i’m out of my head when you’re not around
summary: shiv has a lot of secrets. you happen to be one of them
a commission for @cherrysweetdevine
pairing: shiv roy x reader
words: 2366
content warnings: mentions of whorephobia (reader is a stripper), survival sex work, vaginal fingering, car sex, angst, they love each other but they Can’t Be Together, fingers in mouth, orgasm control/denial, D/s dynamics, “mommy” pet name used
Shiv is not a woman who likes to have weaknesses. She covers her tracks wherever she makes them. She has shell companies for her shell companies, and then shell companies for those, too. She’s got lawyers heartless and well-paid enough to defend her. She’s got corporate spies, and government ties, and both fear her.
Somehow, though, you’ve weaseled your way into a certain spot in her chest that pangs when she’s far away from you for too long. It’s not as though she can text, email, or call—all of which are discoverable in the event of an unfortunate legal situation. No, she has to go in person, has to speak in a subtle code, and hope you understand. She has to leave her phone in the car, contacting her driver with a different burner each time. She’s careful, practiced, and precise.
Especially when she sneaks out to see you during work hours. She’d deny it if anyone asked—not that they were dumb enough to think they could ask her such a question. What Shiv does off company property is no one’s business but her own, and she intends to keep it that way.
Entering the facility, she refuses a coat check (she knows from you the person running it tonight has sticky fingers, and a penchant for mixing up tags) and slides into one of the velvet-lined semi-circle couches in the darkest corner of the club. It’s far from the stage, the usual clientele leaving the seat vacant for that reason. Not many people are here—probably because she decided to come after the dinner rush. A smart move, considering how much she hates being overcrowded. It’s stifling, to be around many people—especially when all of those people are old, sweaty men.
She’s not here to throw cash, though, she’s here to see you.
And you, she notices, have just stepped onto the floor. Not only that, but you’re wearing the dress she bought you recently.
The white dress, dripping in hand-beaded, translucent crystal fringe, hugs your figure. The crystals move as you do, dancing as if they’re the ones on stage. Each one shines in the light, licking at your skin like flames onto wood. You don’t let it subsume you, though. No one else could wear that dress like you are right now. No one has the presence powerful enough to rival the crystals, or the V-shaped hem, or the deep neckline. The shoes, the ones she also bought you, are the same white as the dress. The toe strap has just enough crystals to call attention to them were you to be upside down, the ankle strap and thick heel bare.
The most important facet of your attire, though, is that Shiv had it custom-made for you and had it delivered to your apartment on the Upper West Side. She saw it on a model during fashion week, touting the gaudy, too-short dress with an atrocious pair of heels and a walk that reminded her of tripod dog that just woke up from a deep nap.
Shiv saw something though, behind the horrid styling and wretched model. She saw a chance, which she immediately took to prove that she hadn’t forgotten about you despite months of no contact.
If Shiv were anyone else, she would’ve grabbed you already—gave you a giant diamond ring and an outrageously expensive wedding and swept you to some cottage in the countryside where she’d make love to you as if she was trying to produce an heir.
But she’s herself, and you’re you, and so she finds herself here: in this high-end strip club-slash-sex dungeon, watching you from afar like a hunter in the brush. At least for them, though, they have the pleasure of taking their kills home.
No, she just saw a five-figure price tag and filled out the check. What can she say, she likes things that are expensive. She anything as long as it has a big enough price tag. The powerbroker inherited an unfortunate number of traits from Logan—her hairline, how she likes her coffee in the morning, the way she expresses love in the same way the average general speaks to their soldiers. This, though, seems to get her into the most trouble. Particularly, the most trouble with you.
One of the other girls offers her a menu as she sits down, one she turns down. She knows what she wants, ordering a bottle for herself and a single cocktail for you.
It’s not long before you find her, sitting to her right. Right after, the sever brings her order and leaves without saying anything else. She’s seen you and her together before, she knows she won’t be needed until it’s time to pay the tab.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you say, no hint of irony in your voice. Shiv likes that about you, how dry you are. No lube before the fucking, just how Shiv likes it.
She takes a long drink from her glass, savoring the rich taste for a moment before speaking. “I could say the same to you as well.”
“Still with your husband?” you ask, sipping on the virgin sex on the beach. Shiv could convince you to do quite a lot—but you’d never drink on the job, and you don’t intend to start now. Even for the beautiful woman with a bottomless wallet and a toy collection that would put the pro-dominatrixes who work in the club to shame, you’ve got to keep a clear head and not break house rules. It’s kept you alive this long, and you’re not one for breaking tradition.
Shiv respects that, popping the cork and pouring herself a glass of 2007 Sassicaia. She’s the only woman you had ever met who drinks red wine at a strip club, but you admire her commitment to avoiding champagne and vodka.
“By all legal accounts,” is all Shiv says in return. A divorce is costly, even with the prenup, and could make her appearance to shareholders worse. She’s tough, and a good CEO, but the bastards are always looking for a way to undermine her. Still, she and Tom haven’t slept in the same bed in years, now, their legal addresses are the same only in case someone were to ask. They haven’t spoken to each other about anything except business in even longer, their conversations about times when they need to be seen together going through their assistants.
Shiv Roy maintains a steeled image, and she can’t give that up for anyone—even you.
You know it, too; your profession acts as a piece of bulletproof glass, separating you for eternity.
This job may not have been your first choice. In fact, it was a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from getting evicted. Your mom may not know what you do, your career a shameful red A on your personhood. You lie to anyone who asks, dodging questions from landlords and lenders and your financial advisor.
But it had paid for your niece to go to nursing school. It had kept your sister out of collections when she had that cancer scare. It kept a roof over both of their heads when both of them lost their jobs. It keeps you out of debt and your apartment paid off. You don’t have a lifeboat, you are a lifeboat.
Shiv can’t understand that. The silver spoon hidden artfully under her tongue still shines when the dim lights of the house floor hit it just right. You can’t be too mad at her, though. The valley it creates between you keeps you from getting too close, from falling into her clutches. She’s a customer, and, you, providing a service. A very expensive service. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. It keeps you both in your respective rigid categories, the borders shocking you every time you attempt to navigate past them.
“Meet me outside?” she asks, raking her eyes up and down your form. You shake just a bit as you break from your own line of thought, remembering the rest of the world exists. “I know your shift’s over soon.”
Shiv’s right. Even if she wasn’t, it’s not like you’d make more money showing your lace thong to the grandpas currently whistling at your coworker.
You nod, not giving her the satisfaction of a verbal reply. She just smiles, though, knowing she’s won and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s a certain smugness that comes from succeeding in battle, and Shiv will take it in any form she can. At least silence saves your dignity.
“One more thing,” she leans over to whisper, her lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Keep the dress on.”
Back in the dressing room, you put on the biggest coat you can find, mindful of handsy customers’ bad habits regarding dancers out in the unprotected open. See a pretty woman in a short dress, and know she’s a dancer? It’s a concoction that ends in either a police report or a trip to the morgue, and you don’t have time for either. The mink and chinchilla fur blend keeps the February New York air from biting too deep into your skin, and the general public from seeing you dressed to the nines on a Tuesday night.
Confident in your half-hearted disguise as a normal civilian, you somehow find the courage to leave.
The dancers all have a special exit, patrolled by two security guards who are big as houses. They’re Russian, covered in tattoos, and wear earpieces you’ve never seen them talk into. They have, however, made sure no one who isn’t a dancer gets into the dressing rooms and kept every creepy customer from harassing leaving girls. In your book, that’s all you need to know that they’ll keep you safe.
You can feel their eyes following you as you step into Shiv’s car, the driver opening the door for you before walking back to his place in the front. Shiv’s already there, working on a tablet you’re sure is on airplane mode. She doesn’t look up to greet you until the car has already begun driving, and even then all she does is press a button on the central console.
You watch as the soundproof partition rolls up, the driver’s blank face staring straight ahead as you watch him disappear behind the black divider. Only then does Shiv turn to you, leaning forward to press your foreheads together.
Her perfectly manicured nails—painted in a deep purple that contrasts her pale skin—trace up your leg. “I’ve missed you, you know.”
In the safety of the car, you let your guard down. Your thighs open slowly, carefully, making room for her between them. But she doesn’t go that far, instead tracing up your navel before cradling your cheek. “And I know you’ve missed me, too.”
All you can do is flick your eyes between looking at her hand, and looking into her eyes.
“C’mon, open up, darling,” she coos, her index and middle finger rubbing over your plump bottom lip. Your lipstick, a matte nude meant to keep all the attention on your dress, doesn’t come off on her fingers just yet. For that, you’re grateful.
You hesitate for a moment, looking from her soft hands to her relaxed face. Shiv pouts, her calm demeanor giving way to a faux-niceness that has your center aching.
“Baby, don’t be like this,” she tuts, moving her hand so her thumb ever-so-subtly pulls your lips apart. “Let Mommy have some fun before we get home, won’t you?”
You nod ever so slightly, swallowing in a weak attempt to build your own courage back up. “Yes, Mommy. I’m sorry.”
She smiles as you open your mouth, welcoming the intrusion.
“Such a good girl for me,” she coos, her fingers rubbing circles onto your tongue before thrusting to the back of your throat. You can feel bits of drool fall down your chin between your thighs and pooling on the seat. It’s not the worst thing these seats have seen, at least not from you. And yet here, now, as Shiv balances her other hand behind you, as her wedding ring glints against the bright billboards of the city…
You gag around her fingers, the sudden drop in your ability to retrieve oxygen causing you to jerk.
“Shh pretty thing,” Shiv whispers, moving to rub at the tip of your tongue again. It gives you a chance to breathe, even as your jaw aches and your desperation grows. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
You can barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, your heart a racehorse in your chest. Your body slumps against the seats as you try to steady your breathing, but the last thread of your self-control snaps as you feel her tease at the thin fabric covering your weeping pussy. She doesn’t take them off, merely pushes them to the side.
“Fuck,” your voice is barely above a whisper, breathy and wonton. Her movements are confident and practiced as she gathers your wetness, circling it around your neglected clit. You buck into her hand, your hips moving on their own accord. No one else can touch you as she can, no one can elicit the same animalistic moans as her middle and index finger curling inside of you while her thumb rubs at your clit.
It’s good, it’s so fucking good, and all too soon you’re muffling your moans by biting into your hand as your other hand digs into her arm. Just a few more presses, just a few more twists until you-
Shiv laughs as she pulls away, watching as your face contorts and you cry out choked sobs.
“Nuh-uh, baby,” she smiles as you whine, kicking your feet and pleading quietly. “Gotta make sure you have a reason to come home with me.”
It’s only then that you realize the car has stopped, and Shiv is moving your dress down and coat to cover your body. You follow her, stumbling along as she leads you. Still, in your frenzied state, you know you’d trust her to lead you safely anywhere.