely, encompassing the grandeur of the room and, by extension, the life you had found yourself entwined in.

Lando pushed off from the doorframe, his steps silent on the plush carpet as he approached. “And who are you exactly, in this world?” he asked, stopping just a breath away from you.

You turned to face him, the intensity of his gaze compelling you to answer with truth. “Someone who still believes in a bit of normality, even in a world as cynical as ours.”

His chuckle was soft, a sound that warmed you more than any embrace. “Then perhaps this will serve as a reminder,” Lando said, producing a small, black velvet box from his pocket.

He opened it to reveal a delicate gold chain, from which hung a pendant crafted in the shape of a lotus, its petals open as if reaching for the last rays of the sun. “The lotus blooms in the mud,” he murmured, his fingers deft as he clasped the necklace around your neck.

The lotus flower, revered across cultures and spiritual traditions, embodies profound symbolism and meaning. Emerging from muddy waters yet remaining unstained, it symbolizes purity of heart, mind, and spirit. Its ability to bloom immaculately amidst adversity speaks to resilience and strength, teaching us to persevere and flourish despite life's challenges.

It serves as a timeless metaphor for the human experience — a reminder that through adversity, purity, and spiritual growth, we can rise above the murky waters of life and blossom into our fullest potential.

You reached up to touch the pendant, its cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of his fingers still lingering on your skin. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered, gratitude lacing your words. Lando stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. “As are you,” he said, not as a compliment, but as a simple statement of fact.

With a smile that matched the warmth of his words, you followed Lando out of his luxurious penthouse. The evening air greeted you with a gentle breeze as you made your way towards the private garage, where a sleek, vintage Lamborghini Miura awaited. Its navy paint gleamed under the soft glow of the penthouse's exterior lights, exuding elegance and power in equal measure.

"You're driving this?" you asked, your voice a mixture of surprise and excitement, a smile slowly inching its way on your face.

Lando nodded, a playful glint in his eyes as he held open the passenger door for you. "Well, how else did you think we’d travel? I figured we could take a little drive before our reservation. Trust me, it'll be an experience you won't forget."

As you move to settle into the plush leather seat, Lando places a hand on your head to make sure it’s protected from the roof of the car. Heading around the car, Lando enters the driver side, and effortlessly starts the engine, causing the powerful rumble to fill the air around you. The car eased out of the garage with grace, navigating the city streets with the familiarity of a seasoned driver. The night enveloped you both, the city lights painting a canvas of twinkling stars overhead.

With each turn and straight away, the Lamborghini carried you through the cityscape, the wind whispering secrets as it tousled your hair. In the midst of this exhilarating journey, Lando's presence beside you remained a constant source of comfort and excitement, his occasional glance your way a silent promise of more adventures to come.

As you ventured further into the night, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the hum of the engine and the shared moments between you and Lando. In the soft glow of passing street lamps, you realized that this impromptu drive wasn't just about the destination—it was about the connection forged in the quiet moments between heartbeats, where each glance and smile spoke volumes about the budding romance in the air.

And as the Lamborghini carried you both towards an unknown horizon, you couldn't help but feel that this night was just the beginning of a journey filled with endless possibilities, where every twist of fate was waiting to be explored together.

With each mile that passed beneath the Lamborghini's wheels, the cityscape transformed into a mesmerizing blur of lights and shadows. Lando navigated the streets with effortless precision, occasionally stealing glances at you, his expression a mix of anticipation and contentment.

As the vibrant pulse of the city gradually gave way to quieter, tree-lined avenues, the Lamborghini slowed to a stop in front of a stately building adorned with ivy-covered walls and softly glowing lanterns. You looked up, realizing you had arrived at a charming and exclusive restaurant known for its exquisite cuisine and intimate ambiance.

Lando turned off the engine, and the sudden silence enveloped you like a comforting embrace. He stepped out of the car, swiftly coming around to open your door with a gentlemanly flourish. As you emerged, the cool evening air wrapped around you, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of fine dining and the promise of a memorable evening ahead.

The entrance of the restaurant welcomed you with a warm glow from within, casting a soft halo around Lando as he extended his hand, inviting you to walk with him towards the door. You accepted graciously, feeling a flutter of excitement mingled with a touch of nervousness. This evening had already surpassed any expectations you might have had, and yet, you couldn't help but wonder what surprises lay in store.

Inside, the ambiance was elegant yet inviting, with soft music playing in the background and flickering candlelight casting a soft glow over linen-covered tables. The maître d' greeted you warmly, confirming your reservation and guiding you both to a secluded corner table with a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

As you settled into your seats, Lando's gaze met yours across the table, his eyes sparkling with a quiet intensity that mirrored your own emotions. The evening stretched out before you like an uncharted path, each moment unfolding with a delicate grace that seemed to deepen the connection between you.

Conversation flowed effortlessly between bites of exquisitely prepared dishes and sips of fine wine, punctuated by shared laughter and stolen glances that spoke volumes. In the intimate setting of the restaurant, surrounded by the soft murmur of other diners and the gentle hum of city life beyond the windows, it felt as though time had slowed to a perfect cadence, allowing you both to savor every fleeting second together.

And as the night progressed, you found yourself caught in a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, attraction, and a growing sense of intimacy that seemed to bloom with each passing moment. Across the table, Lando's smile was a beacon of warmth, his presence a reassuring anchor in the sea of possibility that stretched out before you.

As dessert arrived, accompanied by a flourish of culinary artistry that mirrored the magic of the evening itself, you couldn't help but marvel at how a spontaneous drive in a Lamborghini had led to this moment of shared connection and undeniable chemistry between you and Lando.

The restaurant hummed with a subtle buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses, yet your attention was solely on the man sitting across from you. Lando, with his easy charm and magnetic presence, had swept you off your feet from the moment you met. His laughter was infectious, his stories captivating, and as the evening progressed, you found yourself drawn deeper into his orbit.

The evening had been filled with unexpected turns—a scenic drive through desert landscapes that stretched endlessly under a starlit sky, conversations that ranged from lighthearted banter to deeper musings about life and dreams. Each moment seemed to unfold effortlessly, as if fate had orchestrated this encounter.

And now, as dessert was served—a masterpiece of flavors and presentation—you felt a surge of anticipation mingled with a hint of nervous excitement. Lando caught your gaze, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of mischief and admiration. Without a word, he reached across the table, his hand finding yours with a gentle yet confident touch.

"Care to dance?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with a magnetic charm that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't resist the invitation, nor did you want to. With a smile that matched his own, you nodded, allowing him to lead you onto the small, cleared space between tables where other diners watched with subtle curiosity.

As "Hola Senorita" by GIMS and Maluma began to play softly in the background, Lando pulled you close, his hand firm on your waist as he guided you in a slow, sensual sway to the seductive rhythm of the music. The heat of his body pressed against yours, sending a wave of electricity through every nerve ending.

In that intimate embrace, the world around you faded into a blur, leaving only the two of you moving together in perfect synchronization. His touch was both gentle and possessive, his gaze never leaving yours as if trying to convey a thousand unspoken words.

The sensual dance unfolded like a whispered promise of what could be—an unspoken acknowledgment of the undeniable chemistry that simmered beneath the surface. Each step, each turn spoke volumes of desire and connection, drawing you closer to Lando in ways words could never capture.

As the song neared its end, you found yourself breathless yet exhilarated, caught up in the intensity of the moment shared between you. Lando's lips curved into a tender smile as he guided you back to the table, where dessert awaited—a sweet ending to a night that had begun with a drive and culminated in a dance that resonated with the magic of newfound connection and possibility.

And deep down, beneath the surface of whispered promises and shared glances, you knew that this evening was only the beginning—a prelude to a story waiting to unfold, where each chapter would be written in the tender moments and stolen kisses that danced on the edge of tomorrow.

After settling the bill, not without a bit of banter over who pays, you both stepped out into the cool night air, the echoes of laughter and shared stories still resonating between you. The Lamborghini awaited, a sleek silhouette against the dimly lit street, its engine purring with restrained power.

"Where to now?" you asked, half in jest, half in earnest curiosity.

Lando grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, "Anywhere but here."

With that, you slipped into the passenger seat with his help of course, the leather embracing you with its luxurious warmth. The engine roared to life, the city lights streaking past in a blur as you navigated the winding roads together. The night was young, and so were you, in this ephemeral moment where time seemed to slow down just for the two of you.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through dreams and aspirations, fears and triumphs, each revelation knitting your souls closer together. It was as if the universe conspired to create this perfect interlude, where nothing existed beyond the confines of the Lamborghini and the burgeoning connection between you.

As the city lights began to fade into the rearview mirror, you found yourselves on a quieter stretch of road, surrounded by a tapestry of stars overhead. The car slowed to a stop, and you both stepped out onto an overlook, the city sprawling below like a sea of twinkling lights.

Lando's eyes held yours, their intensity magnified by the intimacy of the moment. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, echoing the rhythm of your own. The night draped around you like a velvet cloak, cocooning you in a world where only the two of you existed.

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining effortlessly as if they had always belonged together. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver of anticipation through you, a silent invitation to let go of any lingering doubts or hesitations.

Leaning closer, his breath mingled with yours, warm against your lips. The air crackled with unspoken words, each heartbeat resonating like a whispered promise of what could be. You could smell the subtle scent of his cologne, a comforting familiarity that grounded you in the present moment.

When his lips finally brushed against yours, it was like a symphony of emotions unfolding in slow motion. Soft yet insistent, his kiss spoke of desire tempered with tenderness, a delicate balance of passion and restraint. Time seemed to stretch and bend around you, the world narrowing down to the sensation of his lips moving against yours, tracing the contours of a connection that defied words.

His arms encircled you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The warmth of his embrace cocooned you in a sanctuary of shared vulnerability, where every touch and caress spoke volumes of unspoken longing and mutual understanding.

Under the canopy of stars, the Lamborghini Miura stood sentinel, bearing witness to a moment that transcended the mundane. The engine's purr became a backdrop to the symphony of your shared breaths, the quiet rustle of fabric as you leaned into each other, seeking solace and passion in equal measure.

As the kiss deepened, the world around you faded into insignificance. There was only the taste of him on your lips, the press of his body against yours, and the electric current that surged between you, binding your souls in a dance as ancient as time itself.

In that timeless embrace, you felt a surge of emotion swell within you—love in its purest form, unguarded and unfiltered. It was a declaration whispered in the language of touch and sensation, a silent vow that this connection was worth cherishing, nurturing, and exploring with every fiber of your being.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and exhilarated, Lando's eyes held a glimmer of unspoken promises yet to be fulfilled. His thumb gently brushed against your cheek, a tender gesture that spoke of reverence and devotion.

In the quiet aftermath, as you stood entwined under the stars, you knew that this night had forever altered the course of your story together. Each heartbeat echoed the cadence of a new beginning, where the chapters ahead would be written in the shared moments of vulnerability, passion, and the unwavering bond forged in the embrace of that unforgettable night.

Feeling the cool metal of the Lamborghini Miura against your back, you smiled as Lando drew you close, his touch tender yet commanding. His fingers traced a delicate path along your jawline, sending a thrill through you that echoed in the warm summer night around you.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both soft and consuming, a perfect blend of longing and urgency. You leaned into him, feeling the strength of his embrace against the smooth, cool surface of the car's hood beneath you. The night seemed to hold its breath as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips moving against yours, the mingling of your breaths creating an intimate symphony.

His hands, strong yet gentle, explored your back with a reverence that made your heart race before finally reaching their destination. He grips the back of your plush thighs in a way that makes you feel weak all over. The hood of the car digs into you as he places you gently on it, moving to stand between your legs.

Making this moment as intimate as possible, his veiny hands move to grip your waist and pull you closer till there is absolutely no space between the two of you. Every touch, every caress deepened the connection between you, amplifying the heat that coursed through your veins. Time seemed to stand still as you savored each moment, each kiss a testament to the unspoken desire and passion that burned between you.

In that moment, surrounded by the soft night air and the distant murmur of the city, you were entwined in a dance of intimacy and yearning, where nothing else existed except the electricity of his soft lips against your own, his touch caressing you as if you’re made of glass.

As you both pull away from each other, the air between you thick with unspoken words and the promise of what the future might hold, Lando reaches out to gently stroke your cheek. His touch is warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine that have nothing to do with the cool night air.

"Let's head back," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with emotion, lips plumped up and red. You nod in agreement, feeling a sense of contentment settling over you like a soft blanket. Together, you gather yourselves and step back towards the waiting Lamborghini Miura.

The drive back to Lando's penthouse is quiet, the purr of the engine providing a soothing soundtrack to your thoughts. You steal glances at each other from time to time, exchanging small smiles that speak volumes about the bond you've forged this evening.

Arriving at the penthouse, Lando parks the car with practiced ease. He takes your hand as you both exit the vehicle, his touch reassuring and grounding. The night feels alive with possibilities as you step into the elevator, riding it up to his luxurious apartment high above the city.

Inside, the penthouse is a sanctuary of modern elegance and comfort. Lando leads you to a balcony overlooking the glittering skyline, where the city lights twinkle like stars in the night sky. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you close as you lean against the railing together.

"This night," he begins softly, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, "it feels like everything has changed, but at the same time, hasn’t."

You turn in his arms to face him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his eyes. "It has," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "In the best possible way."

Lando smiles, a smile that reaches his eyes and fills you with warmth. "I'm glad," he says, leaning in to kiss you gently for the third time that night, as if sealing a promise made by the night itself.

And as you stand there, in each other's arms, the Lamborghini Miura waits below like a silent witness to the beginning of your love story — a story that started with a car, a journey, and two hearts finding their way to each other.

an || hey guys! i've had this in the works since early june and finally got around to semi finishing it. this will have a pt 2 and i apologize if it takes a while to come out. hope you enjoyed this and there will be more to come!

#f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 drivers x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff

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royaloak-furniture · 9 months ago

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How often do you wash your bedsheets?

Washing your bedsheets on a regular basis is crucial for ensuring cleanliness and hygiene. In general, you should wash your bedsheets once a week. This helps eliminate dirt, sweat, body oils, and allergies that build up over time. If you have allergies or sensitive skin, you may want to wash them more frequently, perhaps every 3-4 days. However, if you do not use your bed every day, washing it every two weeks may enough. Always follow the care directions on the label to maintain your sheets in good condition, and consider rotating between sets to decrease wear and tear. Regularly washing your bedsheets ensures a clean and comfy sleeping environment.

#buy sofas online #buy living room furniture online in india #furniture store near me #royaloak #online furniture #furniture #sofas #online furniture store #chairs online #buy online furniture #bedsheet #bedsheets #bed linens #bed linen #pillow covers #cushion covers #cushions

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inkdrinkerworld · 2 years ago

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omgomgomg can i request sunshine!reader x grumpy!remus. 💗

it was common knowledge that remus wore shades of green, brown and white and black.

he wore yellow on rare occasions and they were muted tones, and that’s why you had to get him this specific thing.

you’d been shopping for a new pair of boots for yourself when you saw the pyjama set and had to pick it up for him.

even if he wouldn’t wear it, it would be enough just to make him smile when you explain.

you got yourself a pair as well, and made your way home overly excited to show remus his gift.

“rem, i’m back and i got you something!” remus knows there’s trouble with how excited you sound.

“something illegal?” he asks as you meet him on the sofa. he’s reading a well worn copy of pride and prejudice with his ankles crossed along the length of the sofa; but pats his lap for you.

“no! but maybe next time.”

you thrust the bag towards him and his lips quirk up just so.

you’re practically shaking with excitement and when remus’ hands touch the linen you almost burst in impatience.

still, you temper your own emotions and watch as remus pulls out the bright red pyjamas covered in white hearts.

“these are for me?” he asks, his book closed as he unfolds the set.

“mhm! i got a set for me in pink, though we can swap if you want.”

remus can’t believe you thought of him when you saw this, he also can’t believe that you got him a pair.

though, at this stage he should because you’re you and you’ve often told him that you see him everywhere just in glance.

“do you hate it? because i really just got it to see if you’d hate it and never wear it at all.” you admit almost shyly and remus let’s a full smile break out on his lips.

“i don’t hate it,” he kisses your nose. “thank you for thinking of me.”

you didn’t expect remus to wear it the next night after you washed both pairs and grin so wide remus suspects you’re the sun.

#remuslupin #remus lupin #remus lupin x black!reader #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x yn #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin fanfiction

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puckingeccedentesiast · 1 year ago

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Prompt Celly - Day One

Jack Hughes x Y/N

Description: Two people, One blanket, One pillow and a double sized sofa bed.

A/N: I hope you enjoy! Would be greatly appreciated if you could reblog. I love talking to people so say 'Hi' if you want to. Feel Free to send in requests as well. I'm happy to write for most hockey players.

Warnings: None, I don't think! It should be all fluff and a bit of friendly banter.

-Sincerely thedevilrisen.

"Nose goes!" Luke yelled, his hand shooting up to grab his nose.

"That was definitely Jack." Luke stated with a happy grin.

"Y/N was 100% the second last one as well." Quinn spoke, tone humorous.

"Great. Just Wonderful." I deadpanned, looking at the group of boys with a dead straight face. Sneaking a glance at the middle Hughes boy, he didn't look outright displeased but he certainly wasn't the happiest camper either. That would make two of us.

"Wonderful for you, you sleep like a human windmill!" He exclaimed.

"That's a bit harsh, c'mon now." I whined.

"Now, now Y/N you have to admit that’s true." Trevor teased in a baby voice.

"I do nothing if the sort.” I defended myself, puffing out my chest forward to appear more dangerous than I was as a 5'5 woman in a room full of close to and 6 ft men.

"Well, we'll let you two get settled, have a good night!" Quinn laughed at the bottom of the stairwell. "Remember the spring on the left side likes to poke you.” Laughter chorused this statement as all the boys wandered up the stairs to their comfortable beds.

Walking over to the linen closet, I opened the door and pulled out a blanket. ‘Are you kidding me’ I thought, the boys had only left us one blanket. Taking it out of the closet I walked back into the living room to see that jack had folded out the sofa bed and taken the only pillow that didn't have sequins on it for his head. Either we were going to have to share or my face was going to end up cheese grated by a sequin pillow. ‘Better have no pillow than that’. I thought.

"They only left us one blanket, Jack." I mumbled walking around to the side of the couch his large frame didn't occupy. Sitting down and bouncing on the springs slightly, I kicked my feet around, flicked the blanket over both of us, shuffled down the bed some and attempted very poorly to get comfortable without a pillow and half a blanket on the cramped sofa.

For a little while Jack and I both laid there awkwardly. I had been flip flopping for the majority of the time, clearly he had had enough.

"Do you mind? Stop moving and come here.." he grouched as he reached the short distance to my curled form and dragged me over placing my head in the other side of the crammed pillow. He pulled the blanket to cover us both comfortably, turning his back to me. "Go to sleep Y/N, and for the love of god, if you kick me in the middle of the night." he threatened into the empty room.

"I'll try my best not to Jack." I stated irritated.

"Okay then." he spoke, followed by a yawn.

Quinn's POV:

I audibly gasped when I walked into the living room the next morning, Jack was laying on the floor of the living room hugging his pillow, meanwhile Y/N was sprawled comfortably on the sofa bed.

"Please tell me you've got a phone on you." Luke mumbled sleep laced his humorous tone.

"In fact, I do." I whispered back taking it out of the pocket of my sweatpants.

CLICK.

"We are never letting him live this down."

"Never."

#risen rambles :d #jack hughes #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes fic #quinn hughes #trevor zegras #luke hughes #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes x reader #luke hughes blurb #luke hughes fic

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yaniluvs · 2 months ago

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۶ৎ (용복) : YOUR WARMTH ALONE ── your sunshine boyfriend ends up bruising himself while trying to skateboard on the snow covered pavement right outside the cabin.

𓍯 bf!felix ʚଓ fem!reader ：（ 𝒾 ） 2.1k ── ༯ DRABBLE, domestic fluff, comfort, bruises, petnames, kisses, corny flirting, slightly worried/upset. ⸝⸝𓂃𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 . /ᐠ.ꞈ.ᐟ\ྀིྀི

yani's note ˖˙ ᰋ blonde lixie has been invading my mind recently, not that im complaining.. >< wrote this while listening to twice's new album ;3 changing my theme a bit (lot) heh. comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated ! happy reading <3

the tiny, cozy cabin was nestled, in the quiet arms of the snowcapped hills, framed by a winter that seemed softer than usual, as though it too wanted to protect the pair inside. snow cascaded gently outside, flakes falling like whispered secrets onto the untouched slopes of the village. the windows of the wooden loft—frosted around the edges—offered glimpses of a world washed in silver, a serene contrast to the warmth pooling within.

the room held an intimate stillness, the kind that could only exist between two people who’d shared years of quiet moments together. the air was thick with the scent of pinewood, faint traces of cinnamon from earlier tea, and the earthy crackle of the fireplace that painted the walls with flickering amber light. shadows danced on the polished wooden floor, illuminating the textured grain of the pine boards, aged with stories of other winters.

she sat on the plush, woven rug—a deep brown flecked with hints of cream—atop her boyfriend's knees, her legs drawn up loosely to her chest. her skin glowed in the firelight, the straps of her thin top slipping off her shoulders with careless ease, revealing glimpses of lace along her collarbone and the soft curve of her waist. her shorts were loose, brushing against her thighs, and her toes peeked out, cold against the carpet despite the warmth of the room. a stray strand of her hair fell across her face, but she didn’t brush it away, too focused on her task.

he sat beneath her, leaning back against the base of the sofa, his legs sprawled open and his head slightly tilted. damp strands of his blonde hair clung to his temples, catching the firelight like spun gold. his skin, kissed by the faintest flush from the heat inside, bore fresh, angry scrapes and bruises—pale streaks on the otherwise perfect canvas of his arms, chest, and neck. he wore nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, the fabric pooling against his ankles as though it, too, had surrendered to the room’s languid warmth.

the small wooden coffee table near them held a folded linen towel and the remnants of a first-aid kit, its contents scattered with quiet precision. her hand moved slowly, a damp cotton swab tracing the length of a scrape along his collarbone. she was careful but firm, her brows knitted in an expression of muted frustration. he didn’t flinch, much. instead, his gaze was fixed on her—soft and unhurried, studying the way the light wrapped around her like a second skin. his lips, slightly swollen from a split, quirked into a faint, rueful smile when she muttered something under her breath.

the loft was small but cozy, a space that felt lived-in despite being rented. the walls were honey-colored, planks of smooth wood rising to meet an a-frame ceiling where beams crossed like an embrace. a single pendant light hung from above, casting a warm yellow glow that mingled with the flicker of the flames. in the corner, a sheepskin throw lay draped across a rocking chair, and a stack of books sat forgotten on a nearby shelf. the curtains were drawn back just enough to reveal the snowfall, which caught in the firelight and shimmered like stardust.

the heat from the fire clung to the room like a blanket, thick and almost too much, but neither of them moved to open the window. the snow outside seemed worlds away, and in this space—this bubble of warmth and quiet intimacy—they were untouchable. the only sounds were the occasional pop of the wood burning in the hearth and the faint hiss of the snow meeting the glass. silence wove itself between them, heavy and meaningful, as if even words would have felt too loud.

felix sat still as best as he could, leaning against the sofa, but every so often, a slight flinch betrayed him when her cotton swab pressed a little too firmly against one of his cuts.

“don’t move,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, tinged with an unspoken frustration that wasn’t entirely anger. her eyes stayed fixed on his chest, focused on cleaning the shallow scrape that ran across his collarbone. she didn’t look up, not even when she felt his gaze on her, warm and unrelenting, as if he could memorize her like this forever.

“sorry,” he whispered, his deep voice so soft it barely reached her ears. there was no playfulness, no cheeky grin. just quiet, earnest apologies that made her heart ache and fold all at once. he winced again, but this time, he quickly bit his lip to stifle any noise.

“felix,” she mumbled, finally meeting his eyes for a moment, her tone firm yet so tender it didn’t carry the weight of real anger. “stop moving.”

he nodded solemnly, his golden hair falling into his freckled face. “i won’t, baby. i promise. sorry.” his lips, slightly swollen from the fall, tugged into a small, apologetic smile, but her gaze had already returned to the task at hand.

she worked with the steady precision of someone who cared too much. her hands moved gently, dabbing at the shallow cut on his lip now, careful not to press too hard. she didn’t say much, but the set of her brows and the soft pout on her lips spoke volumes. she was upset—not angry, not exactly—but worried in the way only someone who loved too deeply could be.

he couldn’t help himself. even as she tended to his wounds, felix’s eyes stayed glued to her. the firelight painted her features in warm hues, and her hair, slightly messy from the day, framed her face in a way that made her look impossibly soft. she was close—so close he could feel her warmth, smell the faint trace of her vanilla lotion mixed with the subtle smokiness of the room. his chest tightened with the weight of his own admiration.

“y/n,” he whispered again, his voice like velvet, coaxing her attention. she didn’t look up. he shifted slightly, just enough to bring his hand to her leg, resting it lightly on her knee, his thumb brushing in soft, absentminded strokes. “love.. i really am sorry.”

her hand paused for the briefest second, but she didn’t reply. instead, she moved to his neck, carefully tilting his chin up with her fingers to get a better angle. the cut there wasn’t deep, but it stood out against his fair skin, and she felt a fresh pang of guilt seeing it. she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her resolve.

his eyes never left her. the soft firelight caught the sparkles in his gaze, turning his brown eyes into molten amber. his freckles, scattered like constellations across his cheeks and nose, seemed to glow, and the gentle curve of his lips—heart-shaped and still pink despite the small cut—made her heart squeeze.

“babe?” he tried again, his voice a little deeper now, but still so tender it felt like a caress.

her eyes flickered up briefly, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the annoyance she was clinging to wavered. his expression was pure, almost boyish, with the kind of fragility that made her want to gather him up and never let go. she let out a soft sigh, returning her attention to his wounds without a word.

“don’t be mad,” he pleaded, his voice a little playful now, though he didn’t dare move again. “you’re too pretty to be mad at me.”

“felix,” she muttered under her breath, her tone warning but without any real edge. “don’t speak.”

“sorry, sorry,” he said quickly, but the corners of his mouth lifted into a small, almost mischievous smile. “i just missed you, baby. you know that, right?”

she didn’t reply, but her hands slowed slightly as she wiped away the last of the blood from his arm. he took that as his cue, letting his hand slip from her knee to her waist, resting there gently. his touch was warm, grounding, and she let out another small sigh, finally sitting back a little on his lap.

“i’m fine, you know,” he murmured, his other hand coming up to cup her face, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “really. you don’t have to worry so much.”

her eyes flickered to his, and this time, she didn’t look away. “you’re not fine, felix. you could’ve really hurt yourself.” her voice was softer now, the frustration melting into something more vulnerable.

“i’m okay,” he insisted, leaning forward slightly so their foreheads almost touched. “and i’m here. with you. that’s all that matters.”

her lips parted as if to argue, but the way he was looking at her—with so much affection it felt like the room had shrunk to just the two of them—made her words falter. she hated how easily he could do this to her, how his angelic smile and soft voice could unravel her in seconds.

oh, one can never really stay mad at this angel.

“don’t do it again,” she whispered finally, her voice barely audible, but he caught it.

“i won’t,” he promised, sealing it with a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. “i swear, baby.”

and just like that, her resolve broke. she leaned into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder as his arms came up to wrap around her, holding her close. the snow continued to fall outside, but inside, the world had never felt warmer.

his arms tightened around her as she leaned into him, her weight settling lightly against his chest. he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there as if he could apologize a hundred times through touch alone.

for a while, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the faint whistle of the wind outside. then felix broke the silence with a quiet chuckle.

“you know,” he murmured, tilting his head so he could see her face better. “i think the skateboard might have it out for me. you think i should sue?”

she let out an involuntary snort, quickly stifling it by burying her face against his shoulder. “your fault for thinking you’re tony hawk in the middle of a snow-covered town.”

“hey, i was trying to impress you,” he defended, his deep voice dipping into a mock whine. “how was i supposed to know the ground would be slippery?”

“it’s snow,” she deadpanned, pulling back just enough to give him a pointed look. “what did you think it would be? a trampoline?”

felix blinked at her, then broke into a sheepish grin, his freckles scrunching adorably. “okay, fair point. but you looked really curious watching me from the window, so…”

she rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. “you’re lucky i love you, otherwise, i’d let you bleed out next time.”

he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “so cold, babe! i thought you were the sweet one in this relationship.”

“sweet?” she echoed, arching a brow as she reached for the first-aid kit again. “i’m literally the one patching you up after your dumb stunts.”

“because you love me,” he teased, his voice dropping into a sing-song tone.

she shook her head, biting back a smile as she gently applied a fresh bandage to his collarbone. “don’t push your luck, lixie.”

“too late,” he quipped, leaning forward to nuzzle his nose against her cheek. his hair, still damp from his earlier shower, tickled her skin, and she swatted at him half-heartedly.

“lix!” she protested, laughing now despite herself.

he grinned wide, his heart-shaped lips pulling into the kind of smile that could melt even the iciest resolve. “there she is. my y/n. knew i could get you to smile.”

“barely,” she muttered, but her cheeks betrayed her with a soft blush.

he chuckled, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to her temple. “you’re terrible at staying mad at me, love. it’s one of your best traits.”

she scoffed, but her head found its way back to his shoulder, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of his sweatpants. “next time you try to impress me, just.. don’t involve gravity.”

“deal,” he said easily, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back. “but for the record, i still think i looked cool for, like, two seconds before i fell.”

“sure,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “you were the picture of elegance.”

“see? you do get it,” he said, laughing as she groaned and playfully shoved at his chest.

“i love you.”

“i love you so much more, darling.”

and just like that, the tension dissolved into kisses, laughter and warmth, the kind that only they could share. outside, the snow kept falling, but inside the house cabin, all was right in their little world again

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suguruwithabow · 5 months ago

Text

pics are from pinterest, dm me for credits/remove

𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝘅 , satosugu

☆ ; female¡gojo satoru × female¡geto suguru (11k)

☆ ; where satoru is a prostitute madly in love with her older client, suguru.

☆ ; CW mature content , bad language , yuri satosugu , lesbian sex , rule63 , nipple stucking , oral , fingering , scissoring , strap-ons , spanking , toys , lingerie , CEO geto suguru , prostitute gojo satoru

☆ ; TW mention of eating disorders

☆ ; ao3 | wattpad (eng) | wattpad (ita)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | +18 enjoy ! 🎀

Satoru is a prostitute.

An escort, if you prefer it, but still a whore. She knows it, it's not that she doesn't know it, but sometimes it almost seems like she can pretend she isn't.

She wakes up when the sun is already high — she's never been a morning person and has never had a reason to change this habit of hers. Blades of light cut through the dark room, painting abstract figures on the white wooden panel at the door of the massive wardrobe pressed against the wall.

The bed is empty, obviously.

Satoru watches the specks of dust floating through the rectangles of light in front of her for what feels like an eternity; hours could pass, and she wouldn't notice.

She lingers among the sheets a little longer. They're freshly laundered, smooth against her skin, of excellent quality like every single tile in that enormous house. She groans as she stretches her muscles, stiff from sleep, the blankets tangled around her legs, her rebellious white hair tickling her face.

She rolls over to the other half of the bed, the side where Suguru sleeps. It's cold, lifeless, the sheets seem barely disturbed, and the pillow has just a small indentation where she rested her head the night before. Suguru sleeps very neatly, still as a mummy; you wouldn't even notice she's there, betrayed only by the occasional soft snore.

Satoru buries her face in the pillow and inhales deeply, taking in the scent of Suguru's shampoo buried beneath the more persistent smell of detergent. She feels warm, wet, and nervous. She clutches the sheets in her fists, pulling them slightly as if blaming them for the other woman's absence.

She presses her legs together, easing the throbbing sensation between her thighs. She squirms, letting out muffled sighs and gasps into the soft memory foam pillow where her face is buried, rolling onto one side, then the other, roughing up the bed linens around her.

She climbs onto the mattress, leveraging the headboard and sits up, moaning as she straddles Suguru's pillow. A sound of appreciation escapes her lips as her swollen clit rubs delicately against the pillowcase, covered only by a pair of light blue lace panties she doesn't even remember wearing last night.

She throws her head back, her white hair has grown longer and tickles her shoulders as she tilts her neck, rolls her hips and it doesn't take her long to find the right angle, the one that sends shivers down her spine and makes her feel like her insides are knotting in the bottom of her stomach.

She lets lewd moans stain her lips; one thing she loves about this house is that no matter how loud she is, no one would still be able to hear her.

She rides the pillow like it's her lover's face, moans her name like she can hear her, pinches her nipples until she screams because Suguru isn't there to do it for her and doesn't stop until she cums shaking, muscled burning from the effort, a trickle of drool dripping down her lips swollen from biting them too hard.

She grips the soft pillow between her legs tightly, slips her hands under Suguru's black t-shirt that she fell asleep in, and wraps her own arms around her hips. She likes to be hugged after an orgasm.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, and she knows it. There's no need to remind her.

After her shower, she goes to the living room with her hair still wet. The Italian leather of the sofa sticks annoyingly to her thighs — a real shame because Satoru finds that couch so elegant. She believes it’s an important design piece; it certainly looks like one.

Suguru bought her a PlayStation along with a ton of video games. Satoru asked for some really violent ones, and Suguru openly expressed her disapproval — but she bought them anyway.

She picks one from the shelf of the bookcase that Suguru emptied for her games and plays until Kuroi comes to prepare her lunch. Even though she’s paid to do it, Satoru thinks it’s rude to play in another room while someone is making her food, so she pauses the game and goes to the kitchen to keep her company.

Actually, she’s pretty sure Kuroi considers her a nuisance, but until she openly tells her she doesn’t want her there, Satoru will keep staying in the kitchen as always.

Kuroi is rather boring. It’s not that Satoru dislikes her; she’s just uninteresting. She never talks about herself or her life, she just cooks. She dresses like a nun, and although Satoru is convinced she’s not even forty yet, she seems much older than her age, mainly because of the gray strands visible in her bun, which she doesn’t bother to dye.

Suguru has so many employees, so many that Satoru probably hasn’t even met them all. Her favorite is Miguel, the gardener, a huge man with dark skin and heavy gold earrings in his lobes. He’s quite friendly and the most willing to talk to Satoru, but unfortunately, he only comes to the house on Thursday mornings for a few hours.

There’s Laure, an interior designer who occasionally changes a piece of furniture or a rug for Suguru. There’s Utahime, who handles the cleaning and is the one who hates Satoru the most because she says Satoru slows her down and bullies her every time she tries to work. Then there’s Mei Mei, a voluptuous woman with long silver hair who’s supposed to be some sort of accountant — or something like that. And finally, there are Mimiko and Nanako, twins, respectively a stylist and a makeup artist who take care of Suguru’s appearance when she has to attend official events.

Everyone in that house works for Suguru, and Satoru spends so much time locked inside there she might start to believe the whole world actually works for Suguru.

She sits on the marble countertop of the kitchen island, swings her legs like a child, and bombards Kuroi with questions, to which the cook responds only with monosyllables or brief, concise phrases.

Boring. At least Utahime gets angry and her reactions are fun to watch. Kuroi never gives her that satisfaction.

She prepared one of her usual refined dishes, what seems to be ravioli with a vegetable velouté — or something like that. Definitely delicious and inviting.

When the cook moves to put away the used dishes, Satoru tries to help, only to receive a brusque gesture in return.

«Sit down, Miss Satoru.» Kuroi says, putting the pots in the dishwasher.

«Oh, come on, Kuroi, let me help you. I feel guilty eating while you clean.» she smiles, tilting her head slightly to one side.

«I'm here because I got paid, Miss Satoru, just like you. Do your job, and I'll do mine.»

The words hang heavily in the air, and even more heavily in the girl's heart as she retreats, stunned.

Yes, everyone in this house works for Suguru, and at the end of the day, so does she. Kuroi ends cleaning and, with a polite "goodbye," leaves quietly like a little mouse, closing the heavy front door behind her.

Satoru doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t seem like Kuroi cares. She pushes the ravioli around on her plate and eats just a few before losing her appetite and throwing the rest into the trash. She does her best to hide it under a piece of paper towel. If Suguru sees she threw away her pasta, she’ll get mad at her, and honestly, Satoru doesn’t have the energy to deal with her.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, she knows it, god! She knows it.

She goes to the gym that afternoon, partly because she has nothing better to do and partly because her job requires her body to always be in perfect shape. Since she started living with Suguru, she’s already gained more weight than she’d like to admit.

She has a premium membership at an ultra-modern gym for the filthy rich, with a private locker room, spa access, and unlimited energy drinks. She has to admit that most of the time she goes there just to take some cute photos to post on her Pinterest profile, those incredibly staged “daily life” shots that often appear in lifestyle folders. Sometimes she’s there just for the spa treatment or the Gatorade.

She does her thirty minutes of cardio, a bit of stretching, some dumbbell exercises just to feel good about herself, and walks out through the sliding doors with an empty plastic bottle and her skin smelling like coconut oil.

When she gets home, all she has to do is set the table because Kuroi has already prepared dinner for her and Suguru. So she sits in the living room to wait, updating her Pinterest feed and adding crazy things to her wishlist. She doesn’t actually buy them — except for the PlayStation, she’s never asked Suguru anything and is happy with every gift she gets.

The heavy front door opens, and Satoru springs to her feet like a coil. She runs to the hallway where Suguru is getting rid of her everyday jewelry, letting them fall into a Murano glass catch-all, tinkling pleasantly. That colorful catch-all probably holds millions of yen.

As always, she’s stunning in her Dolce & Gabbana suit, tailored by Yaga, her personal tailor, to the perfect curve of her body. Satoru is tall and slim with good proportions, but Suguru is a blessing for the eyes.

She’s tall, not as tall as Satoru but taller than the average Japanese woman. Her tanned skin has a natural golden hue that perfectly matches her honey irises, surrounded by thick dark lashes like her hair — long, glossy as threads of silk, and shining like a starry night.

Her breasts are heavy and soft, covered by her clothes but not hidden. Her thighs are thick and plush, and Satoru loves to grab them with her hands when they have sex.

Her slim waist seems made to be held by Satoru as she pulls her in for a kiss. Her lips, tinted with Charlotte Tilbury lipstick, taste like vanilla on her tongue, and Satoru can never get enough. She’s never been this attracted to anyone as she is to Suguru.

The woman takes off her blazer and lets the white-haired girl approach to give her a welcome home kiss. Suguru wraps her arms around her neck, staining her lips with lipstick and filling the space around them with the sound of their tongues clashing and heavy breathing.

«Welcome home.» Satoru says between kisses, placing her hands on Suguru's hips. The woman moans against her lips, pressing her body against hers before pulling back with a smacking sound and putting some distance between them.

«I'm going to take a shower, get undress and wait for me in the bedroom.» order.

«Don't you want to have dinner first?» Satoru asks her, following her into the hallway where Suguru is unbuttoning her blouse as she heads towards the bathroom.

«No, I don't feel like it now.» she says. Satoru does as asked and goes upstairs after her, entering the bedroom where Utahime changed the sheets and dusted that afternoon. She takes off the tank top and shorts she wore after the gym, along with the underwear which she folds and places on the chaise longue that Laure convinced Suguru to buy.

She remembers when it arrived, Satoru had decided to inaugurate it by bending Suguru over it and fucking her from behind.

A shiver runs down her spine at the thought and she wonders why they didn't use it again afterwards. Satoru usually throws her clothes and bag straight onto it.

She sits on the edge of the bed completely naked, waiting for the water jet from the other room to stop. Suguru always uses a hairdryer, a habit he picked up in Europe, unlike Satoru who lets her wavy snow-colored locks dry in the open air.

Suguru has really long hair, well past mid-back, so it takes an interminable time to dry it properly, but after what seems like hours the hum of the hairdryer stops and finally the door of the room opens.

It was worth the wait because in the doorway Satoru sees Suguru wrapped in a dark blue bathrobe, with her hair down and a little flushed from the heat.

She approaches the bed and lies down on the mattress, letting the bathrobe open over her chest, she lets out a sound of appreciation when she can finally rest. Satoru gets down on all fours and approaches her slowly, looking at her with her hair spread around her face and her eyebrows furrowed.

Sweet, she thinks. Like a sulky kitten.

She lowers herself to her neck to kiss it and suck the small flap of skin under her ear where she’s the most sensitive. She lets her hands slide beyond the hem of her robe and caresses her soft flesh, sending shivers down her stomach.

Her skin is fresh and smells like argan butter and honey, Satoru knows that body wash because she always uses it too and you can tell it's their favorite.

«How was work?» she asks her between kisses, keeping to lick and suck the skin of her neck as her hand travels further and further down towards the trail of soft dark hairs that hide her final goal.

No hickeys, that's Suguru's rule. She doesn't like having visible marks on her body, or at least anything she can't cover with clothes. Sometimes she lets Satoru bite her nipples or leave her finger print on her thighs and the marks stay there for days.

«Normal. That Zen'in bastard drives me crazy, but once the deal is done I won't have to have him around anymore.» she says, settling into Satoru's embrace, who is opening Suguru’s legs so she can work between her thighs.

The “Zen'in bastard” is Naoya. Satoru doesn't know him personally but he seems to be one of the few men who’s able to give her lover a hard time, since his company is involved, Suguru spends a lot more time in the office and Higuruma – Suguru's lawyer – often came to their house lately.

Satoru would like to hit him with her car, so Suguru would be much less stressed. For now though, she's just doing what she knows best to ease her tension.

«I can't wait for this deal to be done and dusted. I miss you.» Satoru whispers, sucking her nipple hard and making the woman beneath her moan. Her fingertips find the center of her flower and caress it with slow, circular motions. With Suguru she always starts slow.

«When I sign the contract I’ll take you on holiday.» she tells her, making Satoru's heart beat as fast as a hummingbird's wings.

She has never made plans with her clients, she knows the circumstantial phrases of sex. “I want to take you to Paris, I want to buy you this thing, I want to marry you.” Satoru knows that it's not true, that her time was bought for the night and that's it, but with Suguru it's different. Suguru does everything she says, buys her everything she lays her eyes on, and takes her wherever she wants.

She keeps drawing small circles around her clit with her thumb and slowly inserts a finger into her opening. She's hot and tight and Satoru has never craved to own a cock so badly just so she can know what it feels like inside her beloved .

Suguru is soft and sensitive, melting under her touch as she grows more and more uninhibited and moans louder and louder. Satoru kisses her neck and chest, plays with her nipples and drinks every gasp, every sob or breath.

She makes her come by pumping two fingers in and out of her, she doesn't stop even when Suguru cries out due to overstimulation with her honey eyes shining with tears.

She turns her over with her face pressed into the mattress and her ass in the air, curling her fingers to hit the sweetest spot that makes her eyes roll back and her body become an incoherent mess.

Satoru knows all the secrets of sex, you can say she's a genius at it, but it's not just a clinical experiment. What really makes sex with Suguru different are her reactions, the faces she makes, the sounds she makes, the sweet taste of her juices. Satoru loves Suguru because she makes her feel hungry. She always wants more and letting her go is so painful, it makes her sick in her stomach.

She makes her come on her fingers two more times before giving her a reprieve where they kiss passionately for at least twenty minutes to the point that their lips are swollen and the mixed saliva has dripped down their chins and chests. Then she eats out her pussy like she's been fasting for months until she screams and by the end of the night her hand is cramping and her jaw feels like it's about to give out, but Suguru has her eyes half closed and a smile on her face so it's worth the pain.

They both have to wash up again after this, they have dinner in their bedroom watching a 90s sitcom, and Satoru falls asleep halfway through the third episode. When she wakes up Suguru is not there, her side of the bed is as tidy as always and the payment notification has arrived on her phone.

Bitterness fills her when she looks at her bank account. Sometimes she wishes Suguru would forget to pay her, to give her the illusion that what they are doing is not just Suguru purchasing a service, yet she never forgets and never fails to remind Satoru of it too.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, and she knows it.

Suguru's house is incredible, designed from top to bottom by the architect Yuki Tsukumo, in a perfect "Miami drug lord in the '80s" style.

It's a bit outside the city, with a huge garden full of tropical and exotic plants. The house has these scandalously spotless glass windows, a bar area with crystal shelves lined with alcohol bottles, two living rooms, one with a bioethanol fireplace included, a billiard room, an ultra-modern, high-tech kitchen, and an indecent number of bedrooms, studies, and bathrooms.

The first time Satoru set foot inside, she felt like she was in a movie. She had no idea that people could be so wealthy as to own a house like that, and it's not even the only house Suguru owns in her name.

Everything is in some shade of black, or at least dark tones. If Bruce Wayne wanted to buy a house in Japan, he’d probably want Suguru's. Yuki Tsukumo is an eccentric woman, but she’s also an exceptional architect, and the house she designed ended up on the cover of one of the most important magazines in the field.

Sometimes, Satoru can’t believe she’s living in a house like that. At first, she felt like a kid in a playground. It was a bit frustrating trying to figure out how to open the hidden cabinets and furniture — she was always afraid of breaking something — but the hot tub and the heated coffee table that kept the tea at the perfect temperature made up for it.

Now that she had explored the whole house, she was starting to get a little bored. She had played with all the available gadgets, and nothing seemed exciting anymore. Besides, she was more of a downtown apartment type, not someone who liked a sprawling mansion. The only thing she still found beautiful about that house was Suguru.

Suguru having breakfast in the morning in a robe, Suguru reading the newspaper on the leather couch, Suguru having tea in the garden, Suguru putting on makeup in front of the huge bathroom mirror, Suguru sitting in her study writing emails, Suguru in their room at night watching TV with blue light-filtering glasses.

All she could think about during the day was Suguru, and not even bothering Utahime gave her the same satisfaction anymore.

However, she has to work, so she buys a set of white lace lingerie and a black dildo online that she plans to use with Suguru. She follows a tutorial on YouTube to do her makeup with the branded products that Suguru had bought to her, puts on the set she just purchased after tearing off the tag, and uses her phone to take photos in front of the mirror.

She chooses her best angles, from the most innocent shots to the most lewd ones where she plays with the dildo between her lips, glues it to the floor with the suction cup and even takes a photo where she has it inserted halfway in, with her lace panties moved aside.

She sends them all to Suguru during her lunch break with attached scandalous messages about her anticipating her return home.

Suguru doesn't answer.

Satoru changes into something normal before Kuroi comes to prepare lunch for her.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, she knows it, even if she wishes she didn't know it.

She masturbates a lot, really a lot. Not because she's particularly horny, but rather because she wants to feel the dopamine coursing through her veins, she wants the foggy mind and artificial happiness induced by the chemicals in her brain.

It's more of an experiment than anything, she masturbates with her hands, with toys and with everything that catches her attention at that moment. Obviously she always cleans everything up afterwards, but something is still missing.

She is a prostitute, but she doesn't like sex.

The only person she has actually been able to enjoy sex with is Suguru. She is the only one she has ever come with, the only one she's ever cuddled with, kissed and held. The only one she shared a bed with even just to watch a movie or sleep.

That evening Suguru comes back home and Satoru greets her at the door like a devoted wife. She kisses her, placing her hands on her hips and undoing her bun in which her long hair is always neatly gathered.

She's so beautiful and the “office siren” looks suits her, but nothing beats Suguru's long inky hair that falls wildly around her shoulders.

While she takes a shower, Satoru sets the table and heats up the dinner made by Kuroi, as soon as she’s done, Suguru returns to the kitchen wearing a black and gray tracksuit, with her hair still a little damp and her phone in her hands.

«You sent me some pictures.» she notes, taking a seat at the table while the girl serves her dinner.

«Yes, do you like them?» she asks her with big blue eyes full of expectation. Suguru smiles at her and the cloud of butterflies in Satoru's stomach goes crazy because Suguru truly has the sweetest smile.

«Very much.» she tells her. Satoru drags her chair a little closer to her and whispers as if she's ashamed that someone might hear.

«I can show it to you later.» she suggests, but the woman shakes her head and turns off the screen.

«I have to work tonight.» she tells her and they finish dinner talking a little about their day.

Suguru goes upstairs and locks herself in her office, Satoru clears the table, washes the dishes and waits a little longer sitting in the living room.

Sometimes Suguru takes her work home, often she just has to write some emails or make some appointments, so she leaves the study door open and Satoru knows she can come in and slip under her desk. They've done it many times in that studio and Satoru has to admit that she loves it, it's like doing it in the office except they can risk and scream as much as they want.

However, if Suguru seriously has to work, locks the door and Satoru knows that they won't do anything that evening.

So she waits again and when it seems like enough time has passed she also goes up to the second floor and walks to Suguru's study.

To her disappointment, when she tries to lower the handle she finds it locked and she hears Suguru on the other side speaking in English, probably to one of her foreign clients.

Satoru drags herself into the bedroom and gets under the covers, she had put the black dildo in the bedside drawer to surprise Suguru, but it looks like it will have to wait.

She uses it on herself, inserting the tip inside, just enough to make her wet, as she pushes it deeper she imagines Suguru entering the room talking on the phone with her client, finding her like this. She grabs the base of the dildo with her free hand and plants it deep inside Satoru, while she cries and bites hard on the hem of her shirt so she won't scream or be heard.

The thought of Suguru remaining impassive as she mistreats her pussy makes her clench tightly around the piece of plastic, afterwards she feels boneless and almost a little embarrassed for having imagined something so humiliating, she would never have let herself be treated this way by none of her clients, but Suguru is definitely the exception to the rule.

Suguru is an exception to many rules.

She falls asleep and forgets to put the toy away. When she wakes up it has disappeared from the nightstand and is placed in the dresser where she and Suguru keep their sex toys, disinfected and wrapped in plastic.

It's a little embarrassing, but Satoru can't help but think of Suguru coming into their room after finishing work and deepthroating the black dildo while tasting her on her tongue.

She's sick, something is definitely wrong inside her, because she gets horny at the thought and has to use it to masturbate again.

***

Suguru has a business dinner that day, so she doesn't come home.

Satoru goes to the gym and plays video games. Without Suguru, she doesn't feel like eating, so Kuroi's dinner stays in the fridge wrapped in plastic. Instead, she grabs a strawberry popsicle from the freezer and heads out to eat it in the garden. It's warm enough now to be outside in the evening, so she puts on one of Suguru's university sweatshirts and brings along a book she's planning to finish.

As the frozen juice drips down her wrist, she thinks about Suguru. Mimiko and Nanako are probably with her, dressing her in a finely crafted, long backless gown, and doing her makeup in that bold style that makes her look like a 1950s movie star.

Will it be an outdoor restaurant? It's warm enough for a dinner on a lit terrace, overlooking the city's skyline. They'll eat gourmet dishes, drink French wine, and at the end of the evening, they'll seal their deals by breaking the caramelized crust of a crème brulée with the tip of a spoon.

She stretches out on the wicker couches in the outdoor lounge — the ones Laure insisted Suguru buy after a vacation in Italy. They're not very comfortable, but the cushions greatly improved the situation. Satoru reads about fifty pages with the popsicle stick still in her mouth before getting a call from Suguru.

«Hello?»

«Hey, pretty girl. What are you doing?» Suguru asks. There’s no background noise, but her voice echoes a bit.

«I'm in the garden, reading a book. Where are you calling from?» she says, sitting up and snapping her book shut.

«I'm in the restaurant bathroom. I needed a break from those old vultures, and I missed you.»

Satoru's heart skips a beat, and she smiles without even realizing it.

«I'll wait for you awake.»

«Don't worry, it'll take a while. You don't have to.»

«But I want to.»

On the other side of the phone, Suguru lets slip a sound that's halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

«What are you wearing, pretty?»

«Your college sweatshirt and shorts.»

«Mh, my sweatshirt? Do you like it?»

«It's very comfortable and warm too.»

«I know, I always wear it when I have a day off.»

«Yes, that's why I wear it. I like that we wear the same things.”

There is a moment of silence, then Satoru, lowering her voice, adds «I like it better when we don't wear anything, though.»

Suguru sighs deeply and Satoru hears the rustle of her dress in the background.

«Darling, do you want to do me a favor?»

«Yes, sure. Anything.»

«Touch yourself for me, hm? Let me hear you.»

Satoru's face is on fire. It’s not the first time that someone makes such a request to her, in fact, even worse requests have been made, but she has never done it on the phone with Suguru and the thought of novelty is electrifying.

«What will your friends at the table say?»

«That it really takes me forever in the bathroom.»

The white-haired girl welcomes her lover's request and whispers lewd phrases to her while she pleasures herself with her hand. She puts the phone on speaker and digs her fingers into her hole complaining about how much she misses Suguru and how empty her house is without her.

Suguru guides her through her orgasm, tells her to pinch her nipples, to go slow or fast, how many fingers to use. Satoru does everything she orders and Suguru knows her really well, because it's amazing and she has to stop several times just not cum at the sound of the woman's sensual voice.

«You're so good, Satoru, you're always so good for me.» she tells her before hanging up the call right after Satoru cums moaning her name.

That evening she waits for her awake and when she returns home she doesn't even have time to admire her in the elegant purple dress she’s wearing, because she finds herself pressed against the front door with Suguru's head between her thighs who is "celebrating" the sale of some shares to her foreign customers.

Satoru has had several orgasms in her life, but the ones Suguru gives her are undoubtedly the best. Suguru makes her cum in a way she can't explain, with her eyes rolled back and her knees shaking.

That evening she is so turned on that she squirts on Suguru's face and chest, stains her beautiful dress and feels terribly mortified. Suguru must like this a lot, though, because they find themselves kissing on the floor with their legs intertwined while rubbing their blood-swollen clits on each other.

All the time Suguru tells her what a good girl she is and Satoru gets excited like a child whose teacher complimented her on her essay.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, and she knows it. Suguru knew it too when they first met.

Let’s be clear: Satoru has never been a streetwalker. She never had to beg for clients outside bars or along sidewalks.

She’s an escort of a certain caliber. She’s good looking, with a beauty that never goes unnoticed — bright blue eyes like gemstones, pale skin like a porcelain doll, and wavy, rebellious snow-white hair. She looks stunning in short, tight dresses that accentuate her tall and slender figure, carries herself well in heels, and has a terribly seductive way of applying lipstick. And she’s young, just twenty-two years old. Everyone wants to get their hands on her.

For years, she’s been sitting at the counters of exclusive lounge bars, engaging in frivolous and boring conversations with men old enough to be her father — or even grandfather — and getting fucked in shiny hotel rooms with towels folded on the bedspread and bottles of champagne chilling in ice.

She’s witnessed ridiculous scenes from the wives of those old perverts in hotel lobbies, pocketed rolled-up banknotes that her clients used to snort cocaine or who knows what else, received roses and jewelry, and heard empty promises of marriage and trips to South America.

Satoru didn’t care at all.

As long as she could get the money and sleep in a comfortable bed, she didn’t care if the promises made to her with her legs spread wide open weren’t kept once they were closed. And to be completely honest, the thought of marrying a man made her sick.

First of all, she didn’t like men. She hated their smell, their rough beards, the taste of their saliva, the coarse hair on their bodies, their voices when they laughed, their large, heavy hands on her body.

She had dealt with so many disgusting men — wolves of the financial market, corrupt politicians, serial cheaters, first-rate misogynists. Maybe her opinion was too shaped by her experience as an escort, but she had seen one of the worst sides of humanity, that’s for sure — the scum that hides beneath layers of glittering gold and rivers of banknotes.

She was used to luxury restaurants, exclusive clubs, skybars, and gala dinners. She was used to seeing trophy wives dressed in designer clothes and covered in jewels, alongside escorts like her with needle-marked arms hidden by scarves and coats.

They all looked the same to her, with the same damned clothes, the same fake laughter, and the same lustful looks.

Only Suguru was different.

When she saw her, it was like she was looking at a sunset for the first time or some nonsense like that.

Suguru confused her mind and left her breathless with just her presence. She was a woman, like her and like all the others, but she was neither a wife nor a prostitute; she was a great white shark thrown into the tank with those ridiculous lesser sharks.

Satoru had seen various women hold power, but it was always a reflection of their husband’s wealth. The wife of an influential man is, in turn, an influential woman. She had seen prostitutes blackmail their clients in exchange for luxury and privileges, but still, all their power depended on men.

Suguru, however, was a star that generated its own light.

When she first saw her, she was wearing red — a stunning long dress with a slit that revealed her thick thigh every time she took a step, her hair partially tied at the top with the rest cascading down her back and swaying hypnotically.

Suguru stood alone, with everyone’s eyes on her, evoking envy, admiration, and above all, desire.

She was gorgeous, by far the most beautiful woman Satoru had ever seen, around thirty years old with a magnetic aura that absolutely could not go unnoticed.

Their eyes met for a second, and Satoru felt a burn at that contact. Suguru was someone who had made it in life, unlike her, who was just a miserable escort. In a few years, the lesser sharks would stop finding her attractive, and she would be tossed aside like a discarded candy wrapper, while Suguru would continue to shine with her own light, with thousands of pitiful planets orbiting around her.

Suguru lingered on her gaze for just a moment longer before disappearing into the crowd in a flash of red.

Satoru searched for her throughout the night, clinging to her companion’s arm, completely oblivious to everything around her that didn’t involve that beautiful woman.

She excused herself to go to the bathroom, stepping past a group of three girls her age bent over the sink, snorting one line after another. Satoru had never been involved in anything like that, thank god, and she didn’t even drink. She couldn’t imagine someone choosing to live that life just to afford drugs.

She stayed in the stall as long as possible, her temples pounding from the overstimulation of smells, lights, and sounds. She preferred quiet places and neutral colors, silence and dim light.

When she came out to wash her hands, the three girls were gone, and standing in front of the sink was the beautiful woman in red she saw earlier.

Satoru stared at her in the mirror, mesmerized, and then the woman smiled at her turning around, leaning her back against the counter. She was incredibly attractive.

«Hi, do you need something?» she asked, Satoru’s cheeks flushed bright pink. She was definitely staring too much, even with her mouth slightly open.

«I’m sorry, I was just…» she didn’t know how to continue. Just what? Imagining wild scenes of that woman fucking her in the bathroom? Or making ridiculous comparisons between her and a sun in her mind?

«What’s your name, pretty girl?»

«Satoru.»

«Satoru.» she repeated, as if tasting the sound of her name on her tongue. «Are you here with one of Tengen’s dogs?»

Satoru had no idea. She didn’t care who her clients worked for as long as they could pay her, but she remembered hearing the name Tengen before, so she nodded.

Suguru groaned. «I hate those dogs; they don’t know what they’re doing.» she rolled her eyes. «But it seems one of them at least has good taste in… jewelry.»

She looked her up and down, and for a moment, Satoru was confused. Was she judging her or hitting on her?

«I– I really don’t–» she stammered, but her words were cut off as Suguru moved dangerously close, backing her up until she was pressed against the wall.

She could smell her scent: sweet, luxurious, definitely expensive, rich and creamy with buttery notes accompanied by the recognizable aroma of cashmere. It suited her so well.

Her lips were soft, warm, the taste of her saliva made bitter by the lipstick she wore. Suguru kissed Satoru with a hand in her hair, passionately, playing with her tongue in her mouth. Suguru moaned against her lips, a sound that made Satoru’s eyes widen and shot straight to her lower belly, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine.

«I saw the way you looked at me earlier.» Suguru said, pulling away from her lips to kiss her neck. «Like you wanted to devour me. I’m telling you, you can, Satoru. You can ask me for anything you want.»

The white-haired girl clung to Suguru’s forearms as she left small love bites on the tender skin of her throat.

She was panting and definitely shaken as she was being devoured against the bathroom wall.

Suguru looked at her with honey-colored eyes, surrounded by perfectly done glittery smokey eye makeup — gorgeous. Who knows how she would look with ruined makeup, but for now, she just focused on cleaning up the smudged edge of her lipstick with her thumb, which reddened Satoru’s lips and neck.

«Those pathetic dogs are just pawns, Satoru. Tomorrow morning, I’m leaving for Paris, and you’re welcome to join me. Haneda Airport, at eight in the morning. Ask for Geto Suguru.» She left just as quickly and composed as she had arrived, as if they had never spoken.

Satoru returned to the main hall after cleaning off the other woman’s lipstick from her skin. «Where the hell have you been?» her client asked, irritated by her prolonged absence. He had bought her for the entire week, so what did he have to complain about for a little time in the bathroom?

Satoru searched the room for the red dress, but Suguru seemed to have vanished into thin air. She repeated the information Suguru had given her in her mind: Haneda Airport, at eight, Geto Suguru.

That night her client fucked her in one of the rooms of that hotel and she was so dry that he had to use some lube. While that man thrusted painfully into her, grunting about how tight and wet she was, Satoru thought about Suguru's kisses, touched her lips as if to make sure she hadn't dreamed it and imagined her sweet scent pervading her senses leaving her completely at her mercy.

What kind of lover would Suguru have been? Was she a screamer? Or was she silent? Did she like to take control or maybe it was all a facade and she was actually a pillow princess? Were her hair so perfect in the morning or did she wake up with her locks wavy and knotted? Her body looked amazing under that red dress, who knows what she would look like naked. Did she have scars? Tattoos? Were her breasts as soft as they had seemed pressed against Satoru's chest?

«Fuck, you're so tight.» the man groaned, bringing her back to reality. Ah, her client. He had ruined the whole atmosphere. His voice wasn't thick like Suguru's, his skin wasn't smooth and soft, and he smelled like tobacco and men's cologne. A disaster.

Satoru waited a little longer before she began to moan mechanically as she had learned. She always repeated the same phrases and always made the same faces, she was so good at it that her clients really thought they could make her come. Who knows if Suguru would have been able to satisfy her.

She stayed awake all night, while her client snored tangled in the sheets, ignoring the phone that was constantly flooded with calls from the contact named "Wife."

Satoru stepped out onto the balcony. If she had been a smoker, she would have gladly stolen a cigarette from her client. Instead, she stayed wrapped in a robe, thinking about that damned kiss the woman had given her.

How foolish — she felt so warm and strange over a mere kiss? Yet she had kissed so many people before and never felt anything. It had to be Suguru‘s taste that was so addictive; otherwise, how could she feel so high from just a few caresses?

Paris, huh? She wondered if it was like in the movies, where people really stroll hand-in-hand under the Eiffel Tower and drink wine in bars during the day. Do they listen to street musicians and dance along the Seine? Satoru tried to imagine herself dancing along the riverside to a song strummed on a guitar somewhere along the bank.

She mulled it over until dawn. She took a long, hot shower in the hotel bathroom and packed the remaining complimentary toiletries. She snapped a photo of the still-sleeping man with her phone and sent it to his wife without saying anything, then turned it off.

At the reception, she asked for a taxi to take her to Haneda Airport, arriving just before takeoff where Suguru was waiting, dressed in a long beige trench coat, her hair perfectly styled and loose over her shoulders.

Satoru was still wearing the dress from the night before and hadn’t slept a wink, but the woman smiled at her anyway.

«I'm glad you came.»

Satoru had never flown on a private jet before. They served her champagne and green olives, as well as a proper pasta dish when it was lunchtime. The only plane she had ever taken was a first-class flight to Okinawa, where she had accompanied a client on a luxurious resort vacation, but it was nothing compared to what she now saw through the oval window.

Satoru had never traveled much, only having seen Tokyo and its surroundings, so Okinawa was the furthest she could imagine going. Yet now she found herself admiring the most romantic city in the world from above, with a beautiful woman sitting beside her, holding her hand.

They talked a lot during that trip. Satoru learned that Suguru was thirty-five years old and the president of an I-Tech company that produced electromedical devices. She could speak three languages and loved the sea.

Paris was exactly like in the movies, and it felt like she was in a dream from which she would soon wake up.

Satoru screamed with delight when she saw the apartment where Suguru had brought her. It was big, with a bathtub positioned in front of a window overlooking the city, a huge king-size bed, and even a small balcony where they could have breakfast.

Suguru ordered clothes in her size for her. For the first time, Satoru didn’t have to wear revealing outfits, but instead a beautiful ensemble with light blue palazzo pants and a white silk blouse with pearl buttons. She also had makeup delivered that suited her pale skin tone, as she certainly couldn’t use Suguru’s, which was at least two shades darker.

They went out to dinner, strolling through the city. Suguru ordered some wine with an unpronounceable name and convinced Satoru to try a little. Paris truly was the city of lovers, and they walked along the banks of the Seine like Satoru had only ever seen in music videos on MTV.

They returned to the apartment with the promise of going up the Eiffel Tower the next day, and they watched it light up from the balcony of their room.

Satoru had never made love like this, with Suguru slowly undressing her and kissing every inch of her exposed skin. Suguru kissed her so much, they rolled like that in the sheets for a crazy amount of time before Satoru's soaked panties were removed.

Suguru ate her pussy as if she was starving, drinking every moan and gasp. Satoru made her cum on her fingers until she squirted onto the white sheets and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Suguru had to work during those days, but she also had plenty of free time to take bubble baths with Satoru, eat pain au chocolat – which Satoru had decided was her new favorite food – for breakfast on the balcony, and fuck for hours in all the positions came to mind.

Those were the best two weeks of Satoru’s life. She loved every corner of that unfiltered Paris, from the Eiffel Tower to the museums, to the Montmartre district, probably her favorite place with the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.

Suguru always found her, no matter where she was, even if it meant taking the metro like an ordinary person. She bought Satoru delicious food and clothes from famous French designers, accompanied her wherever she wanted to go, and paid street artists to play songs they could dance to.

But, unfortunately, even those weeks came to an end. On the flight back, Suguru presented her with a choice:

«Once we land, you'll have two options. The first, I thank you for the time we've spent together, I’ll pay you your daily rate multiplied by the number of days in Paris, you go back to your home, I go back to mine, and we go our separate ways.»

«And the second?» Satoru asked hopefully. She didn’t want to leave; she wanted to see Suguru again.

The woman smiled and, drawing closer, placed a hand on her cheek.

«The second is that you’re coming home with me.»

***

Satoru is a prostitute, she knows that. The money is always there to remind her.

Suguru pays her every time they have sex, always. She never forgets to tear off a check or make a transfer, always the same rate, the one established when, a year earlier, Satoru had moved into Suguru’s home after the trip to Paris.

It's just a service she offers; she's the worker selling her labor, and Suguru is the capitalist entrepreneur buying her product. Of course, Suguru doesn’t count the expenses related to maintaining the girl. The food, clothes, jewelry, gym membership — all are covered by her, while Satoru just has an immensely loaded bank account and no idea how to spend the money.

Her debts were paid off, her mother received monthly anonymous money in an envelope slipped into her mailbox, and that was it. Satoru had even considered going back to school just to have an excuse to spend some money. Suguru, naturally, wouldn’t have stopped her.

The black-haired woman returns home at the usual time, halfway through her shower Satoru enters the bathroom, strips naked and joins her under the jet of hot water. She has three fingers buried deep inside her pussy when Suguru complains about having to put on conditioner, in response Satoru curls her fingers inside her making her scream and squirm.

She continues to hit her most sensitive spot, reducing her to an incoherent mess as she leaves a trail of kisses along the wet skin of her neck.

«I was thinking about going back to school.» she tells her as Suguru is losing control and her knees are getting weaker and weaker.

«Oh, yes? It's– it's amazing 'Toru– ahh.» she moans, holding onto Satoru's arm and pushing herself against the wall to better grip on her fingers.

«Aren't you against the idea?»

«Mhh, not at all. You can– you can– oh God, you can do whatever you want, you know.»

«Well, I should still get my high school diploma first and then, who knows, I'd like to go to art school, what do you think?»

«You're definitely good with your hands, ahh, yes, right there.»

She lets her cum and then puts conditioner in her hair because she's too groggy to do it, dabs her long wet locks with a towel and even pulls her panties up, grabbing her ass and pulling her in for a kiss in the process.

When Suguru starts working after dinner, she tells Satoru that she can come and read in her study, so Satoru takes her book and settles into the armchair in Suguru’s office.

That night, they fall asleep cuddling, but in the morning, the bed is always empty, and a notification on Satoru’s phone indicates a new deposit.

Huh?

It's at least double the usual amount, so Suguru must have made a mistake. Maybe she was distracted or had just woken up before authorizing the transfer.

She calls her, letting the phone ring several times before Suguru finally answers.

«What’s up.»

«You made a mistake with the deposit. You paid me double.»

«No, it's correct.»

«Huh? Why?»

«For school. You said you wanted to pick up studying again, right?»

«Suguru, I don't need all that money for school.»

«Then consider it a bonus.»

«I don't want it.»

«I don’t give you what you want, but what you need.»

The call ends. Now Satoru is angry with her.

***

It's Sunday, so Suguru isn’t working.

She sits Satoru down at the kitchen table while Kuroi washes the dishes she used to cook. In front of her, there’s an array of traditional dishes arranged in a fan shape.

«What does this mean?» Satoru asks.

Suguru, who looks beautiful even today with her hair tied in a high ponytail and wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt, which still looks stunning on her, looks at Satoru sternly with her arms crossed before slamming the kitchen trash can onto the table. Under several layers of paper towels are the meals Kuroi prepared that Satoru hadn’t eaten in the past few days.

«Is this your way of telling me you're angry with me? Is it about the money?» she asks.

Satoru doesn’t respond and just stares at the evidence of her wrongdoing. No, she didn’t do it because she was angry with Suguru — Suguru is perfect, how could she be mad at her? Instead, Satoru should be mad at herself.

She just doesn’t see the point. Eating is only fun when Suguru is around, when she talks about her day, they order pizza before watching a movie, or they visit luxurious Michelin-starred restaurants. Eating alone at the kitchen counter makes her feel depressed, and she misses Suguru more than ever.

«So?» Suguru presses, raising her voice.

«I'm sorry.» the white-haired girl admits. Sometimes, she just does things without thinking about the consequences of her actions; after all, Suguru would eventually have noticed that she was throwing food away.

«You know I don’t like wasting food, and you didn’t consider Kuroi’s hard work?»

«I'm sorry, forgive me, Suguru. And you too, Kuroi.» Kuroi doesn’t reply but gives her a look that, for the first time, isn’t irritated or annoyed.

With a nod, Suguru dismisses the cook and sits next to Satoru. She speaks softly now, like a mother to her child.

«What did I do wrong, Satoru?»

«Nothing!» the girl immediately interrupts. «It’s not your fault, I was just being stupid.»

«I want you to be healthy, Satoru. There’s nothing beautiful about an unhealthy body, and you want to be beautiful for me, don’t you?»

What a manipulator — she trades her validation for Satoru’s shame. But it works because Satoru blushes furiously and nods.

She wants it desperately. She wants to be beautiful for Suguru, desired, so she can thank her for being the first and only one to treat her like a person.

Suguru sits next to her, and they eat, sharing the chopsticks. Satoru feels like crying because she wishes it could be like this every day, she wishes Suguru could be with her every day to share chopsticks and gently push back a strand of hair that falls in front of her face.

The food doesn’t taste as good if her beloved isn’t there to eat with her, but she doesn’t know how to explain it because she’s afraid of sounding pathetic.

However, in the following days, Kuroi stays to watch her eat after preparing her lunch and texts Suguru when she's done eating.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, she knows it. She never thought she could love any aspect of her job — money excluded — but since Suguru has been in her life it feels like she has the best job in the world.

Maybe she was born for this, she was born to meet her and adore every inch of her body, to kiss her and press her naked, warm skin against that of the other woman.

Suguru is a gift that the gods have given to the world, Satoru could admire her naked body as one admires a sculpture in a museum, with the only difference that she is for her eyes and for her eyes alone.

She caresses her hips delicately, moving up to cup her breasts with her hands, Suguru squirms under her touch and Satoru bites her lip in anticipation.

If she had a dick, it would be hard as a rock right now, but since biology is not an opinion, she'll have to settle for a strap-on.

It's honestly her favorite sex toy, a nice dark purple, just the right size, thick, with plastic veins imprinted around the circumference, not too big to hurt, but perfect for Suguru's tight, heavenly pussy.

Suguru likes it too, but would never admit it, because it always reduces her to a panting mess. Maybe it's simply that the universe didn't give Satoru a cock because otherwise she would have been too powerful.

The white-haired girl plays with it as if it were a real dick, caresses it, running her index finger over the tip as if she might find it sticky with precum and Suguru's pussy throbs and squeezes compulsively around nothing, making her moan out loud.

«What is it, angel? Do you want something?» Satoru sings, pumping the strap with her hand.

«Satoru, please.» her beloved moans. «Put it in.»

«Oh, I wanted to keep playing. But well, how can I resist when you look at me like that?» she teases Suguru's entrance with the tip, she’s so wet that she can probably take it in one thrust.

She thrusts slowly inside her, enjoying her moans and her face contracted by pleasure, she watches as the purple dildo disappear into Suguru's pussy and lights up with excitement and envy for any penis-endowed being who would have the chance to feel how much her walls are tight and warm.

She caresses her thighs and whispers words of encouragement until she's got it in all the way to the base, Suguru clutching the sheets with one hand while biting the knuckles of the other with watery eyes. God bless missionary because Suguru is the most beautiful sight that nature has created with her long raven hair spread across the mattress, her erect nipples that are begging to be sucked and her lips swollen from Satoru's kisses and bites.

She starts moving with short and light thrusts, which scratch the surface of the most primal part inside her, gradually becoming bolder and deeper until Satoru manages to pull her cock out to the tip and slam it back in with full force .

The gym membership must have been of some use, so Satoru decides to put all the hours spent on the treadmill to good use and imposes her tireless rhythm on the thrusts that make her beloved scream and cry, even with the muscles of her thighs burning while begging for mercy, she doesn't stop until Suguru cums with her eyes rolled back and spit dripping down her chin.

Satoru kisses her, devouring the last flashes of her orgasm, accompanying her to overstimulation with slow and deep thrusts. She sucks on one nipple while playing with the other, squeezing her soft breast in her hand, Suguru's fingers are tangled in her snow-colored hair, caressing her scalp gratefully as the sensation inside her eventually becomes unbearable.

They kiss until Suguru decides she's ready to do it again, they do it two more times, including one with Satoru lying on her back and Suguru riding her giving the most beautiful sight of her big tits swaying right at Satoru's eye level and another where Satoru takes her from behind, slapping her ass and calling her a slut. Suguru moans like a porn star and Satoru wishes she had her phone within reach to make a video of her to masturbate to when Suguru's at work.

In the end, Suguru sucks the strap to clean it, kneeling at the foot of the bed while Satoru masturbates fingers herself, risking cumming just at the sight of Suguru's honey eyes looking at her lewdly while she has her mouth full of purple cock. Not satisfied, Suguru sucks on her tits until she has bruises and bites all over her chest and they kiss, moaning into each other's mouths.

They take a bath together, full of foam and bubbles, Suguru is sitting astride Satoru's legs, they look into each other's eyes while whispering sweet words to each other and washing each other's hair as an act of love.

Sunday ends like this and on Monday the bed is empty again.

***

Satoru is a prostitute; she knows it, but she can no longer stand it.

For days, the house has been empty. Suguru leaves early in the morning before Satoru wakes up and comes back late when she’s already asleep. The reason is an extremely important contract with the Zen’in industry nearing completion, but Satoru is so terrified by the idea of being cheated on that on Thursday mornings she spends all her time with Miguel, asking him if he thinks Suguru is cheating on her.

Suguru would never cheat on her; she’s her angel and truly loves her. But Suguru certainly has other things in her life beyond Satoru, her job for example.

The huge house, a gem designed by the most famous architect of her generation, described by Yuki Tsukumo herself as modern “modern nest,” has become a prison. It feels so empty that it seems almost twice its size, cold as winter, and as dark as midnight.

Suguru is missing; her cup is absent from the sink, the newspaper folded on the coffee table is gone, her clothes hang in the closet smelling of mothballs, and sometimes she doesn’t even come home and sends her secretary, Manami, to fetch a change of clothes. There are no more long black hairs tangled in the bristles of the brush.

In this house, Suguru is missing, and it’s as if Satoru is missing air.

At first, she manages well; after all, Suguru is always busy, and it has happened several times that she didn’t come back for more than a few days. But usually, she always calls, and most of the time, she responds to her messages with enthusiasm. Now, it feels like weeks without contact, and she feels like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, slowly going mad and talking to a volleyball.

The breaking point comes one Saturday morning when Utahime finds her crying in the living room of the house.

Suguru rushes to her as soon as she receives the call and finds her with her knees to her chest, her blue eyes swollen red from crying, beautiful and sparkling like the marbles she used to play with as a child. She sits next to her and hugs her, still in her work suit and heels.

«Satoru, god, what’s wrong?» she asks, without hiding her worried tone.

Satoru sobs, covering her face with her hands to hide her shame. She’s never been this emotional, and her reaction leaves Suguru speechless.

«Am I just a toy to you?»

The question leaves Suguru stunned. Satoru a toy for her? No, of course not. Yes, their relationship is based on sex, but it’s not just that. There’s also tenderness, understanding, and a lot of complicity.

Suguru can’t understand how Satoru could come up with such bullshit.

«No… no, Satoru. What are you talking about? How could you think such things?»

«Don’t you realize it?»

«No, I swear. Who put this idea in your head?»

«You!» Satoru bursts out, shouting. «You do it every time with your damn money! To you, I’m just another thing you can buy.»

She stands up because she’s trembling and can’t stay still. Suguru looks at her as if she suddenly grew a second head, but she remains composed and stays on the couch.

«You don’t want my money anymore? Is that what you’re saying?»

«I’m just a product you can buy, like everything else in this house. An accessory.»

Suguru keeps her gaze fixed on Satoru, who paces nervously back and forth, carefully considering her words to avoid worsening the situation. But her mind is blank, and the right words seem unable to make their way from her heart.

Satoru reads only confirmation of her wildest fears in her silence. Warm tears stream down her cheeks, and her ego shatters into many sharp pieces.

«Why are you doing this to me? Why do you treat me like I’m just a trinket you can pick up and put on the shelf whenever you want?»

«Satoru… you’re not an object; you’re my partner. You’re much more important than you think.» Suguru finally stands up to approach her, but Satoru jerks back.

«Don’t come near me, damn it!» The movement is so sudden that the girl bumps her elbow into a glass vase; it falls to the ground, shattering into many iridescent shards that scatter light around the room. Water spreads across the floor, with no way to stop it, and the flowers wilt.

The loud crash of the broken glass echoes between them. Both stare at the broken vase, unsure of what to do next.

***

Six months later…

Satoru was a prostitute, but now she isn’t anymore.

She has taken her wife’s last name, and the photos and videos of their wedding in Taiwan have already made the rounds of the tabloids, landing on the front pages of every single magazine, from business journals to housewife gossip papers.

The TV in their hotel room is on, and Satoru is watching the coverage of their wedding. «The queen of East-Asia I-Tech marries a woman.» The images of the ceremony are shown in a sweeping shot, all obviously in grand style, organized down to the smallest detail under the careful direction of Laure, with particular emphasis from fashion critics who have widely approved the choice to have two custom-made Vivienne Westwood wedding dresses.

Suguru comes out of the bathroom wearing a blue silk robe, her long black hair cascading down one shoulder, and her hands on her hips as she gives her wife a mock reproachful look.

«Stop watching the news.» she says, climbing onto the bed beside her.

«I’m just making sure they’re not saying anything bad about us.» the white-haired girl defends herself. Suguru takes the remote from her hands and turns off the screen.

«Let them talk as much as they want.» she whispers so close to Satoru’s lips that it’s impossible for Satoru not to give her a kiss.

All the rumors about Satoru’s past that threatened to come out have been silenced by Suguru, who is confident that nothing has been left out. However, the night before the wedding, Satoru had a total crisis, fearing that her past as a prostitute would somehow come to light.

Suguru calmed her down by holding her close all night, assuring her that it wouldn’t change anything, and whether she liked it or not, they would still get married.

«Is this a threat?» Satoru had chuckled, wiping her nose with her pajama sleeve.

«It’s a promise.» Suguru had assured her.

And now they were indeed married. Geto Satoru still sounded strange in her mouth, but she couldn’t wait to get used to it. For now, she could focus on enjoying their honeymoon. After all, they had just landed in Rome and only had time to get to the hotel and take a shower.

«Do you want to do my makeup before we go to dinner? I’ve booked a table at a very renowned restaurant; I can’t wait to try their famous Cacio e Pepe.»

«I want to try Carbonara. Do you want to split it with me?»

«Of course, anything you want.»

«Get the stuff, and I’ll do your makeup.»

Suguru smiles and gives her another kiss before getting off the bed and rushing to her suitcase to get the makeup bag.

Satoru watches her bend down and rummage through her things, smiling instinctively, thinking that this is the life that awaits her.

Satoru was a prostitute, and now she’s Geto Suguru’s wife, but deep down, she’s still just Satoru.

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