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theorist-fox · 24 days ago

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Humvee

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

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Word count: 6.8k (damn)

Summary: You do your best to heal, while Simon follows his own path—until life, in its strange way, brings you back together, with Simon stepping right back in.

18+

CW: fluff, banter, smut (fingering, p in v, car sex). you go on a bad date and simon saves you from it. he's a bit of a cunt but like in a good way.

I said I'd update on Sunday but you're getting it on Saturday!!! Though it's Sunday on this part of the globe, so...

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"If they ever give ya any grief, you know who to call."

Simon's words have never echoed so fiercely in your head as they do now.

The dress is uncomfortable. The shoes are uncomfortable. The air… is uncomfortable.

The dinner isn’t even that great. Or—well, it is. The restaurant has its perks: the wine is a deep red Shiraz, dry and with that slight bitter aftertaste that just enough balances the salt of your fillet mignon. Rare. Side baked potatoes with a crisp crust that still sizzles with warm olive oil.

It looks great.

Would taste great too, you reckon. Thing is, you’ve been playing with your food ever since the waiter brought it to the table.

You don’t think you’ve spoken a single word, if not your name, ever since you sat down. Mouth latched onto that crystal wine glass that could never be too full.

Fuck dating.

He looked oh, so nice leaning against the bar counter last week.

Leather jacket and a tight-fitting black t-shirt underneath, a softer tummy of a man who likes to train and eat. Big arms, broad shoulders. Thighs looked awfully soft in those blue jeans.

Mediterranean features. A strong nose, high cheekbones. Perhaps Italian origins, you thought, or maybe Spain? Greece?

Olive skin and thick brown curls, messy in that calculated way that only pretends to be tousled. You call it the sex hair. But it’s fake, so it would be like—the fake sex hair.

You love the fake sex hair. Or maybe you don’t. But on him, it looks unbelievably nice.

His eyes have this hazelnut hue, mottled with gold and green speckles. Long, thick lashes, dark like his hair.

Fuck, he looks like a Greek god.

And when he winked at you from the other side of the pub, lifting his glass of whatever he was drinking your way, you thought yourself so very fortunate.

Small blessings.

If only you’d known where those plump lips and feline brown eyes would lead you.

The entrée was accompanied by his favourite way to clean the leather of his sofa. Then he switched the topic to hair gel, because somehow the same company that makes the polish for his stupid couch also makes his stupid hair gel.

And now he’s telling you how much he benches. You should’ve known, to be honest, that somehow the chat would’ve swerved to his herculean strength and raw masculinity.

He oozes testosterone from every pore, reeks of pheromones, and—judging by his character—you wouldn’t rule out the possibility that he’s splurged on one of those dodgy "scientific" perfumes supposedly designed to make women swoon at his feet.

He’s saying how you’d never have to fear a thing if he was in the house, since you’d have him by your side. The urge to roll your eyes is incommensurable: you hide behind your wine glass, taking a generous gulp of Shiraz that’s drying out your tongue.

He’s eating with his mouth open. Chewing loudly. Loud enough to give you PTSD. Fucking hell, why do the handsome ones always have to act like they never set foot outside the house?

He has a pittie, he says.

Your ears perk.

Okay, pitties are nice. Lovely dogs with their big, smiling mouths always drooling for cuddles. You find their awkward stance tenderly charming—wide front legs and wagging tail. Plus, him having a dog means he can take care of fragile things, that he can be sweet and nice and reliable.

It’s a boy.

You smile.

He says he’s trained him to fight. Defend the household and whatnot.

It falters.

Says you could take him for a run if you fancy it. That he would give you (and he makes those awful hand quotations with his fingers) “scary dog privileges.”

You drink.

Scary dog privileges. You’re fighting a scoff so loud the sous chef would hear it from the kitchens.

You have SAS training privileges.

You have gun privileges.

You have scary dog privileges. You are the scary dog.

One glance at his neck, another at the table, and you've already calculated ten different ways to end his life in under a minute—one of which involves a thumbtack pinning the fake flowers to the polyester cube in the centrepiece vase.

You imperceptibly shiver. Shake your thoughts away.

He’s still rambling about his dog and his gym sessions and how he goes for runs every morning, every night, every moment of the bleeding day. Does he work? Have hobbies that don’t include a pissing contest with other men at the gym? Fuck’s sake, that thumbtack is starting to look incredibly inviting—

“So what do you do?” You blurt out.

It comes out so awkwardly that you can only fix it with a nervous laugh. One of those that make you look cute and shy, not weird and spacey.

He seems startled by it. Follows up with an awkward laugh of his own. Ugh. Okay, it’s okay. Maybe he’s nervous too. That can be cute.

“I’m military.”

You blink.

Oh.

Unexpected.

You hadn’t considered that. Granted, he has the stance, the body. He keeps his neck taut and straight, which is something you recognise you do yourself: hard to shake off habits from early training in Pirbright.

Truthfully, you had excluded partners from your same field of work. Didn’t go particularly smoothly last time you tried.

You’d like to come home to normalcy and averageness and homecooked meals and that dog he’s going on and on about, not to more military-related drama and paperwork scattered on the kitchen table.

But this can be nice, you muse.

Maybe straying from the plan you’ve laid out for your date could lead to some unexpected surprises. Maybe you could find a common ground, some shared experiences to discuss.

Anything to divert the topic from how he removes stains from his carpeted floors.

You straighten your spine, smoothing down the creases of your dress even if they’re hidden under the tablecloth.

With your elbow resting on the table, you subtly press your arms together, accentuating your neckline. You tilt your head slightly, chin nestled in your palm and lashes fluttering away.

He sports a smug smile, perhaps recognising the reaction his job must have sparked in many more women before you.

You let it slide.

“What branch?” You ask, trying to sound as naïve as you can.

Men in the military often have great success when it comes to dating. Women in the military, not so much—something about them being stronger than their male counterparts in a relationship seems to unsettle their egos, unchub their cocks.

Which is why you’re pretending you know shite about the topic—you’re just there to look pretty, for now.

“Oh, well,” his voice drops down an octave, and he leans a little closer to the table. The front of his crisp white shirt dips into the sauce covering his pasta.

You try not to stare at the oil stain too much.

He reaches out with his hand, toying with a ring on your finger. Looks around like he’s making sure no one else is listening, and then he smiles at you knowingly.

“It’s classified.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Alright, this date is botched. Tits up. Fuck him and his beautiful eyes and perfect bone structure. He could have been the love of your life. You would’ve made perfectly beautiful babies with beautiful Mediterranean genes.

You feign surprise. You feign interest.

The least you can do is have fun.

“Oh really?” You open your mouth in a shocked oval. “And—and what is it that you do?”

He leans back in his chair, self-assured. Charming smile. Know-it-all attitude.

“You know,” he shrugs, like it’s something so common and nonchalant. “Missions, deployments. All secret, though. Can’t share, unfortunately.”

He gives you a wink.

“Not even with a pretty girl like you.”

Yuck. Ew. Ugh.

You giggle, crystalline and shy, fingers to your mouth and all.

“Are you like—” You bite your lip, “—like James Bond?”

His chuckle is low, like he wants to show how much of that testosterone is actually brewing in his balls.

“Of sorts.”

“Wow.” You say breathily. “It must be dangerous.”

“It is,” he replies, cocking a confident brow. “Not a thing for girls like you.”

Dickhead.

You smile. Taut. Someone else would’ve noticed how strained it is. Not him though, no. Too self-absorbed to catch onto it. Wouldn’t see how obvious he’s being if it slapped him in the face.

“Hear me out,” he says after a while. “One minute bathroom break, and then I’ll tell you what you want to know, yeah?”

Which is nothing, but you nod anyway.

“Or, well—” he adds, standing up and setting the napkin on the table. “—What I can tell you.”

With a wink, he leaves for the loo.

You deflate. Rub your fingers on your forehead because that man just gave you a migraine.

You pluck your phone from your handbag and thumb through the screen to contact backup.

You think of Johnny, but you two bicker too much, and the possibility of him shooting back with one of your misfortunes is impossibly high. You’d like to keep your failing dates as quiet as possible.

Kyle would be the perfect choice, but he’s not nearby—a trip to somewhere warmer with his partner now that he’s on leave.

Price is not even an option. Who would call their boss to give them a lift out of a bad date?

Which leaves Simon. You know you have to call Simon, as much as you don’t want him to witness the absolute devastation that is your current love life. Granted, you know he would help without a peep—but still, there’s that bit of pride left untouched by the ruin that’s been your "relationship" that you’d like to keep intact.

But grief’s been given. Plenty of it. And, as he said, you know who to call.

With a surrendering sigh, you stuff your pride in a pocket and zip it shut.

As soon as your text goes through, you can’t even blink that three dots are already dancing at his corner of the screen.

Your eyes roll so far back you take a peek at your brain.

The sarcasm is so tangible you almost taste it on your tongue.

Hopefully your reply will manage to convey the urgency of your tone. The absolute sizzling hatred in your eyes.

And then you wait for Mr. Classified to come back from the loo while eating a baked potato or two, even if now they’re awfully cold. Still crunchy and wonderful, though. The restaurant is stellar; it's a shame to have wasted the opportunity with such a painfully obnoxious sod.

When he comes back, he sits all grand at the table. He fixed his hair, you notice. Tried to clean the oil stain on his shirt and only managed to enlarge it—you can tell even if he’s buttoned up his dress jacket.

He tells you he’s a captain.

Yeah. Sure. Go big or go home, mh?

Recounts very generic war stories, one of which really does sound like the plot of a videogame you played with Kyle.

Your back’s to the door, so when he stumbles on his words and his eyes go wide out of the blue, you have no clue what’s got him so rattled.

That is, until you turn and look over your shoulder.

The biggest bloke’s standing at the entrance, seemingly instructing one of the waiters, who looks like he’s lost a few years off his life from how pale he’s gone.

Man dressed in black, helmet with night goggles on.

Show off.

The full shebang: tac vest layered above the bulletproof one, M4 hanging low on his front with clasps, a gun holstered on his hip. The radio pokes from one of the front pockets on his chest.

He has the goddamn skull mask on, for fuck’s sake.

Your eyes widen briefly, and then you fight tooth and nail to stifle a laugh. You wonder what Mr. “I’m military but it’s classified” thinks about “people actually in the classified part of the military”.

You turn to him. Man is shell-shocked.

You snort.

Simon points at you, and the waiter nods vigorously before scurrying over to your table.

He leans down to your level, cheeks so red they look purple, sweat on his forehead, huffing and puffing like he’s run a marathon.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to interrupt, but—” A heaving breath through his stutter. “Your presence seems to be required at-at-at the Hereford SAS headquarters.”

He lowers his voice, then. “Something about the p-passing of an officer, uhm—your husband.”

You choke. Slam a hand on your chest. Mr. Classified seems concerned and has his hands hovering your way but never touching you in the slightest.

Helpful.

“The what?” You hiss, looking behind you at Simon with straight-up murder in your eyes.

The mask hides it, but you know he’s got the biggest smirk plastered on his face.

“You’re married?” Mr. Classified asks. Fuck him too.

“No.” You bark but then realise that it’s not his fault if your lieutenant is a bastard. Gingerly, you clear your throat and add more softly. “Not… anymore.”

Gotta fake it if you want to get out of here.

You sigh.

The waiter stands there awkwardly as you apologise to your date for not telling him about your non-existent dead husband. You stand up from the table, pretending heartache, while the waiter hovers around you and right in your business.

When you feel him too much into your space, you blink at him, plastering on a polite smile.

“Yes?”

He’s sweating profusely. The Ghost effect.

“The-the soldier, there—" he gives a subtle nod to where Simon stands. “—said I have to escort you b-because you’re a suspect.”

The appalled look on your face must be a sight to swear by.

You glare at Simon.

He shifts his weight on his other foot, arms crossed in front of his chest. Smug, like he’s having the time of his life.

“Yes.” You reply with a sigh, “Please, escort me.”

You don’t bother turning around to face Mr. Classified. He must be wearing the same shock the waiter is sporting. After all, in his eyes, hasn’t he just shared a dinner with a murder suspect?

What a tale to share.

“Thank you, sir.” Simon tells the waiter when you both reach him, deep baritone heavy yet gentle.

He grabs you by the crook of your elbow.

“Gonna bring this one to justice.” He adds theatrically.

The waiter nods like his head might crack in half if he doesn’t.

“Thank you, sir.” He parrots, “Thank you for your service.”

At the statement, used and abused without any regard for its meaning, you scoff in his face.

Simon tugs you by your arm, and your heels scrape against the floor.

Finally, you find your footing and follow him out.

Simon came to pick you up in a fucking Humvee.

He said it was in case the restaurant had those big windows that look out on the streets, so he could make an even bigger scene. All because you interrupted him while he watched the man u match even if they were painfully losing, he said.

When you asked him where the fuck did he get it since he should’ve been home on R&R and not at base, he told you that he had an IOU to cash in with one of the higher-ranking officers.

Baffling, to say the least, that he’s used it to embarrass you.

Yet not something you would put past him.

Still, though, as soon as you enter the car and he starts shedding layers of tac gear, mask included, the first thing he asks isif you’re alright.

You nod with a soft smile.

“McDonald’s?” He asks, then.

You cock a brow.

“I just had dinner.”

The engine rumbles as he turns the key in the ignition.

“No ya haven’t.”

He drags the shift stick back and puts the car in reverse. His hand comes to grasp the back of your seat as he looks to the rear window.

It takes a whole lot of resolve to not gawk at the way the tendons in his forearm tighten and bulge. You manage.

Thank fuck he can’t check if you’re salivating, because you are.

Because this car smells of him. It shouldn’t, because it isn’t his car. It’s a military vehicle, a big fat Hummer with enough space to host a task force, and from what you know someone else might have been using it all day before he got the keys.

And still, his scent invades it, dominates it, and you realize how much you’ve missed it. Missed waking up to it, missed having it stain your clothes, sometimes your uniform too. Memories flood, and something in your chest clenches.

Control yourself, for fuck's sake.

You turn your eyes away from him.

“How d’you know?”

He shifts into first as he finally leaves the car park. He shoots you a brief side glance, before returning his eyes on the road.

“Clocked your plate full even from afar,” he says plainly. “Bloke talked that much, uh?”

“You got no idea.” You sigh, exhausted. “Told me he’s military and then pulled the classified card.”

His lips twitch, and then his chest rumbles in a low, low chuckle you haven’t heard in a while.

You laugh with him.

Simon takes you to a drive-through. He orders what he knows you like, because this definitely isn’t the first time you two sneak out in the middle of the night only to eat something that isn’t the slob from the mess hall.

He drives a little further to find that nice parking spot next to the motorway. Once again, not the first time you’ve been here.

Sometimes with Johnny in the back and Kyle smoking a ciggie by the car window—couldn’t have the Humvee smell of nicotine and stale cigarettes when you’d return it (not so) surreptitiously later on.

Sometimes just the two of you, when new soldiers moved in the neighbouring barracks and Simon wanted you to scream without the pressure of being found out.

You punch the straw in your Coke and bring it to your lips. The carton box of chips is precariously balanced on your bare thighs.

Simon’s already munching on his burger.

“Thank you, by the way,” you break the comfortable silence first.

He shrugs.

“He was a right pain,” you go on. “Kept going on about—”

“—His dog, how much he benches, his hair care routine.”

You choke on your coke and then your head swivels to him.

“Okay—were you spying on me?”

He levels you with a deadpan look.

“Bloke like that’s only got one type o’ chat,” he explains, “And it’s all ‘bout him. You should’ve known, eh?”

He flicks your temple. You splutter.

“What?” He nods in your direction, swallowing a mouthful. “Went on leave an’ lost all those brains?”

You swat his hand away.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling your cheeks heat up.

He mercifully lets it go and returns his attention to his meal.

Even a burger that big looks awfully small in Simon’s hands. You used to look small in Simon’s hands, somehow—skin pliant and soft. Dimpling under his fingertips, folding easily with just the press of his big palm in his desired direction.

Same hands that used to hold you still by the waist, hands that handled you until you’d turn into putty on the mattress. Fingers long and skilled when they curled around your neck, cutting your airways just enough to make your head spin. Fingers that you’ve had all over: in your hair, on your stomach, down your throat, in your cunt.

Fuck.

Some ketchup spills out of his burger and onto his thumb. He brings it to his lips and purses them on his pad to suck it off.

Fuckfuckfuck.

You turn away and stuff your mouth with chips.

“How’d you find him anyway?” He asks after a while. “Apps?”

You balance your cup on the large center console as you shake your head in negative. Your response comes muffled by a mouthful of food.

“Pub down the road,” you tell him, gesturing vaguely at the windshield. “The one close to HQ.”

“The Bell?”

You swallow. Nod your head. “Mhmh.”

“Should’ve known.” He muses, and you hear him scrunching up the paper that once held his burger. “Proper dive, that. Full o’ fucked up blokes.”

You roll your eyes.

“You’re an avid frequenter,” you say, mouth full and eyes averted to your cardboard of chips.

He doesn’t snort, nor does he laugh it off. Instead, you can only hear the rapid tap of fingernails on the leather of the wheel filling the suddenly heavy silence that settled.

“No’ anymore.” He replies after a beat.

The tone doesn’t match the flippant vibe heard in the Humvee until now. He’s serious and levelled, like he’s stating some important matter he needs to unhook from his chest.

You swallow your chips like they’re cement.

“And why’s that?” You venture.

Simon shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. The leather squeaks, his jeans rustle where his thighs rub together.

“Don’t fit with the crowd is all.” He says quietly.

“What crowd?”

“The fucked up one.”

When you turn his way, you still.

Simon’s eyes are already on you.

His gaze is tangible. Sticks to you like damp fabric. You can almost feel his fingers draw mindless circles there, where your skin is heating up under the heaviness of his eyes.

Whatever reply you had ready for him dies choked in your throat.

Your shoulders are stiff, your body’s too warm. Tongue like sandpaper stuck to your palate.

It’s been so long since Simon looked at you like he truly wanted you—like nothing else in the world mattered more.

For months, his eyes have wandered everywhere but to you, and until now, you thought that was a blessing. Because if he didn’t look at you this way, maybe letting him go would’ve been easier.

But now, as his eyes hold yours, you can’t fathom how you’ve managed to go so long without it.

You match his intensity, as the air in the Humvee grows heavy and thick. Cement is poured into your chest until you’re not sure how to breathe right anymore.

“Not fucked anymore, you think?” Your voice is raspy and feeble, like there’s something tying your vocal cords in a perfect knot.

You know he can’t affirm anything in that regard. Lord knows he’s fucked, and you can’t even add your two cents about it because you’d act like the pot calling the kettle black.

And yet, he replies softly. “Not as fucked, I reckon, no.”

Your brows pinch. Eyes big and languid, searching his—rich, hooded, sincere.

“And you?” He rumbles, hesitant for the first time.

You blink.

“Me?” You mouth with your lips, voice stuck somewhere in your chest.

He nods your way. “Still an avid frequenter o’ the fucked-up crowd?”

You blink. A laugh breathes out of you without you even considering it first.

Almost naturally, you reply with a whispered, “No. Not as avid, I think.”

Simon’s lips twitch upward, and then his hand lifts your way, though never reaches out enough to touch you. He lets it hover in the space in between, fingers soft and curled inwards.

It trembles. Terrible characteristic for a sniper. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever seen it happen to him. Always steady, always sure.

Your eyes fall on it. On the scars crisscrossing his knuckles, on the callouses of his pads and the raw spot on his thumb.

When you look up again, Simon’s eyes are a pool, open wide and waiting for you to just dive in it.

He says your name. Not your rank, callsign, bullshit loves, and pets, and the pretty ensemble. He says it low, heavy, like his tongue is a cinderblock and it’s so, so hard for him to speak it.

It’s almost a warning, you think. Your brain ponders it: the tone, the lilt, the volume. All of it, and you conclude that you are, in fact, wrong.

It’s no warning, no threat. It’s a plea.

Your eyes fall instinctively down the curve of his nose, to his lips. Lips you’ve kissed, lips that travelled every inch of your skin. Drank every sound you’ve ever spilled. Worshipped it, made it his. Coveted it carefully, in secret, until you noticed how those same breaths, those same noises, never left your mouth again, not after him.

Lost in his features, you don’t see how his eyes are focused on your lips as well.

And when you look up, he does too.

Something’s exchanged between you. Something written in the line between his brows as he frowns in concentration, in the tremble of your lips as they struggle to form words, requests, the barrage of questions you want to ask.

The mutual, soft, and barely veiled Please, please kiss me again.

His jaw shifts.

"Just say the word."

You gulp—fruitless. Your throat is dry, your lips unresponsive. Cursing yourself for not being ready now that you need it. Struggling to express the absolute beast that's scratching something violent in your chest.

You barely manage to break through it.

"Kiss me."

You blink and Simon’s lips are on yours.

Your stomach drops. You don’t think you can breathe.

He takes the lead when you go motionless, cupping the back of your head with both hands to pull you in. Your fingers grasp his forearms, flexing around them to make sure he’s real.

Only when your mouth opens and the kiss deepens do you unravel.

You melt in his hold, closing your eyes all the way and breathing heavily from your nose, because you’re not parting from him ever again.

Simon might think the same, because the passion with which you kiss him is thoroughly matched. His arms wrap around your waist, and you don’t spare a moment to turn on the passenger seat until you’re on your knees.

Chips spill everywhere on the floor. None of you care.

He helps you across the centre console until you’re straddling his thighs. Your knee knocks over the cup and coke spills everywhere.

And fuck, none of you care.

Humvees are big but never big enough for this. Granted, it’s not the purpose for which they were created. You hunch down when your head hits the padded roof, holding him by the sides of his face until he tips it back.

You taste his breath as it puffs on your mouth while he kisses you fiercely.

Simon pulls back. Cradles your face in his hands and his fingers dig into your scalp at the back.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls. Low, and breathy, and with that hint of disbelief that matches the one in your eyes. He brushes your cheeks with his thumbs, and you do the same.

He lunges forward, then. Captures your mouth briefly before travelling downwards, where open kisses make goosebumps rise on your arms. Big hands envelop your hips as he pulls you down, grinding you against the hard tent of his jeans.

And you comply, humping your sex—impossibly wet—to the seam covering the zipper.

He grunts in your neck each time your cunt drags across his. The sound makes you vibrate, a strange sort of power in the knowledge that he’s making it because of you, and you only.

The world moves slowly around you, like it wants the night to last hours and hours more. A small favour in exchange for what you do for it, keeping it clean and all the rubbish you’re told so you can live peacefully with your actions.

Perhaps tonight you believe them all.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this vocal with him, and it’s not even theatrics.

You just love it.

It’s overwhelming to have him hold you again, touch you, eat at your skin with the same intense desperation you’re gripping his hair with. Pressing his face into your neck as he sucks at the spot where it meets your shoulder, thundering heartbeat under his tongue. Darker spots blossom shameless in his wake, drawing a perfect mosaic of colours you’ll trace with your fingers come morning.

When Simon feels your hips do the work by themselves, he busies his hands with your dress. Rides it up your thighs until it bunches at your waist. Kneads the fat of your ass, landing a slap that makes you jolt.

Makes you moan.

And Simon drinks it just in time, swallowing it with a kiss that takes your breath away. Then, he rapidly travels down your throat, following the line of love bites all the way to your chest.

His teeth sink into the softer flesh there. Long fingers pull down the neckline of your dress until your tits spill out. He mouths a path to your nipple, sucking until it pebbles on his tongue. His teeth graze around it and you hiss at the perfect balance of pain and pleasure it creates.

And when his free hand comes to pinch at your other nipple, he pulls a little too hard.

You clench a fist in his hair and look down at him, hips falling still.

“Oi.” You frown.

His chest heaves. Yours matches the pants that leave your lips.

He wrinkles his nose, in that how dare you stop me way. But this time there’s something impish in there, like he knows what he’s doing and just likes to pull your chain. Lighthearted in a way you never dared to associate with Simon Riley.

How beautiful he looks with this new light bathing his eyes.

“What.”

You scoff. Your heart goes through several different stages of frustration, exasperation, anger, tenderness and love. Familiarity. Settling on the latter, until you recognize the glint in his eyes, the same one he had all those months back, when he was on his knees.

Lust, care, love, regret.

“Gentle.” You tell him as your chest softens, your voice still mockingly altered. “You’re not tuning the bloody radio.”

“Ha!” His lips twitch upward. “Coulda fooled me.”

Simon pinches your nipple in retaliation, but it makes you chuckle this time. When he’s sure you’re okay, he pulls your lips down in a kiss that’s starting to taste of you, and you like how the salt of your skin seems to belong so naturally on his tongue.

You kiss him through your smile as the air turns hot again. The windows slowly grow misty and opaque, creating a space around you that’s soft and insulated and safe.

Simon splays his palm on your stomach. Turns it so his fingers face downward. He inches closer to your sex, grazing the lace of your underwear, until the pad of his middle finger presses to the wet spot formed on the gusset.

There, he stops. Waits for you.

No need for words. You don’t want his lips to leave yours and you don’t fancy taking the risk of pulling away.

In fact, there’s little hesitation when your hand journeys down his shoulder to his forearm, tracing the hair growing over it and the odd bump of a scar here and there. You travel until your palm cups his knuckles, your middle finger over his, pressing it down to the swollen knot of your clit.

Simon draws a few experimental rolls, ones you encourage with the movement of your hips, with the puffs of breath all but pushed out of you and into the kiss.

A kiss he reciprocates, open and hot.

Moving your panties aside, Simon only brushes your entrance at first, finding it sodden already. And when you more than enthusiastically respond to his touch, he plunges his finger inside.

Your breath itches, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open against his own.

Simon drags his finger slowly, in and out, not teasingly but to let you adjust, to allow you to mould around his shape. And he does so until he feels you positively drip on his palm, softer around him yet clenching at the welcomed intrusion.

He adds a second finger. The stretch is delicious, fulfilling. Scratches an itch you couldn’t quite reach on your own, nor could the scattered toys you’ve bought and abandoned.

It’s a touch you’re comfortable with, one you know and can predict but not in a way that makes it boring. You just know he’ll feed the starvation, satisfy the drought.

He buries his fingers to the knuckle, until his palm is flat to your sex, heel pressing to your clit. Simon rolls it a few times and then lets you take the lead, keeping his hand still.

You ride his fingers by canting your hips in the way you like, stimulating both your g-spot and your clit. Simon keeps your mouth on his with a hand of steel glued to the back of your neck—unnecessary, because you have no intention of pulling away.

The first orgasm makes your head spin—you haven’t had a good one like this in quite some time. It coils around your stomach until it's knotted so tight you have no other option but to groan in his mouth to release the tension it built.

Simon’s fingers flex both at your nape and inside of you, pulling you impossibly closer, noses slotting next to each other. He breathes just as heavily as you do, as if your orgasm has somehow rattled him as well.

There are no formalities in the way he moves, in the way he leaves your still clenching cunt empty—wet fingers reaching for his belt, unbuckling in haste.

The sound of clinking metal manages to pass through the cotton barrier in your ears. It wakes you, prickles your skin that’s already burning hot.

You help him. Yours and his fingers try to work together but somehow make it harder to achieve the same goal. You chuckle when you both reach for the zipper and he playfully swats your hand away, taking the lead instead.

You feel him twitch a smile against your kiss.

He untucks himself from his briefs. The urge to look down is impossible to resist and so you do, catching the glint on the head of his cock as it leaks with precum, wetter than you’ve ever seen him be.

Your stomach tightens. Now that's a mouthwatering sight that never ceases to amaze you.

Simon pats your ass as an invite to scoot forward. He languidly drags the tip along your slit to collect some of your wetness. You jolt each time he catches your swollen clit.

When he lines himself with your entrance, you start sinking on him—nails digging into the cotton of his sweatshirt on his shoulders.

Simon stretches you wonderfully. He would slide in easily considering the way you’re dripping—it’s you who wants to take it slow in order to catch each muted reaction with ears and eyes, lips brushing his own.

And then you envelop him fully, taking his cock to the hilt.

“Fuck.” He croaks, and falls still.

The hand on your hip grips it painfully tight. The one on your nape locks your forehead to his. His breath comes out in heavy puffs, eyes wrenched closed.

Simon looks very vulnerable now. Much at your mercy. He doesn’t want you to move, clearly, and has full trust you won’t. For him. Maybe for you too, otherwise this will end much sooner than you both want it to.

But still, you brush the tip of your nose with his. He opens his eyes, iris swallowed whole.

“Alright?” You ask quietly.

He brushes his nose back with yours.

“Alrigh’,” he rumbles. “Been a while is all.”

You purse your lips in a wry smile.

“Has it now.”

He hums, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t fancy goin’ ‘round breakin’ any more hearts.”

“How considerate, lieutenant.”

“Aye, that’s me.”

“Not quite.”

He pinches the fat on your hip.

“Cheeky,” he says, watching your eyes smile.

You scrunch your nose, shaking your head from side to side.

“Eh, you love it.”

And he takes you off guard.

“I do," he says firmly, like that's some fundamental truth.

His hand moves to your cheek, thumb right under your eye brushing softly where the skin is thinner.

You like having him like this, with his face to yours, his lips within reach. It’s a strange thing, not having to turn your head around to reach for a sliver of skin to press a kiss to. Not having to find cotton instead of warm flesh, instead of soft lips.

You feel like you can, now—take the chance without finding a door being shut in your face.

In fact, your lips find his naturally, and he responds like it’s easy, like it’s something you do every time.

He kisses you slowly as his hand descends down your back to grab your hip. Then, he guides you, initiating the movements, and you follow through.

It begins gently, with your breaths in sync, lips just close enough for either of you to share a kiss if the moment feels right. Your hands cradle the slopes of his neck, his own fit in the crease between your hips and thighs.

It’s very quiet, you think, unlike the grunts and groans of the previous times. Now there's only Simon’s pants, your own efforts to keep your voice low, breathy moans occasionally interrupted by the smacking of lips.

And then he fits his palms under the round fat of your rear, lifting you up and then guiding you down at once. Your voice cracks, shattered into broken moans that Simon matches with his own.

Suddenly, you both want more. You feel it in the grip he has on your ass, in the hungry shadows of his eyes. You feel it in yourself, the heat pooling lower and lower, starving hands clutching the hair at his nape.

You prop yourself on your knees, as comfortably as you can, and start riding Simon even if your hamstrings are aching, thighs clenched and hard to the touch.

You go on and on, one hand perched on the padded roof and the other flat on the car window, mist disappearing in the shape of dragged fingers and scratching nails.

Warm pleasure collects in your belly. So hot it drips all the way to your toes, curling in your black heels clasped around your ankles. Your pace starts getting frantic, almost clumsy in the desperation to reach that high again, expecting it to be much better than the previous one since now Simon is fully sheathed inside of you.

You hold his eyes as the air catches in your chest and you fall silent. Breaths clipped and choked, like moans that you can’t articulate. Throat tight, tight, and tighter.

Simon seems to notice the signs, attentive as ever, and he dips three fingers in his mouth before bringing them to your clit. He swipes side to side with the same urgency of your hips, clit pebbled and raw soothed by the warm smoothness of his spit.

You cum hard. It’s a wave that almost crushes you against him, so hot you feel like suffocating. Your body collapses on him, as you pant loud and shrill into the curve of his neck. Simon’s cock is buried all the way in, while your tired hips twitch helplessly to both prolong your high and escape it.

And so, Simon takes it upon himself. Lifts you up and drops you down until you’re whimpering in his shoulder, teeth sinking in the taut muscles of his traps and nails digging into his back.

By then, Simon’s hanging on by thread and you know it even in your fucked-out state.

When the overstimulation hits and a rough string of curses leaves your lips right into his ear, Simon snaps.

With a grunt that rattles your chest, he pulls you down until he’s flush with you, and you swear you can feel him in your throat. His hips hump upwards as if that might somehow drive him deeper, and then he fills you with warmth, hot and liquid. Inevitably, it spills out, dripping thick down his thighs and onto the car seats.

Simon holds you like that, catching his breath as you catch yours.

He peppers your shoulder with kisses. Big hands clutch the back of your dress as it dampens with your sweat until his arms finally wrap you whole—so tight your breath leaves you in a gasp.

“Missed you,” he says, breathing your name reverently.

And why on earth should you not believe him, this time—with his face in your neck, his heart on his sleeve.

You lift your head to kiss his cheek. The cracks in your lips sting as they unexpectedly meet fine tracks of salt water.

Your heart skips a beat.

“Missed you too, Si."

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soft simon riley #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #smut #cod smut #x reader #foxy #Simon Riley is bad at feelings #my favorite tag #but he's getting so much better at that!!! big up for Simon Riley!!!

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burdenandacrop · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ❝ italian leather sofa. ❞ ˎˊ˗

thank u to the wonderful @thecourtjester-e for being the reason this is being written, ur MIIIIND. this goes hand in hand with my cake AND schlatt obsession so ... does a twirl.

HEAVILY based on the song italian leather sofa by CAKE !

summary : for a schlatt & co video, your [ secret ] boyfriend decides to take you out shopping. showing off his douche-bag internet persona, unbeknownst to him; that was actually quite the turn on. with a little fashion show back at home, he shows you just how hungry he's been.

⋮ ⌗ ┆established relationship, secret relationship, schlatt is mean in this one, you're also decently famous!, dabbles in a bit of spoiling, power difference k!nk, degrading mixed with some praising, rough smut.

the bright luminescent lights were beaming across the designer store, your hands gently trailing through the racks of numerous dresses. you weren't used to this sort of environment, but it was very quickly becoming second nature to you. to the internet's eye, you were schlatt's acquaintance who was mostly just known for your face. the running joke was that you were his personal thumbnail over-user, considering every video the two of you did got millions of views. almost the amount that his reaction videos got, and this was on his second channel. surprisingly, not a whole lot of people suspected you to be a pair. rather just an unconventional duo, which kind of worked on your end.

he brought the camera back up to your face, making you smile and droop your shoulders with a grin. "these good enough for you miss socialite?" schlatt sneers out, you wished the viewers could see just how cocky he looked in the moment. "brought her here to the most expensive mall in new york, nothing too smancy." he adds on, turning the camera to his face to wink and smile, "cause you know, i can afford that." god he was so insufferable, in a good way surprisingly. he brings the camera back to you, anticipating for you to say something. "i just need a dress for my event." you snicker out, rolling your eyes and searching the racks yet again.

"and of course you had to come here for it, didn't ya?" he teases, you just shake your head and continue to search the racks. eventually pulling out a red silk dress. schlatt was hoping to god the microphone wouldn't pick up how his breath hitched when he saw it. his mind already reeling on how it'd look on you. "this one?" you ask, looking at the camera with a smile. shaking the hanger and awaiting for schlatt to do anything but gawk. a part of you almost wanting to turn the camera right around just to show the viewers how down bad he was. "yeah get the red, brings out your rosacea real nice." he bites back with a chuckle.

you scoff at him and rub your cheek, worried that it was visible to the camera how aggravated your skin might've been. "yeah, get a purple tux to match your eyebags, dickhead." you groan out, hoping to one up him. you knew the viewers loved the bickering, especially with your one liners. "i'll get a ralph lauren one and call it a day, can't say you can do that." he replies with a smile, he knew you had your own money but he liked to occasionally throw in that he was a smidge more successful.

"yeah i can't wear a tux, no shit schlatt." you roll your eyes and stow the dress back on the rack. almost sending him into a panic, "editor, cut this." he stammers before leaning the camera down for a moment. "keep it, i'm buying it." he practically chokes out. your head whipping back to him with a smile, nodding and stowing the dress in between your arm. you secretly loved how he insisted on things like that, was kind of hot in a way.

he sighs in relief and brings the camera back up with a smile, going right back to his persona. "gonna buy anymore or are you too low on cash for it?" he stated, knowing damn well he'd be leaving this store with a dent in his wallet. "i'll have to look and see." you sigh out, looking to him for a moment before looking back to the racks. "you're no sydney sweeney but i'm sure it'll suffice." he stifles out, making you side eye him as you were just about to pull out another dress.

"and you're not hugh jackman with those chops." you say as you roll your eyes, pulling out another silk dress, except it was black. "now what about this one?" you state as if you didn't just plain insult him, the both of you knew it was just for viewer attention. "it looks like people will only be looking at the dress, saves the trouble of looking at your face." he snickers out, you look at him with a groan. suddenly seeing his lips mouth the words 'keep it. that one too.' it was so hilarious to see the switch, you just wished the rest could see, but of course, they couldn't. "you're truly such a gentleman, mommy must be so proud." you gruffly reply, making him shrug with a smug grin. "that she is." he measly replies.

"see what i put up with for clicks? she's so ungrateful." he adds on, rotating the camera back to his face with a sigh. you shake your head as you eye another dress, the royal blue was catching your eye. "and it seems miss socialite has found yet another dress that's gonna bankrupt her." schlatt chuckles out, panning the camera back over to you as you show off the dress with a smile. "isn't the color so nice?" you ask with the same cavity inducing smile, knowing it'd probably be clipped all over twitter. whatever, as long as it brought money with it. which is almost always did. you watched as schlatt sweetly grinned with a nod, hidden from the view of the lens. "how much is it again?" he says as he reaches for the dress to hang his fingers to the tag.

his eyes widening as he realized it was a $3000 dress, looking back up to you with a grin. he zoomed the lens into the tag, then slowly panned the camera back to his face. his eyes bugging out with his brows furrowed in a comical look, quickly dropping it for a more serious expression, "i spend that in an hour, anyways." he deadpans, making you scoff at him and turn yourself away from him. he looks up from the camera to see your irritated stature and belts out a low laughter, turning the camera right back to you. zooming right into your head, picking up how your head was shaking as you continued to browse the racks. "somebody's sour about that fact." schlatt teases, making you spin your head back to him with narrowed eyes. he was so unserious.

"what's this- event even about anyhow?" he honeyed, at least the question wasn't half bad. you leaned against the rack, twirling the hanger as you thought of how to answer. "it's for this upcoming body-care line, very prestigious." you reply with a grin, feeling a bit prideful that you did get invited to something like that anyhow. "they just don't invite majorly successful people to advertise their products, got it." he pokes, making you nudge his shoulder with a groan. the comments from him were never ending; but so was a lot of other things. "what? you don't think i can be a good representative of smelly goods?" he snickers out, drooping his shoulders at you with a slight pout. "yeah, you totally could." your tone couldn't be any more sarcastic.

he softly pumped a fist in the air and panned the camera back to him, "that's what i thought." he stated, looking back to you with a knowing smile. the little look giving you a good idea of how his ego was far from being bruised. "now if she could go through with this faster- i can get my watch." he sighs out, shaking his head at you as you continued to scroll through the racks. "this is the kind of greed that they talk about in the bible." he adds on, earning a little chuckle from you. his switch off button was no where to be found.

"a lot of talk coming from you, y'know?" you breathily reply, the weight of the dresses getting to you as they restlessly laid on your arm. "i'm allowed to talk." he snapped back, he noticed how the weight of the dresses were getting you as you bobbed your arm up and down to try and balance it. "look, now she's getting all tired. see what internet notoriety does?" he jokes, turning the camera back to your state. "tell that to a mirror." you reply with a chuckle, making him nod. "oh i do, every damn day baby." his tone was unbelievably cocky. though, another part of you was asking; why were you really liking it? now what did that say about YOU?

the camera had already been recording for a good thirty minutes, he followed you around for a short bit more. getting all the funny banter that he would need for the video, he already knew they would eat it up. it was you after all, you were basically an infinite money glitch. yeah, he was mean as shit to you on camera. he just didn't want people to interfere with your relationship, especially when the cameras were gone. he knew if his viewers, particularly his male viewers, knew he bagged such a beautiful girl. he'd never hear the rest of it on twitter, so it seemed it was the smarter decision. plus, what man likes to share? especially not him.

he stowed away his camera with a smile, immediately gripping his hand around your waist as the two of you reached the check-out line. "you're out of your mind if you think you're wearing any of those to that promo event." he whispered into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. you had a good five dresses in your arms, all together probably the amount that most people pay for a down payment on a bentley. "the black one's my favorite though." you whine out quietly, looking up into his eyes with a smile. "why do you think i don't want you wearing it out then?" he replies, his hands wandering up your back slowly. "just wear the blue one, cmon baby." he pleads. making you sigh and oblige to his request.

you knew exactly why he didn't want you wearing the black one, based on how you saw it was sewn. it'd look damn near painted on your figure, the blue one on the other hand was a lot more 'leave it up to your imagination' sort of deal. the two of you eventually made it up to the cashier, placing your dresses down as he checked the quality and the tag. "find everything to your expectations today, miss?" the cashier says as he begins to scan everything, his eyes a bit narrowed as he noticed the amount that was racking up. you fiddled your hands together in front of you, nodding to the cashier with a soft grin. "everything is to par." you felt so pretentious saying that, but you deserved it in a way.

you watched as the cashier raised his eyebrows to your reply, smiling to himself as he continued to scan the tags. his eyes almost lighting all the way up as the price continued to raise. you saw how his eyes wandered back to you, eyeing how your blouse sat on you. maybe a little too hard too, with a smile plastered on his face as he did so. schlatt let out a deep exhale, knowing it was loud enough to be a signal for him to keep his eyes where he needed them. if he wanted to keep them, that is. the cashier smiled and stood up more straight to eye the total, "$10,034.67, miss." he stated, almost not believing the price. schlatt watched how he was eyeing you, he was one to give second chances but he just blew that on how he was insistent on looking at you like that.

he took a step closer to the counter and leaned down slightly, just to throw it in the little cashier's face that he had a good six inches on him. cocky as ever, maybe some parts of the 'persona' were real after all. your eyes followed to him, noticing how irritated schlatt was getting to be. you knew you had to do something to get out of this, and pronto. you nervously smiled at the cashier before shuffling your hands to your purse, you couldn't imagine he was actually being serious about paying for all of this. that'd just be ridiculous. you felt his hand gently but strictly wrap around your wrist to halt your motion to try and grab your wallet. making you shoot your head back to him, "don't embarrass me like that." he says barely above a whisper. "you know i got it." he adds on with a sigh, pulling his wallet to whip out a black card of all his cards.

he used that card any chance he got, just to be annoying that he did in fact make that much. you watched as he handed it over to the cashier like it was nothing, looking back to you with a soft grin. "what?" he says as if he had no idea why you were looking at him like he had three heads. "douche." you roll your eyes with a smile. he shakes his head and leans his head down to reach you better, "you haven't seen anything yet." he whispers into your ear, you could practically hear the smug grin in his tone. the cashier carefully put all the dresses into the boxes, then slid into the bags. handing over the bag with a smile, "see you next time." he snarkily goodbyes, giving him a soft nod about to open your mouth to save the possibility of embarrassment. "oh you will." schlatt slyly replies before turning with you to leave, making sure to not let go of you for even a second. slightly tilting his head to eye the creep of a cashier, lowering his hand to your behind and nodding. he looked back to you and kissed the top of your head. was it prideful? yeah. did he care? no.

schlatt's head reeled back into the couch's leather, eyes closed as he impatiently waited for your little fashion show. the one that you insisted wasn't going to take long, now having him sit for a good 20 minutes to himself. wasn't your fault though, you were just intensely afraid you would tarnish the dress by putting it on too quickly. okay, and basically gawking at yourself in the mirror for way too long. let a girl live. schlatt opened his eyes and peered them over to the coffee table that had his brand new longiene watch that was sitting in it's neat little box.

"oh, what the hell." he groaned out, leaning over and picking up the small box. smiling to himself as he took it out of the case, draping it around his wrist to snap on. did feel quite nice to have three thousand on his arm, a little ego boost if you will. he twisted it on his wrist, leaning back into the couch with a sigh. "you almost done in there, hon?" he yelled out, spreading his legs out as he fidgeted with the settings on his new watch. you patted down your dress, knowing it was probably best you just escape your little narcissistic moment. for now at least. you took one last look in the mirror, swooshing your hair on your shoulder so you could get one last peak on how nice the backless effect was.

"in there in a sec!" you yelled back from the bathroom, letting go of your hair and smiling to yourself as you opened up the door to walk down the hallway. hoping you were going to get the reaction you were hoping for from him, maybe then the money would seem worth it. he cocked his head to the side as he heard your footsteps, a grin growing on him as he saw the first impressions of the dress. you grazed your hand along your hip as you made your way in front of him. "lil spin for me?" he asked with a smile, leaning back into the couch and crossing his arms. you nodded and twirled yourself around slowly. he licked the roof of his mouth as he watched every movement, deeply stuck almost.

you crossed your hands together behind your back as you stood in front of him, the look on his face alone told you all you needed to know. "it's even backless!" you excitedly state, turning your back towards him to show it off better. "if you don't sit your ass down." schlatt says as he shakes his head, gesturing for you to come over with his finger. you raise an eyebrow and slowly walk over to him, leaning down and letting your palms rest on the leather. purposely not giving him what he wanted right away. looking right into his eyes and titling your head to his just a smidge closer. "i take it you like the dress?" you whisper out, his hands reaching up to your ribs. "do i like the dress, huh?" he mocks back at you with a grin, letting his hands roam around under your breast. his eyes failing him as he looked at how your hips looked poking out.

he leaned his head back and looked up and down at you without shame, almost trying to convey his pleading with his eyes. you leaned your knee onto the leather, cocking your head to the side as you continued to move yourself onto the couch. schlatt's mind reeling as he could see the silk tightening around your hips. "i've already got hypertension, are you trying to make it worse?" he gruffly stated, his hands wandering down right above your hips as he helped you settle on his lap. you roll your eyes as you lean your hands on the edge of the couch, right above his shoulders. "you're so dramatic." you snicker out, adjusting the edges of your dress that were riding up. that little notion not making him the happiest.

his hands went right to your thighs to trail up the fabric, his chest slowly puffing as more and more skin showed. "this is more like it." he muttered, bringing his hands up to your shoulders to toy with the straps as he looked at you. "you don't think?" he added, expecting you to be vocal. he knew exactly what he wanted you to say, which was to admit how needy he was getting you. he could see it by how you gently squirmed under his touch, stroking his ego a little further. you slowly nod and adjust your hips above him, "yes, this is better." you sigh out. which earns him a little chuckle, raising his hand up to cup your chin. "there's the money." he practically seethes out, racing his free hand to your breasts to give them a firm squeeze. it was pretty hard not to.

his hand reaches up so he can gently tug down at the offensive fabric covering you, you arch your back a little to give him a better view. "you trying to say thank you?" he asks, tracing his finger along the silky straps. you softly hum and nudge your shoulders with a smile. "point taken." he adds, pulling down the straps and dropping his hand from your chin to fully engorge his hands to your breasts as the delicate fabric fell onto your stomach. "and no bra? you're just trying to get in trouble." he seethes out, involuntarily bucking his hips up as he looked up into your eyes. watching how the friction was affecting you.

he reaches his hand up to the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss, gently groaning as your lips meet. his other hand still grabbing a selfish amount of your breast into it. you grind in with his hips, making him deeply exhale and drop his hand to your ass to give a sharp slap. you knew exactly what he wanted, and you knew exactly how you were going to do it. he gently pulled back from your lips after a moment, looking up at you. "i'm kinda exhausted from today, baby." he states, letting his hand grip along your ass again. that didn't mean he didn't want to do it, just meant he wanted you to do all the work. perhaps as a thank you.

you softly nod and lean down to your knees, feeling his hands leave you as you felt your knees hit the hard wood. you could see his smile above you as you began fiddling with his belt, his jeans practically making a tent. unbuckling the belt and pulling it off slowly, knowing damn well he wasn't in the mood for anything that slow. it was just fun to be a bit of a tease sometimes. he trailed his hand to the top of your scalp, ruffling your hair gently as he looked down at you. "cmon baby." his voice cooed, you sigh and unbutton his jeans. letting the zipper come undone as you pulled down at them. being met with a rather aggressive hard on from him.

you looked up to him, his fingertips running through your hair as he smiled down at you. then dropping his hand down the side of your face, shaking his head as he ran a thumb along your bottom lip. "so pretty." he whispered, letting his hand drop to your chin as your hands fiddled with his boxers. his anticipation only growing further, but he wasn't satisfied just yet. he fluttered his eyes shut as he felt your mouth wrap around him, his hand shooting right back to your hair to grab a fistful. you paced yourself as you listened to his grunts coming from his stubbornly closed lips. he wanted so badly to just slam your head down, but right now; it felt way too good to mess anything up. he could afford the patience.

he kept his grip on your hair, his mouth gaping open as he looked down to the saliva mess you were creating from your tongue. he wasn't usually the biggest fan of messy sex, but today would just have to be an exception. bucking his hips slightly, causing you to accidentally slam your mouth around his base. even the gagging sound beginning to excite him a little too much. he liked the sound of struggle, knowing it was hard to keep up. he leaned his head into the leather and looked down to see your eyes glaring at him, even the gloss over your eyes made him want to bite back. "keep it up with your mouth and i'll give you what your hips are begging for." he choked out, his stomach twitching from underneath his shirt. he knew was cusping at the edge.

you felt your body warm up at his words, only making you give him a real show with your mouth. his grunts becoming incredibly obvious now, he wanted the real thing. he let you pump him for a few more moments before pulling your hair to unlatch your lips from him. watching as the saliva slowly dripped from your gaping mouth, snickering to himself. "uh-uh, i want you up here baby." he breathily stated, releasing your hair from his fist. he watched as you crawled back onto his lap with a shit eating grin. "hike it up for me." he added on, trailing his hands on your thighs as you curled up the fabric around your hips. he looked down to your underwear and shook his head, "off." he demanded, making you quickly pull of the couch for a moment to toss them off of you. quickly plopping back onto his lap, his eyes zoned on the new sight.

his fingers quickly moved under you to rub along your clit, smiling to himself as it immediately made an effect on you. "you like me spending all that money on you?" he asked, continuing his pace. you shakily nod, only able to respond in needy whimpers. "come on, answer me baby. or i'll have to stop rubbing on you like this." he snickered out, knowing he was going get the exact answer he wanted. "y-yes!" you choke out, bucking your hips with the movement of his fingers. "and you just love paying back, don't you?" he sighs out, looking down to his fingers. your hands grip along the edge of the couch, almost about to fall back. "you just get whatever you want, huh?" he adds on, biting down on his tongue as he fastened his pace along you.

his kept his eyes down, slowly trailing his fingers from your clit to your slit with a grin. "you want this, don't you baby?" he groaned out as he teased the tip of his finger on your slit. you looked at him and leaned forward, almost trying to push it inside yourself. "mm-mm, don't get shy now- if you don't say what you want, i can't give it to you baby. tell me." he seethed out, shaking his head softly at your impatience. "please- give it to me." you whimper out, progressively just getting more and more needy. with that, and a click of his tongue, he shoved one finger inside you. your eyes shutting as it reached fully inside. "already two?" you groan out, earning him a little chuckle. "it's just one for now, baby." your hips immediately pressing down into his legs as he curled his finger. it really was unbelievable just how nice the one felt.

he watched as your head flailed back to his motions, his free hand reaching up your chest. letting his fingers grip along your neck gently, making you fix your head back down. "show me that you want more, baby. i know a sweet- sweet whore like you can." he sneered out, letting his grip tighten along your throat slightly. your noises only growing more desperate as he curled his fingers right where it needed to be, your hips switching along him. he watched how your hips moved with ease, knowing how good it feel right on his dick; but he could be patient. this was more than worth it. "god- you fucking slut." he seethed out, popping another finger in as he smoothed out his pacing. "you deserved another one for that." he added on, pumping his fingers in and out.

you lean down and press your palm into his chest to stabilize yourself, huffing for air as he continued. he snickered to himself as he could see how quickly you were just giving in, bringing his free hand to cup your face as he kept his finger's pacing. "it's a miracle you can take my cock when you act like this with my damn fingers." he muttered, keeping his grip tight on your face. your eyes fluttering open and shut as he kept on, unsure on how much longer he could go with this before you would completely unravel. "got you in the palm of my hand, don't i?" he adds on, swallowing deeply and waiting for you to do anything but whine out. your hips begin to whine on his fingers, making him look down at the mess you were creating with yourself. "fucking yourself back with my fingers? show me how you really feel, hm?" he grunted out, smiling as he noticed how close you were to coming right on him.

slowly nodding with a grin as he noticed the immense relief that washed on your face, feeling your hips slowly come to a stop. he groaned and pulled out his fingers of you, settling both his hands now on your hips as he raised your body up. "my turn, yeah? only fair right?" he seethed out, your body was already so exhausted. you knew it'd be worth it though, adjusting the fabric of the dress before settling yourself on his dick. schlatt's hands gripping tightly into your hips as you pushed all the way down, a bit surprised you did it so quickly. no questions. just how he wanted you. you kept your hand on his chest as you bounced yourself, his eyes transfixed on how your breasts were bouncing with you. a part of him wanting to just completely take over.

he slapped his hand along your back, causing you to fall right where he wanted you. running his fingertips into your back as he latched his lips onto your breast, lapping his tongue the best he could with your rapid bouncing. his eyes closed as he focused on sucking down on you, enjoying every last moment. roaming his hand along your back as he pulled you in close, smashing every inch of your flesh against his face. his other hand giving a sharp slap on your ass as you were reeling him in more and more. choking out a yell, only encouraging you to keep your vigorous pacing on his cock. your arms wrapping along his shoulders as you wailed out, schlatt's body stiffening as he felt your insides tighten around him. unable to control himself, his lips letting go of your breasts. his head falling to the back of the couch, all he could do was look at you and pant. it couldn't be more perfect.

you were so drowned in the pleasure, you didn't even realize how intense you were going. oh but he knew, letting out a low groan as you continued. his eyes failing to keep open, but he needed them open so he could see how good your tits looked while you bounced so desperately. almost like your life depended on it. his hand trailed up your sides, the dress had basically became a hip cover at this point. the only thing you could hear from him was a few 'fucks' and 'shit's underneath his breath, watching him beneath you as he struggled to keep himself together. "god- don't let me stop you now." he groaned out, bucking his hips to meet with yours as your pacing began to lessen. looking up into your eyes as he noticed how tired and shaky your legs were getting.

finally having enough, just wanting to rummage every bit inside of you. grabbing onto your sides and bucking his hips up and down, a pace you couldn't do if you tried. he smiled as he watched your lips fall agape, you really were just letting go. just for him. he'd be lying if he said that's not what he wanted. "come on. let go." he stifles out through his grunts, giving you another rash slap to the ass. "this is exactly what you wanted, hm?" he adds, looking up to you and expecting an immediate answer. he noticed the side of your ass reddening, only exciting him further to do it again. "answer me." he grunts out, practically branding your ass with his palm. you yelp out and grip onto the edge of the couch to not complete fall over, "g-god yes!" you shakily whimper out, huffing in and out.

he flails his head back and continues to mindlessly pump into you, almost choking on his breath as he climaxes. slowing down his pacing as he lets it fill inside, rubbing his hands around the raised up skin on your hip. the heat radiating off his palms. "you wanna show me the other dresses?" he snickers out, trying to catch up with his breaths. running a hand through his hair with a smile, you groan and pull yourself off of him. almost stumbling on your own movements, "if that's what you want." you huff out, watching as he began to pull up his boxers. "what? scared of round two?" he stifles out, sitting up more upright as he watched you fix yourself back up. you roll your eyes with a grin as you pull up the straps of the dress, his grin growing as he's reminded just how good you look.

you peel up the fabric up to cover up your breasts, wincing as you try to move your hips. the silk pairing perfectly with your dampened skin, and he was well aware of how beautiful it looked. "yeah. i'm taking you back to that store soon." he mutters, eyeing you up and down. "you've made it clear it's worth it."

author's note : i think this was the most excited i've gotten off a one shot idea, maybe Ever. perhaps it's because it's based on one of my favorite CAKE song, but none the less @thecourtjester-e is a mastermind and i appreciate the patience and creativity that was helped put into this. so PLEASE check them out !! 💌 their new series is one of my personal favs and i'm sure it will be yours too :,))

#jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt x y/n #schlatt x y/n #fanfic #rpf #jschlatt smut

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myxomato515 · 5 months ago

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THATS FUCKIBG AWESOME!!!!! LISTEN TO FASHION NUGGET IF YOU HAVENT ALREADY SOME OF THAT IS FIRE

woag

#the distance and friend is a four letter word and italian leather sofa are some faves #and nugget is book’s canon fave song :3 #hope you enjoy!!!#physical media best media

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naomijoestar · 5 months ago

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⋆.ೃ JJBA HEADCANONS ࿔*:･

Masterlist here <3

genre: headcanons

warnings: slight nsfw for mista

characters: bucci gang

notes: i have never done any headcanon posts but i would like to share these with you guys! even tho part 5 isnt my favorite part in the series, its the part i enjoy writing for the most because bucci gang = confort gang <33

Bucci gang headcanons

(this isn’t checked for any spelling mistakes because i got too tired so i’m sorry if there’s any!)

Bruno Bucciarati

- Loves writing poetry, especially about people he knows and his experiences in life; probably keeps his poems in an out-dated leather notebook inside a locked drawer (i also imagine that he hates to share them with anyone because he sees it as something personal, unless it’s with someone he’s been in a relationship with long term)

- Obviously, a comfort cook. He loves feeding the gang home cooked meals after missions

- LOVES THE RAIN! There’s just something about the rain that soothes him, he also really loves the smell outside after a very heavy rain pour

- He often acts like a protective parent to the rest of the gang, and I strongly believe that he has a soft spot for narancia

- I can honestly see bruno sleeping while sitting up very often, like in chairs and sofas. It’s a habit from years of always being on guard

Leone Abbacchio

- A late night drinker, he enjoys sitting by himself with a glass of wine; he is either zoned off or thinking about the past

- He has an EXTENSIVE collection of vinyl records. Prefers listening to older, slower music because it helps him relax

- This man 100% has a secret soft spot for animals and it’s just so cute, stops on the street to pet and feed stray dogs and cats

- Loves italian pastries, if bruno ever buys a tray of pastries he’ll sneak off at night and eat it all, the gang will probably not suspect a thing and blame it on narancia 😭

- Cold shower enjoyer, also likes showering in the morning rather than the afternoon

Giorno Giovanna

- Plant whisperer, has a habit of talking to plants especially when he’s feeling contemplative

- Giorno keeps his surroundings extremely neat, his room is always spotless and he has a specific system for organizing his clothes, accessories etc

- Obviously has a morning routine, likes to be a pretty princess and has very specific products he uses on his skin, also probably brushes his hair 100 times in the morning to keep it “soft and shiny”

- Enjoys silence more than loud spaces, he doesn’t necessarily hate loudness as long as it’s not too much, but he feels way more comfortable with quiet

Guido Mista

- 100% has a happy trail. I. Will. Forever. Live. By. This. There is not a single thing i hate about mistas character design EXCEPT for the fact araki didn’t give him a happy trail. Like this man is definitely very hairy and prefers keeping a bush

- He is superstitious to the core. He never steps on cracks, walks under ladders, and hates when the clock hits 4:44

- A spaghetti specialist, he takes his pasta very seriously, and even tho he doesn’t know how to cook one bit he will always judge a pasta plate

- Actually doesn’t stink that much, but his body odor is something else after missions (bc of the fact i imagine him to be hairy), but when he’s not on a mission he js smells like citrus and a hint of cigarettes

- Contrary to popular belief, i don’t think mista enjoys gun-play🤔 he sees the gun as something to torture and kill his enemies with, so he would rather not imagine his s/o being in a situation like that

Pannacotta Fugo

- Used to love piano when he was a kid, but when he got older he started to resent it because he felt as if it was forced onto him by his parents, a very good pianist but doesn’t really play

- Habitual Knuckle-cracker, unconsciously cracks his knuckles when he’s irritated or thinking too hard

- Fugo takes pride in his suits and is always dressed to impress, can’t stand the idea of his suits being wrinkled and constantly checks his reflection

- Idk why but i can imagine him playing chess mentally against himself in his spare time

- He’s also fluent in several languages and likes to indirectly flex about it, sometimes switches languages in the middle of a sentence and acts like it was an accident but he actually just wants to flex the fact that he’s multilingual

Narancia Ghirga

- LOVESSS 90’s hiphop and 90’s rap, even tho he doesn’t really understand what they’re saying he is obsessed with the flow and the beat, and also really loves the album covers and how cool they look (i wrote this because 90’s hiphop is my favorite genre of music and i can 100% see it being narancias’ too)(also he prefers biggie over tupac)

- Surprisingly good at video games like arcade shooters, easily spends hours playing and if a game contains a daily log-in streak type of thing, he takes it very seriously

- Snores sooooo louddddddd and moves alot in his sleep, if you’re sleeping next him you WILL be getting kicked, also scratches you with his toenails and cold feet to piss you off

- Has a stash of snacks hidden away for himself and hates sharing, sometimes the chocolates get melted and the candies get stuck together bc of how tightly stashed away they are but he doesn’t care and eats them anyways

- Doodles constantly, on anything, napkins, tables, hands you name it, if he has a pen in his hand he will doodle simple cute drawings

- His phone wallpaper is one of kawaii nutella photo things LMAO😭 idk if you guys know what i’m talking about but he thinks they’re so cute because of their big eyes

That was it! I wanted to write more for narancia because i love him and he is my literal son but then this would be too long ;( If you liked this make sure to check out the scenarios i write and don’t be shy to request ones that you’d like me to write in the future <3

#jjba headcanons #jjba #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojos bizarre adventure #jjba part 5 #vento aureo #golden wind #bucci gang #bucci gang headcanons #passione #passione headcanons #bruno bucciarati #leone abbacchio #giorno giovanna #guido mista #narancia ghirga #pannacotta fugo

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suguruwithabow · 6 months ago

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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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