#AND MATCHING WALLPAPERS YES

[wombywoo]

Operations are currently underway on the Vince/Stuart electric bungalow experience 🕺🕺

here is a wee teaser:

Everything is wood!! and textiles!! and funky fresh!!!

I've been spending an absuuuuurd amount of time on this but rest assured--I am having a blast 😌

[inseparabiles]

it's so pretty. btw

[thataintmymerlot]

getaway car // part .2

taylor swift

[ravenwraithe]

ive nothing to say for myself

[imfromsixam]

Baby Mermaid and The Sailor Boy (CC Pack for The Sims 4)

Baby Mermaid & The Sailor Boy is a toddler bedroom set that’s been in my mind (and in my sketchbook) for quite some time now. I had originally planned to release it earlier, but life got in the way and I had to put it on hold for a while. Still, the idea never really left me, especially with so many of you in the community asking for an under-the-sea or mermaid-inspired CC pack. 🧜‍♀️

I wanted it to feel cute and diverse, so I imagined a toddler version of Ariel and Prince Eric, and that’s how this collection came to life.

Ariel’s bedroom is focused on her life under the sea, with a beautiful toddler bed inspired by ocean shapes, a cute night light shaped like a shell with a glowing pearl, a coral-style bookcase, friendly undersea toys, and even an adorable octopus plushie.

Little Prince Eric has his own mini sailboat bed, a matching nightstand and dresser, a treasure chest toy box, and the sweetest seagull plush friend. And yes, the lighthouse bookcase doubles as a floor lamp!

A huge thanks to my buddy Billy (also known as @SimScraper2), who helped me sketch some of the objects, thanks to him, they turned out extra adorable! 🩵 If you haven’t seen Billy’s art yet, you’re missing out. Go follow and check it out!

I really hope you enjoy decorating your little Sims’ rooms with this dreamy, ocean-inspired set.

Can’t wait to see what you create!

About this CC Pack

This CC pack includes 29 items

Activities: Blocs toy (marine animals)

Build: 2 undersea mural wallpapers, 1 marine with wood wallpaper

Comfort: Toddler bed (shell design), Toddler bed (boat design), Mini arm chair

Decorative: Small rug with marine designs, 2 sets of books, Decals for walls and floors with marine designs, Plush toy (Octopus), Plush toy (Seagull), Medium rug, Cushion (Shell shape), Books

Lighting: Shell night table lamp, Lighthouse floor lamp (bookcase)

Storage: Coral shape bookcase, Dresser (boat chest design) small and extra large, Dresser (coral design), Toy box (chest design)

Surfaces: Night stand (octopus design), Night stand (boat chest design)

GET EARLY ACCESS HERE

[tqlepatia]

⋮ ⌗┆FA$$HION KILLA .ᐟ ( PART I )

— OLDER ! RICH ! SEVIKA × MODEL ! READER ( HCS ) —

౨ৎ - 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒': " was walking back home and started playing fashion killa , one of my fav songs .ᐟ.ᐟ , so why don't I put my fav things togheter ? , Sevika + rap . Here it is , should I make a part two , more domestic life ? "

𖹭 - Sevika meet you at a runaway after party, She wasn't supposed to be there, she hated those kinds of events but she came to fund a new sponsor and left with you instead.

𖹭 - You thought she was security at first... until you noticed the vintage gold Rolex, the custom cigar case, and the tailored suit.

𖹭 - You kissed her in the back garden. Lipstick on her jaw, smoke curling from her cigar, and didn't stop thinking about it for a week, that leading for a relationship barely 1 month after

𖹭 - Her credit card has no limit. But she only uses it to buy things she knows you'll forget you said you wanted, you smile like a child who just got a candy when she come home with a fur coat you watched on your phone last week and complimented it.

𖹭 - She has 2 Polaroids of you in her wallet, one of you almost glowing in the sun in the pool, smiling at her, and another of your naked after a long fuck, your hair spread on the sheets, body covered with sweat and... sticky substances, eyes shut, you dont know about the second picture.

𖹭 - Your perfume is custom. She commissioned it in Paris. The bottle's engraved with your initials and a date, her first night with you. You wear it when you want her undone.

𖹭 - She never talks to her stylists. Only yours. And only if they show her options for matching sets.

𖹭 - The first time you got cancelled after throwing a drink at the paparazzi, she brought the media not to talk about that and make people forget.

𖹭 - When you tell her you feeling with zero privacy, She start paying off paparazzi just so you can have one damn lunch in peace.

𖹭 - Her driver knows to bring you roses every Friday. Different color each week, per her order.

𖹭 - She keeps your favorite perfume in her car, your scent trailing even when you're not there.

𖹭 - Her password is your anniversary, and her wallpaper is your back in arch on the bed, naked.

𖹭 - You once fell asleep in her lap after a long show where you changed clothes at least 24 times, She didn't move for at least two hours.

𖹭 - She can't use Instagram for shit. Don’t have a profile picture or a bio, and barely post anything, and when she does, it's probably a new magazine you were. But she follows at least 10 fan pages of you.

𖹭 - She asked if you wanted kids. You said yes. She hasn't stopped looking at baby clothes since.

𖹭 - She buys you gowns you'll never wear. "For our daughter to inherit one day."

𖹭 - Your wedding? Private. Dare I say the most private of all, people just discovered when you started walking arround with a big ass ring in you finger.

𖹭 - till today, you always melt by her touch, just like the first night you both met, the night that both of your souls felt complete.

𖹭 - Since your marriage, she has always been clear that, wants to retire with you in one of her big and glamorous houses in italy

— NSFW

𖹭 - She wakes you up with her mouth. Tongue lazy between your thighs, arms wrapped under your legs. You're dazed, half-asleep, hips already rolling up. She murmurs "Good morning, baby," into your skin, like it's the most natural way to start the day.

𖹭 - She keeps a private video of you tied up, begging, overstimulated and broken from too many orgasms.

𖹭 - Morning sex with espresso breath and tangled sheets is her favorite ritual.

𖹭 - She has a breeding kink, bad. It hits her hardest after high-fashion shoots where your waist looks extra small in gowns. She'll bend you over the bed, push in deep and growl, "Should fuck a baby into you, fill this perfect little body up until it's mine forever."

𖹭 - She's fucked you on the balcony of her penthouse with people below. "Let them hear you. Let them know who fucks you like this."

𖹭 - She fucked you with her strap while holding your vibrator on your clit. Didn't let you come until you called her "Mommy" with tears in your eyes

𖹭 - She's obsessed with your womb. Presses her palm over your belly, fucks deep until she feels the bulge. "This is mine too."

𖹭 - She almost cum in her pants when you degrade yourself.

𖹭 - She fucked you so hard the bed broke. Laughed after. "Guess we need sturdier furniture for this pussy, right baby, mhm?."

𖹭 - " shhh i know baby, momma got you so fucked, dont i? Look at you... m~mhm.. fuck! u can barely speak "

𖹭 - She's sent you videos of her stroking her strap slowly. Caption being "Waiting for you."

𖹭 - She fucks you like she hates you, holds you like she'd die without you

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever.

[divadepreshawn]

𝒀𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂'𝒂𝒎

Summary: Aaron Hotchner is not a man of many words — he prefers silence, gesture, subtle care. You have learned to listen. Warning: I don't think this can even be considered a story in itself. It's more about my kink for tough men who obey their wives in silence. Delusions WC: 1 093

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

You knew that Aaron Hotchner was not an easy man.

He was – for lack of a more delicate term – emotionally constipated. And the chronic stress of his job made it worse. He is a person who values ​​justice a lot, and yes, he manages to apply it at work. But sometimes willpower alone is not enough, luck is not always on your side – even if he doesn't say it out loud, you know it affects him.

Aaron carried all of this in silence – never showing how tired he was, never asking for help.

He is extremely protective, to an almost suffocating degree. Not only of you and Jack, but of the team as well – which means he takes on more responsibilities than any healthy human being should try to handle.

Even so – and perhaps precisely because of this – he is a great husband.

Aaron Hotchner is the most romantic person you know.

Of course, if you tried to verbalize this to him, Aaron would give a half-smile, mumbling in mockery.

“Tzz, you’re starting to get sleep deprived. Let’s go to sleep, honey.”

But you could see it. You knew.

He didn’t say “I love you” often, or make big public declarations—it wasn’t necessary. You learned to watch the way he loved.

He would show up with a bouquet of tulips every month on the twentieth (the date you got married)— a silent ritual he followed to the letter, whether you were traveling to a case or at home. If a case was particularly difficult for you, he would sit next to you on the jet in silence, intertwine your fingers with his, and with his free hand, place a cup of tea and your favorite candy in front of you.

You mentioned once — just once — that your lower back hurt during your period. It was a casual comment, something so small that you didn’t even remember why it was important to the conversation. But he kept it in mind. In the months that followed, he would pay attention to every phase of your cycle. Every tiny expression on your face—from a slight frown when you bent down to pick up something that had fallen on the floor — didn’t go unnoticed.

Aaron would come to you at the end of the day, placing a quick kiss on your lips and a folded note in your hand.

a voucher for a massage.

And when you were feeling especially needy — which happened more often than you’d like to admit out loud — he’d notice before you could even open your mouth. Aaron would drag you to sit on his lap while he finished his reports.

Even if it was hard to write. Even if his leg went numb. He let you, because it was important to you. And because he loved you.

But there was one thing, one specific gesture, so simple, that melted you like jelly.

He didn’t make any decisions without asking your opinion first.

– After the wedding, you agreed to stay in his apartment instead of buying a house. The apartment was well located, practical, and safe. Besides, with the routine at BAU, it would be difficult to look for a house, deal with the renovation, and move. It was a lot of unnecessary stress.

The only problem is that Aaron is a very practical person, and takes the meaning of the word functional very seriously – things just needed to fulfill their purpose. A couch was a couch. And a curtain was just a piece of cloth that needed to block the sun's rays from coming in.

Worrying about the colors of the walls, matching the furniture in the house? No, that wasn't important to him.

But it was important to you, and that was the first thing you noticed. The wooden furniture in different tones, the three wallpapers in different colors and patterns. Not to mention the biggest affront to good taste, that damn striped curtain.

The decoration of the apartment was, honestly, terrible. But in his defense, Aaron was willing to make the place comfortable for you. In other words, he was so committed to transforming the apartment that he even mentioned changing the tiles in the bathroom if you wanted.

“You can decorate it however you want,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest, an amused smile on his lips when he noticed your expression of disgust.

“You promise?” , you asked, still staring at the couch as if it were a personal enemy.

“Of course, honey” , he assured, “where do you want to start?”

“I need a metal can.”

Aaron frowned. “What? Why?”

“I’ll start by burning these curtains.”

– Aaron woke up thirty minutes earlier than you every day. It was a deal you made, you take care of breakfast and he gets Jack ready for school. It was the kind of simple but essential deal that made the routine lighter without weighing on either side.

You were still half asleep, sunk into the soft sheets, hugging Aaron's pillow to fill the void in the bed and smell him – a mix of soap and cologne.

“Love?”

“Hm..?” You murmured, your voice hoarse. Opening your eyes slightly, trying to make out the figure near the wardrobe.

Aaron had his back to you, only with the white towel wrapped around his waist, still with small drops of water sliding down his back. His hair was damp and disheveled. He was holding two hangers.

“Gray or navy blue?”

You blinked slowly, trying to understand why the koala from your dream was calling you and your love and asking you to choose between two colors. You snuggled deeper into the bed, burying your head in the pillow. “I think… Navy blue.”

Aaron smiled, seeing your drowsy state. He hung the hangers back in the wardrobe and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, before his lips brushed against your shoulders, leaving small kisses.

“Coffee in ten minutes?”

“Depends, if you want pancakes it’s ten minutes. Now if you want coffee in bed…” Before you can finish your sentence, he lightly bites your shoulder, making you let out a muffled laugh against the pillow.

“I can’t believe you’re flirting with me in your sleep,” he says, his tone full of disbelief – although he was clearly enjoying himself.

“Baby, I would learn necromancy to flirt with you after death,” you retort, turning your face slightly to face him.

Aaron lets out a snort of laughter. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, slapping your ass before standing up. “Come on, Mrs. Hotchner.”

“Call me that later,” you whine dramatically as you sink deeper into the sheets and mattress, “Now give me five more minutes, Mr. Koala.”

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[okwonyo]

⠀ LOVE BETWEEN ⠀⟡​ ⠀HUSBAND!JAKE

ii 𓈒 ❛❛⠀엔하이픈, ─────⠀제이크ㅤ ⠀❜❜ 5OO fluff non-idol au & skinship crying ࿁ ⠀ fem!rea.

지아 ⠀⦂ ⠀i saw this in a vision 💌

reblogs (≧ᗜ≦) &feedbacks ╱ click

husband!jake who has always dreamt of finding his person at a young age, of marrying as soon as he could and spending the rest of his life with his lover.

husband!jake who never dates anyone because he knew he would date to marry.

husband!jake who knew exactly it was you, when his gaze landed on you.

husband!jake who asked you out on a spring day. who proposed to you on the same day two years later.

⠀ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ﹙ᵕ ᵕ⠀look under the cut ! ♡

husband!jake who did everything in his power to make the day he says ‘yes’ to you be on the same day a year later.

husband!jake who cried when he saw you walking down the aisle in your beautiful dress.

husband!jake who, with a shaky voice and tears streaming down his face, vowed to forever cherish and take care of you. to be yours forever, no matter what happens.

husband!jake who likes to run his left hand over his torso to feel his ring roll around his finger.

husband!jake who likes to, whenever you are together, to play with your wedding ring as you talk to him— or anyone.

husband!jake who reminds you that you weren’t the ‘marrying type either’ when you refuse to do something with him. such as having ketchup and mustard matching halloween costumes.

husband!jake who already called you his wife way before he proposed to you. now that it is real, he can’t stop talking about ‘my—beautiful, gorgeous, amazing—wife’.

husband!jake who never misses any anniversary because that day is the one that matters the most to him.

husband!jake who, when a bit tipsy, keeps asking you if the guy that is married to you knows how to fight.

husband!jake who puts his left hand up, showing of his wedding ring proudly whenever someone asks him how he is doing.

“i’ll be the happiest as long as i wear this ring,” husband!jake assures with a grin.

husband!jake who was already very clingy before and that got ten times worse since the wedding day.

husband!jake who uses the excuse ‘we are married!’ to justify his—and yours—constant display of affection.

husband!jake who needs your presence for everything. even if it’s just to do his own thing. and you need him everywhere with you as well.

husband!jake who is very good with kids. which makes your heart feel warm everytime you see how he acts with them.

husband!jake who loves lazy mornings and pillow talks until dawn.

husband!jake who keeps your picture in his wallet and set a selfie of yours as his wallpaper just to stare at it whenever he misses you.

husband!jake who, one day, decided to set pictures of your wedding all over your house's hallway. but, only pictures of the bride and only one with the groom.

husband!jake who looks at these pictures from time to time as if he was in a museum. with his chin between his index finger and thumb and all.

husband!jake who watches your wedding day’s videos on the television at one in the morning when he can’t sleep and misses you, as always when you are asleep.

husband!jake who works hard to give you the life you deserve and to spoil you as much as he can.

husband!jake who dreamed about having a wife like you his entire life and still can’t believe you are his.

ㅤㅤ𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open

[warnersister]

Personal Space

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x reader

Summary: you love your personal space. Unfortunately, Bradley also loves your personal space.

Pt. 2

You never understood why Bradley stuck around. Since the academy you’d preferred to stick to yourself; get your head down and get the job done. Especially with a surname like Mitchell. You didn’t want your father and grandfather’s reputation to negatively proceed you, and by the time people had put two and two together as to whom loins you came from: you’d made your own reputation so Maverick never made much of a difference to it.

But still, having dinner in the mess you’d sat down, when someone came and thudded down next to you and began eating themselves. “I’m Bradley” he said when you finally looked up at him. You raised a brow “Bradshaw?” You ask and he nods: you recognise him from the photos your dad pinned up in your two’s hanger. You hum “and you are?” He asks “not important.” You reply, deciding you’d lost your appetite and stood to clear your plate “good talk!” Bradley said, but you were already walking away.

He’d next encountered you when you were running around the academy, early morning; before any naval training would take place. He hummed and decided it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt your jaunt with his presence. “Hey! Up so early?” He asks as he tries to match your pace from a standstill “could ask you the same.” You reply bluntly “well I wanted to get a run in before-” “well there’s your answer.” You reply, cutting him off. “You run really quick.” He says as you try to keep your pace increasing to shake him off “goodbye, Bradshaw.” You say, pulling your sunglasses over your eyes and taking off at a pace he couldn’t sustain. He just stops and shakes his head smiling, you were funny.

Eventually, you’d both gotten up in the air and were quick to earn your callsigns “Rooster” and “Hen”. Bradley earned his because he was up before the chickens, you’d earned yours because the chicken kept fucking following you around like you were his mother. You were sat on the aircraft carrier, your trainee group learning how to land on a ship deck and you’d finally gotten a moment of peace that evening. You sat on the edge of the deck, feet dangling over the edge as you watched the sunset, not moving when you hear someone slip into the space between the barriers beside you.

“Oh look my chick is back.” You mumble sarcastically and Bradley laughs loudly at you. “You love me really” he says, looking at you as if he wanted to you agree with him “you seem to keep telling yourself that, don’t you?” You hum, turning to watch the sea lap against the grey metal. You can feel him fidgeting beside you, as if antsy to say something. “What?” You ask, finally turning to look at him. “What?” He repeats, looking at you with raised brows “you want to ask me something. You’re fidgeting.” You point out “so ask me or fuck off” you say, turning away again. “Your last name is Mitchell” he says and you roll your eyes “you can read and hear. Two things I’ve learnt today.” You huff, again, with sarcasm. “Are you related to Pete Mitchell?” He asks, looking at you and nearly holding his breath “you finally put two and two together?” You ask and he lets out the breath.

“Yeah, he’s my dad.” You say after a while “I was a whoopsie baby my mother didn’t want anything to do with” you tell him. “He used to fly with my dad.” Bradley almost whispers, voice just a few octaves above. “I know” you nod “he’s practically wallpapered all over our hanger.” You say “so are you” you eye him. “He pulled my papers” he says, again after a few moments of silence “I know” you say “do you know why?” He asks “yes.” You reply, and he could tell you weren’t going to elaborate. “Y’know I’m not a fan of your dad, but I really like you.” He says and you just look at him with a blank face. “Yup” you hum to yourself and he raises a brow “just as Mother Goose was described” you say, and Bradley’s face immediately lights up with a huge grin, stretching and arm around you and pulling you into his side.

“Get off me.” “Yup, yep, sorry.”

For your first deployment, the academy set it up that you’d at least be with one person from your training squadron, and today the list of names were coming out; they were scribbled on the back of a napkin and pinned to a notice board.

“1. Haywood & Solomons, 2. Hughes & Shelley & Omaha, 3. Cooper & Parker & Cromwell & Smith, 4. Bradshaw,” you crossed your fingers as someone read out the names, then yours was read alongside Bradley’s “oh for god’s sake” you grumble, turning to see Bradley practically jumping for joy. “This is great! Me and you, Hen!” Rooster cheers and you just stare at him “should’ve called you leech cause you’re acting like one. Calm down.” You instruct and he tries to chill out, but the cheeky smile on his face was indiminishagble.

He only became more unbearable then, with you every working hour, your wingman on the missions you’d fly, inseparable despite your complaints. “Where’s your boyfriend?” Hawk asked you, as he came to sit with you for lunch. You shush him loudly. “Woah woah I only asked where he was.” “Speak his name and he shows up. I’m trying to hide.” you say in a hushed voice “plus he isn’t my boyfriend” “sure” he scoffs but the daggers being shot into his head silenced him easily.

“Hey Hen! Hawk” Bradley greets as he sits down. You grunt and point an accusatory finger at Hawk “this is your fault, jackass” you say and he laughs at you, him and Bradley engage in conversation as you just eat, having learnt the skill of drowning him out. “What about you, Hen?” Hawk asked, drawing your attention away from your plate and up to the two men alongside you, you raise an eyebrow - letting them know you were insinuating that you weren’t listening to their conversation.

“Do you want a family?” He ask and you just nod “really?” Hawk asks “that’s cute, didn’t take you for a family gal” he jokes and you harshly kick his leg under the table “kids and everything?” He asks after the pain subsides. “Yup.” You say and Bradley hums “I didn’t know that” he says and you just look at him “you never asked.” You reply simply, and that was true: he hadn’t. He was quite prepared to spend the rest of existence chasing after you, whether that meant giving you your first kiss on your deathbeds.

The two of you even went to Top Gun together, training to be the finest naval aviators of them all. And boy, you two fought to be the best; tongue and teeth, blood sweat and tears, everything. The decision came down to one final dogfight. “May the best aviator win” Rooster jokes, sticking out a hand to you. You eye it and internally question if you were insane, before leaning up to peck his cheek. “Prepare to loose, chicken.” You say, leaving him frozen in his place while you head to your plane. That day, Bradley was seriously off his A-game, and you came out on top.

A Mitchell finally Top Gun.

“Congratulations!” Bradley says excitedly on graduation day when you victoriously lifted the trophy above your head. You turned to him and he leant down slightly - you weren’t stupid, you knew what he was intending to do. “Thank you, Brad.” You say, turning to walk over to where your father was stood - knowing that was probably the only time Bradley wouldn’t follow you. That was the first time you’d ever called him anything short of Bradley Bradshaw.

“I’m so proud of you honey” your dad says, hugging you tightly and you embrace him back, smiling widely “thank you, dad” you respond and he looks behind you where Bradley was stood a while back, watching the ordeal. “Is that-” “yes” you tell him and your dad just looks at you “I wouldn’t get all teary he follows me like a lost puppy” you grumble but he just grins “he’s a good kid, hon.” He says and you shake your head “he’s definitely something”

“So how does their relationship work?” Bob asks Hangman, watching Bradley talk your ear off and you just staring ahead into space, blankly. “You see Bobby my boy,” Jake begins “Hen loves her personal space” Bob nods “Rooster also loves Hen’s personal space.” Bob nods again, now understanding. “Haven’t they done everything together though?” He asks “I think it’s more the fact that Hen does something and Rooster just kinda goes with it” Phoenix said and Bob hums, as Bradley continues to converse one-sidedly with you.

“He means well” you hear from beside you as you stare out from the hanger, turning to see your honorary uncle Tom walking towards you, you run towards him as he embraces you tightly “hey Ice” you smile, sweetly. “Hey sweetheart” he croaks. “I mean what I said.” He states and you raise a brow “he means well” he nods towards the man doing his required push ups on the ground with Hondo. “I know, Ice.” You tell him. “No, I don’t think you do” he hums and you raise your eyebrows at him. “The kids in love with you. You’ve either got to let him in or tell him to get out.” He says, “you’re living together for goodness sake”. “It was cheaper” you argue “we both know the accommodation is subsidised.” He states, matter-of-factly, patting your shoulder as he turns to go talk to your dad when he walks into the room.

It was true, you and Bradley were sharing accommodation. “Hey Hen, they’ve offered us shared accommodation back in Miramar” Bradley says, coming over with a pamphlet. “Why?” You ask, taking it out of his hands. ‘Married couple accommodation’ it states and you raise your brows “you getting ahead of yourself, Bradshaw?” You ask and he shakes his head “the guy assumed our callsigns were cause we’re a couple” he tells you and you just hum. “Well I’d rather stay there than in an apartment.” You say simply, giving him back the leaflet and refocusing on the plane you were working on repairing. “Seriously?” He asks, voice overly hopeful. You look at him and shrug “just go get the damn house, Bradshaw. Before I change my mind!” You say and he grins, turning and breaking out into almost a jog to head to confirm your living situation.

You take a moment of hesitation, before loudly groaning and heading out onto the tarmac, getting down and doing push ups alongside Rooster. He turns his head and looks at you and you just raise your brows at him. “Hey honey” he grins “hello Bradley” he nudges your hip with his own. “I’ll drive us home.” You tell him, and he raises his eyebrows “Home?” He asks and you huff “okay, Bradley I will drive the two of us back to our shared accommodation that we accidentally got given.” You say and he laughs loudly “home sounded better.”

Then after the mission, the whole Dagger squad got permanently stationed in San Diego, other than deployment, so they urged the new additions to the base to buy their own properties closer to base rather than on it. You and Bradley were sat in the Hard Deck, a long time before it was open, the rest of the Daggers spending time on the beach while the two of you were scouring Bradley’s laptop for a property. Well, Bradley was.

How about this one? He turns his screen to you. You shake your head “I want grass in the garden. I want to plant flowers” you say as you point at the paved back of the house, explaining that it’s a waste of money to have it ripped out. Bradley nods “Mkay, garden” he says, moving back to look again.

“How about this one? Beach front, close to the running track for you. Only a walk from the Hard Deck. White picket fence, really” he hums, turning the laptop again “garden?” You ask and he nods “garden.” He nods with a grin. “Shall we go look?” You ask and he raises a brow at you. “You said it’s a walk from the hard deck. Let’s go.” You say, putting the address into your phone and immediately recognising the street name, Bradley quickly falling into step with you as you walk towards the property.

You look at it and place your hands on your hips. Bradley was right. Pretty damn perfect. “Can I help you?” A lady asks, walking outside of the house, clipboard in hand. “Oh no, we’d just seen this property online and wanted to take a look.” Bradley tells her. “Well I’ve had a no-show on a viewing. How’d you like to take a look?” She suggests, motioning to the open door. “Okay” you nod, following her into the house.

“Obviously the kitchen, living room, even a deck out back with a huge garden and high fences” she says nodding out the window and you hum. “Out the side there’s an entrance straight to the beach” she motions, then starts heading up the stairs “three bedrooms, attic space, bathroom” she says “I’m guessing it’s just you two at the moment?” She asks “oh we’re not-” Bradley begins “yes, just us.” You confirm, shutting him up. “Okay, so there’s a large room for your bed and then if any new additions are to join, you have the space for them” she smiles and leads you back out front.

“It’s not cheap, it’s California. So I understand if you’re not prepared to pay that much money, do you mind me asking what you do?” She asks “we’re naval aviators.” Bradley says “stationed here?” She asks and you both nod “ah! I get why you’re looking for a property here!” She says and Bradley looks at you. “I really like it, Roo.” You say, and Bradley has to stop his jaw hitting the floor at your nickname. “It’s your call, honey” he says and you look at the lady and smile as she offers her hand “we’ll take it.”

“How shall we split the payment?” You ask Bradley as you walk back to the Hard Deck after organising a meeting with the realtor to actually finalise all the kinks and bumps. “I don’t mind doing the down payment then we’ll take it in turn paying the loan” he suggests “we can get a joint bank account and do it that way” you say and he agrees as you settle back into your seats at the Hard Deck. “Where’ve you two been?” Hangman asks “we bought a house.”

One evening, after you were all moved in and were hanging out at the Hard Deck after a long day or routine flying, you were sat outside with Rooster; watching the sunset. “When are we getting married then?” You ask and he spits out his beer “what?” He asks, eyes wide and getting progressively more giddy. “Well we live together, we have a joint bank account, and Jake keeps telling me we’re practically married. So when are we getting married?” You ask as he hugs you tightly “whenever you want, baby” he says, kissing the top of your head and pulling a ring out of his pocket to get on his knee. “Will you marry me?” He asks and you raise a brow “didn’t I just say that?” You ask bluntly “just say yes, please” he begs and you nod “yes. Yes I will marry you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You confirm as he kisses your lips gently.

“Okay get off of me now.”

Pt. 2

[justkillingthyme]

When speaking with Luke at the end of the hall, the window appears as a background, which means that it’s the windows in the hall. However, we’re shown no windows. It can’t be this hall, because this is on the inside on the house. And either way there’s no wallpaper on the hall interior.

For the Laytoners, are there any small parts or details that bother you and nobody else?

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Husband Ajax HCs

Husband!Ajax who proposed during a sparring match. Yes, you read that right — Ajax asked you to marry him while his nose bled all over the ground and your weapons clashed; causing literal sparks to fly between yourselves.

Husband!Ajax who's ecstatic when you agree to visit his family after your engagement. You've been over there plenty of times when you two were friends, and after you started dating, but this is a pretty big milestone.

Husband!Ajax who never really leaves the "honeymoon phase" of your relationship. Every second spent by your side feels just as special as the last.

Husband!Ajax whose love language is spending time with you, buying take-out and spending the night at your place, and being affectionate with you.

Husband!Ajax who smiles so brightly when you surprise him with your cooking. Especially if you learn some recipes from his homeland, or ones that his mother makes.

Husband!Ajax who will gladly hold you and listen whenever you're feeling upset. And when you do the same for him, Ajax may just cry harder when you treat him this gently.

Husband!Ajax (in modern times) who definitely has a picture of you as his phone wallpaper. And several candid shots of you laughing or smiling that he treasures and looks at whenever he needs a pick-me-up.

Husband!Ajax who's such a family oriented man — he cries and pleads for you to knock him up. His torso is pressed against the mattress, hips held up by your tight grip as Ajax takes the pounding of a lifetime, begging to have your babies.

Husband!Ajax who has mad stamina… sometimes it's hard to keep up with, but he's so sweet and will happily accommodate you when you need a break.

Husband!Ajax who adores when you get feisty and manhandle him. Treat him like a ragdoll during sex, and he may cum so hard that his entire being just…short circuits.

Husband!Ajax who's so loud during anything related to sex. So loud… Ajax is loud when you're making out, when you're giving him a blowjob/handjob, when he's giving you a blowjob/handjob, when you're softly fucking him, when you're bruising his prostate, when you're making romantic love to him. He's just excited and can't hold in the noises that you wring out of him~

Husband!Ajax who welcomes toys into your sex life — because you're too good at finding the things that squeeze out all of his best reactions. Vibrators are his favourite, even though you always make him cum in his pants while he's working/in the middle of combat (not that the latter is a difficult task…)

[ozzgin]

Keeping the theme of literary yandere characters, I return with this Kafkaesque bizarrerie of a bureaucratic madman. content: gender neutral reader, kidnapping, absurdism

Yandere!Office Worker is a prim and proper young man. He's eloquent, well-mannered, and intelligent, albeit a little stiff in his ways. One can tell he enjoys rules and structure, perhaps to the point of absurdity - otherwise he wouldn't be such a great servant of the bureaucratic machine. Indeed, everything must go according to the established code of conduct; yet, the author of these instructions remains to be determined.

Yandere!Office Worker is convinced you must become his partner at once! Consequently, you wake up in a basement, though it's not the typical basement one would imagine when thinking about basements. The wallpaper is fresh and elegant, the little window bordering the ceiling allows for plenty of natural light, and the furniture is clean, luxurious, with a faint sterile smell to it. Of course, he cleans everything thoroughly every morning at exactly 7:45am, with the exception of your bed, as he does not wish to disturb your slumber.

Yandere!Office Worker listens to your horrified pleas with profound interest in his eyes. You're a tad annoyed by his sympathy. "Hey," you warn him, "you're literally the one who kidnapped me. Don't pretend you're not involved!" He gasps, his pale, slender hand clutching at his chest. Well, pretending to clutch, that is: he wouldn't want to wrinkle his buttoned shirt.

Yandere!Office Worker vehemently denies any kind of wrongdoing. No, no, you were not kidnapped. It's a misunderstanding! He has the paperwork, you see. Everything happened according to the law. If you do insist, he can call the Tribunal. They'll tell you it all happened officially and correctly. "What's this Tribunal you speak of," you ask with a skeptical frown. "Let me call them myself," you demand, "since you can't be trusted."

Yandere!Office Worker hands you the telephone with pompous theatrics. "You're in luck," he says, "they're only open on Thursdays and Tuesdays, but only if it's sunny." You rip the device from his fingers and dial the number. His own phone begins to ring. "Yes," he answers solemnly, "how may we help you?" You stare, bewildered, at the scene unfolding before you. "Are you mocking me? What's the meaning of this," you begin to shout, but he quickly places a finger over your lips. "Not right now, Darling, I have an important work call."

Yandere!Office Worker is a damned lunatic. You march towards the door and urge him to let you go. You have coworkers, friends, and family waiting for you outside. Your partner! This idea seems to upset him greatly, because he stomps his foot into the carpeted floor and gesticulates: "Because he lifted his skirts like this, this giddy goose," he cries out, "you chatted him up, dug your nose into the pretty words like a well-fed pig!" He grabs your hands with desperate urgency. "Won't you understand already? I'm your husband, I ought to know you better than all these strangers you speak of."

Yandere!Office Worker is rather convincing in his ministerial meltdown. You inspect the documents, putting each line under scrutiny. Finally, you click your tongue. The rascal has a point, after all, everything matches the paperwork. "No mistake," you confess, handing him the thick, leather-bound folder. "I suspected you'd come to your senses very soon," he beams. "Let's go upstairs, I'll make you a cup of coffee." You follow behind obediently. "I'd like-" you start, but he interrupts you. "Half a teaspoon of sugar, a little milk foam on top. Who do you think you're talking to, (Y/N)?"

[fayes-fics]

Wisteria

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Even wallflowers bloom, and Benedict sees it.

Warnings: none... this is just fluff

Word Count: 0.7k

Authors Note: Request fill for Anon HERE, who wanted Benedict and a young, wallflower reader. Just a short little scene. Unbetaed. I hope you enjoy this. <3

You sigh as you once again find yourself wishing to be swallowed up by the wall behind you. And this is only your third-ever ball. The room is somehow both too hot and too cold all at once—a clamminess that has the applique of your dress itching and uncomfortable. You idly wonder if you took a wallpaper pattern to Ms Delacroix if she might be able to fashion a dress so similar you would not be visible at all…

It's not that you hate the idea of finding a match. Having a husband is most appealing. What is not so is the Ton’s preferred method—the awful parade and, indeed, inspection that comes with being a young lady taking part in the Season. You would much prefer to find someone with whom you could bond, away from all of this pageantry and artifice.

“Miss y/l/n…”

The rumbed, polite greeting instantly has butterflies twitching behind your ribs, your head swivelling with almost comedic speed as a tall gentleman pulls up next to you.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Quite the most handsome, eligible bachelor there is. Especially now that his brother, the Viscount, is so happily matched.

“Oh… Mr Bridgerton…!” You cringe at the squeak in your voice as you return his greeting, certain your cheeks are heating. “H-how is your evening?” Your query is polite, but you steadfastly keep your eyes averted, instead observing the swirl of dresses brushing the polished wood in front of you, the dancefloor filled with your fellow debutantes.

“It is better now…” 

“How so?” You can't help your bubble of curiosity, looking up at him. Well, a spot on his lapel—you feel unable to look properly upon him, knowing it may make you far too tongue-tied. 

“Present company,” he breezes, taking a sip of his champagne.

You turn left and right but quickly realise you are the only person nearby. Perhaps unsurprising given this spot is not optimal for anyone seeking attention, tucked as you are between a fireplace and a drinks table.

“Yes, you, Miss y/l/n,” he chuckles, his brow knitting bemusedly at your reaction.

Your cheeks are definitely aflame now. Why he would seek out your company, you have no idea. Yes, he has been a friend to your older brother for many years now, but you honestly did not believe he held you in any regard.

“After all,” he continues, “how could I not enjoy the company of a y/l/n?”

“But… I am so very different to my brother,” you frown slightly, thinking of how effortlessly your brother moves through the echelons of society, so at ease in any room, in any crowd. Not one to cling to a wall in any circumstance.

Benedict laughs, his face crinkling most attractively as he does so. “Indeed you are. But that is a good thing,” he remarks, “for I do not wish to court him.”

At first you are sure you misheard, but as you finally meet his gaze, you feel a burst of something warm and soft in your chest. His mein is warm and hope-filled but burning with a quiet intensity that steals your breath.

“Me?” you sound almost stupified. “But… I am a wallflower…” you blurt, wincing as you realise you have spoken aloud the word your parents have gently chastised you for being.

“Have you not spied the walls of Bridgerton House?” His tone is light and cheerful, a hint of amiable tease there that is so very him, a beguiling twinkle in those hazy eyes.

“Yes, of course….” you hesitate, not following his seeming change in topic, but unable to look away.

“Then surely you have seen how resplendent they are with wisteria?” He pauses as you nod, your attention wholly absorbed in him now, something so magnetic pulling you inexorably into him, almost alchemy. “Sometimes the most enchanting of flowers spend their lives clinging to a wall. Even when they finally blossom… And yet, their location does not diminish their beauty. Or their ability to attract admirers.” A crooked grin tugs charmingly at the corner of his mouth as he leans in a fraction closer. “So yes, you may indeed be a wallflower, Miss y/l/n, but you should know, I happen to think wisteria quite the most wonderful flower of all….” 

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[cherryredcheol]

matchy-matchy

tldr: match with me? a/n: i am embarrassed to admit how long it took me to come up with each of these

ot13 x reader

seungcheol: bracelets

except its one of those welded-on bracelets that you can only get off with some kind of tool that can cut through chain. he wanted you both to be reminded every day that your love was strong, unbreakable, permanent. the chain was dainty on both your wrists, barely noticeable, but still ever-present. ever the possessive guy, he liked having his mark on you. and he supposed a bracelet would do for now; until he gave you his last name. 

jeonghan: lego figurines

they’re minifigs and he had them custom-made to look like you, favorite outfits and everything. they’re on a little shelf that’s mounted to the wall. below the shelf are two little hooks, one for your keys and one for his. your keys go underneath your figure and his under his own. these minifigs were a gift for you very early on in the relationship. they’ve moved all over with you and now they’re part of your shared home. 

joshua: luggage

he brings you everywhere with him so it makes sense that your bags all match so you don’t draw suspicion. so what if he was pictured with a suitcase that has a my melody plush keychain on it? he’s man enough to admit he likes my melody, but really he likes you more and it’s easier that everything look the same. he doesn’t even have to think about it when grabbing a bag from the closet for each of you before heading on your next adventure together. 

junhui: ramen bowls

yes, you could hypothetically use this bowl for something other than ramen, but that would make it not special anymore and that just won’t do. it tickles both of you to no end to pull those bowls down from the cabinet and rifle through the silverware drawer for the matching chopsticks, all items printed with a delicate cherry blossom pattern. when the bowls were purchased the intention wasn’t even for them to become the bowls you use but its too late to look back now. 

soonyoung: water bottles

he dances and works out a lot, therefore he drinks a lot of water. he was going through plastic bottles of water like nobody’s business so you convinced him to get a reusable one. so he did, and he got you one to match! yours is black, inconspicuous. his is bright orange. the reasoning? they’re tiger colors, but subtle. why do you kind of agree with him?

wonwoo: phone wallpapers

they’re lowkey and you wouldn’t know they’re matching unless you saw them both side by side and noticed that the street light in both photos looks a little similar…the pictures are always from the walks you two go on in the middle of the night when it can be just you and him without the pressures of his career. some of your best moments together have come from those nights and the pictures are reminders of that. 

jihoon: slippers

the universe factory is cold, always. and yes, you keep an extra cozy blanket and hoodie in there but sometimes your feet get cold and your socks just aren’t enough. he must’ve noticed because there were suddenly two pairs of slippers by the door one day. when you asked about them, he just gestured vaguely and mumbled something about your feet. you’ll take it! they’re also not matching so much as they’re exactly the same. he claims this is for efficiency so he can wear either pair. cool, dude!

seokmin: sneakers

he has a lot of shoes. but his favorite pair are the ones that you bought together. they’re your favorite color and you each have a pair. you wear them together often, so smitten with each other it’s sickening. he always brings these sneakers on tour with him, whether you come too or not. its a win-win for him either way. he gets to match you from a close distance or from across the world. at least he knows he’s yours. 

mingyu: sunglasses

multiple pairs. every pair he buys himself, he also buys one for you. they're his favorite accessory and he looks oh so handsome in them so you never complain. your collection is slowly getting smaller though because he tends to break or lose things (sometimes both) and if it's a pair he really loved, he’ll ask with big puppy eyes if he can have the pair he bought for you. sometimes you tell him no just to see him pout.

minghao: manicures

oh, you’re going to get your nails done? he’s coming with, and paying. they don’t even have to be the same design or anything, they just have to go together. you don’t want a super complicated design like him? okay, cool. just get the same color. you went without him? fine, but what color is on your nails? it has to be the exact same as yours or else it doesn’t count. the colors may look similar but they’re not exactly the same polish? you might as well break up. 

seungkwan: phone cases

the design you chose has a little inside joke meaning to the two of you. no one even bothers asking the meaning behind the joke because they ‘wouldn’t get it’. your phone also has a different pc of him in it weekly (he changes it based on his mood) so your coworkers think you’re a super fan with your matching phone case and pc, obsessed with the idol on your phone. little do they know…

hansol: keychains

you have a miffy one, it's fuzzy.  he has a darth vader one, it’s lego. it kind of just appeared on your keychain one day and when you mentioned it to him he casually explained he put it there the other week. he fished through his pocket to show you his matching (?) keychain. the only explanation he gives? ‘it’s totally us,’ and how could you argue with that?

chan: stuffed animals

they’re dinosaurs, not dragons, thank you very much. and yes, they are therapeutically weighted to ease anxiety when placed on the chest. have a problem with that? i didn’t think so. these things go everywhere with you. if a car ride is longer than an hour, your green dinosaur is guaranteed to be there. he’s flying to tokyo? not without his passport and his little pink friend. show some respect! these are your kids!

[huntingcupid]

THE MAN WHO CAN'T BE MOVED — S.L

cause if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me and your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be thinkin' maybe you'll come back here to the place that we'd meet and you'll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street

⌗ SOPHIA — fem!reader, angst, friends to lovers to strangers, swearing, homophobia, sophia is kinda mean here, break up, crying, CHEATING, etc...

⌗ SYPNOSIS — sophia always told you she was confused with her sexuality, how she wanted to know if she liked men or women or maybe even both — yet what she didn't tell you was how you were her experiment

⌗ CUPID — hey, third angst on a row so please don't kill me i js like writing angst :-(

you never really knew how it started yet it went something like this

sophia and you were best of friends, ever since you knew — sleepovers here and hangout there, name an activity you two have done it — sophia was a silly and smart girl one thing you adored about her

“here you can have pink, I'll have purple!” you excitedly hand a matching bracelet to the filipina who accepted it happily hugging you tightly, unknowingly you felt butterflies in your stomach, you always did — whenever she hugs you, compliments or just be close with you, you felt a whole zoo in your tummy

you wanted to ignore it, to pretend it didn't exist, at least you tried, the whole of highschool you pretended to have boy crushes as you really had your eyes set on her, sophia would often ramble to you about a boy she liked and you acted like you cared and you did just not in the way a friend should

“sometimes i just wanna be your girlfriend, how i wish you were a boy y/n” sophia murmurs sighing defeatedly as she lays in the grassy land — “really?, i mean sometimes i wish I'm a boy too” you replied softly gazing across seeing the sun set, painting the skies a orange and pink hue

“y/n, do you ever think you like girls? — i mean sometimes i do, i just wanna know if it's real or just a stupid thought” sophia asks sitting up and looking at you, her eyes seemed to spark with curiosity, “i do think that, yet sometimes it's confusing” you replied averting her gaze, “who do you think you like right now” you follow

for moment she was silent before speaking again, “y/n, i think i like you” sophia murmurs, her hands now on top of yours — you wanted to jump up and down from joy and excitement — “are you sure?” you ask looking into her adoring gaze, “i am, do you like me?” sophia follows tilting her head to the side

a warm breeze of air passes by and you form your words quietly and wisely, “fuck liking you, i love you” you giggle, the girl smiles so widely it felt like she was the happiest girl in the world — “awh” she pouts and hugs you tightly

the first week of you two dating, you took her out to the aquarium, checking out aquatic animals that sophia always talked about, she looked so precious taking pictures of the fishes — “let's take a picture?” she asks, you nod going next to her and smiling for the picture, “you better use this as your wallpaper” she says sending the picture to you, “yes ma'am” you replied, quickly following her orders and showing it to her, “better” she smiles proudly before walking hand in hand with you as she points to various tanks with different aquatic animals

after the date sophia invites you to dinner with her family, nothing out of the normal, sophia's mom was like your mom too — “anak!, tara kain na! (children!, come eat!)” carla calls out seeing you two arrive — “hi tita! (auntie)”, you replied waving, taking a seat next to sophia, “we were at the aquarium, it was so fun, ma” sophia says, taking a bite of her food — you take a bite, enjoying the evening, when sophia's mom suddenly jokes

“parang magjowa na nga kayong dalawa soph (it seems like you two are in a relationship)” carla laughs, sophia giggles yet her eyes met yours for a split second, “kapatid ko yan si y/n ma! (y/n is like my sibling mom!)” sophia replies, for a moment you were hurt yet you knew sophia wanted to tell her parents later since you two had just started dating

yet even as you two became official sophia still denied your relationship to her parents, always saying she's not ready — it felt bad since you always told her you wanted to tell her parents even family

“y/n stop rushing me, i just don't want them to think anything badly about me” sophia grits her teeth, as you two sat in her bedroom — “badly?, are you saying I'm a bad person to be with?” you scoff, feeling somewhat degraded by her words, sophia slaps you across your face, it burned so badly that you couldn't help but tear up, you cup your cheeks feeling the warmth

“gosh, you're so fucking pushy y/n — let me breathe!” sophia screams, massaging her temple — she grabs her things and went out, “don't follow me, I'm gonna clear my mind” sophia murmurs before slamming the door

left there with your thoughts you never felt this hurt, you wipe away your tears taking a shower and clearing your mind for a while, after so you lay in her bed watching some netflix from her ipad

till you saw some notifications pop up — “james chatted you!”, sophia always told you not to snoop with her things, yet something told you to open it — which you did

[my j] “soph, where are you?”

[sophia] “on my way love, I'm js driving rn..:)

[my j] “stay safe my love!”

[sophia] yes babe — ill be there in 10 minutes

[my j] “is y/n with u?”

[sophia] “what? fuck no — its our date why would i bring her”

[my j] “idk yall seem close”

[sophia] “I'm just tolerating her lol”

your heart sank, seeing message after message of the girl you call the love of your life degrading and berating you — what's worse? she's dating someone while you two are together

you couldn't help but just cry, sob your eyes out seeing how much sophia actually hid from you — you pull out your phone taking pictures of the messages to confront the filipina later

the clock strikes 2:00 am — that's when you heard faint rustling and the front door opening, she was home, “babe? — i got you something” sophia excitedly says entering the bedroom only to be met with your red puffy eyes and tear streaked face, “babe?, you okay?” sophia quickly says running to your side

as she tries to lay her hand on yours, you flick it away earning you a confused look, “if it's about earlier, I'm sorry-” you cut her off showing your phone and the pictures of her and james messages, “why? — you're just tolerating me right?, why are you saying sorry then?” you mutter, choked sobs coming out too

“it's not what it looks like y/n, that's just my, my friend!, nothing more, please baby understand me” sophia sputters excuse after excuse, placing kisses on your cheeks and rubbing your arms

she looked like a defeated puppy, her eyes wide with horror at what you found — “baby don't you love me?” sophia says, grasping your cheeks to make you look at her as tears start to flow to her eyes too

“i love you, soph — i love you so much..” you mutter back to her, “then let's move past this — okay?, ill forget that you snooped through my things and you forget that you ever saw that” sophia explains in that sweet motherly voice coaxing you to agree

and as stupid as it sounded you agreed, feeling special for once, “okay soph, please forgive me, i didn't mean to look through it” you mutter hugging her tightly as you bury your head in her chest, “i forgive you baby, just don't do it ever again” sophia tsks

after that instance sophia changed all her passwords and kept her things farther away from you, she always kept an eye at you and never told you about james ever again — for a while it felt peaceful, even happy, sophia will always come home with flowers and chocolates for you, yet she still hid it from her parents

it all came crashing down when she invites james to a birthday dinner, sitting next to him even clinging to him through out the night — “anak, sino yan boyfriend mo? (daughter who is that, is that your boyfriend?)” carla asks sophia, instead of denying she nods happily hugging his arms tighter

you stood there, like a stranger towards her — you two made eye contact only for sophia to look away abruptly, that night you stayed outside by the grill with sophia's dad — “uwi na po ako tito (I'll go home now uncle)” you say, sophia's dad only nods waving you off

you walk to sophia's room getting your things and to her bathroom, you stared at yourself, you wore your favorite dress and did your hair extra, even took your time with make up — it felt so annoying and upsetting, there you stood in front of the mirror, wondering if you were ever worth to love, a minute passes and you went out the front door seeing sophia flaunt her awesome boyfriend in front of the family

sophia sees you leaving with your bags and waiting for your uber — she runs up to you quickly excusing her self — “y/n it's just for tonight i swear” she murmurs pleading with you, “i know, i just want to go home” you replied, she nods and waves you off

that night in your bedroom you sobbed for hours on end, feeling your world crumble around you, you wanted to just jump off a cliff and forget that you ever liked her — pretend that everything is fine for once, “how can i love you” you mutter holding a picture of sophia as you felt new tears cover your face

it was raining heavily at this point, thunder striking every now and then, the wind was strong and unforgiving — it made the trees around sway and some plants even flew

your phone dinged with a notification, a message from sophia, you look at your phone, debating whether to check or not — against your better judgment, you opened it, getting greeted with something you never expected, or maybe you did, you just chose to ignore it

[my future wife] “i don't know how to start this y/n, but i want to say I'm thankful, for you, thank you for making me realize that i never liked women, only men, I'm no longer confused and know what i have with you is a family like love, never romantic nor anything like so — I'm happy with james, y/n i never thought I'll be happy in a relationship ever since i was with you, thank you for everything”

you read the text in silence, feeling your heart slowly shatter, you read it over and over again, making sure you weren't seeing things, “family like love?” you stammer, you wanted to reply and say how you felt and beg her to stay, beg her to give you another chance, yet she had blocked your contact

“soph please don't” you sob, against the pouring rain you went to her house, soaking yourself as you stood outside her gate, “sophia!, please! baby give me a chance, i love you!” you scream, sophia came running out holding an umbrella over her head, “y/n shut up!, mom would hear you!” sophia says, she looks at your defeated form and felt guilt creep into her

“please sophia, i love you!” you sob, the thunder got stronger yet you stayed there begging sophia, “y/n, i can't please leave, move on!” sophia says frowning, you sobbed at her words your hair clung to your face due to how hard the rain was

“how can i move on, when I'm still in love with you?!” you replied, breaking down in front of her house — “I'm sorry y/n” sophia replies going into her house and closing the lights

is that it?, she's really ready to replace you? forget about everything, was it all a joke to her? — you loved sophia with you whole heart, trusted her more than anyone, yet she used you, made you her experiment

“so that's it sophia?, am i your fucking lab rat? just to experiment on?!” you scream, yet you knew she couldn't and wouldn't hear you

you walk home as the rain finally stopped leaving you with a aching heart and a bruised ego

you'd still see sophia, only she would be with james, she would always look happier and more fulfilled with him — it felt like a stab to your being, you felt worthless for the last few months of highschool

“aren't you friends with soph?” megan asks as you two study in the back of class, “we were” you replied, “what happened?” megan follows tilting her head to the side — “we outgrew each other, i'll always love her though” you smiled softly

megan hums and continues her work on her book — “you'd be an awesome girlfriend y/n, in my opinion” megan giggles looking at you with those adoring eyes

and for the first time in quite a while you felt special again, a spark of something filling your heart, “you too” you murmur back, megan blushes a bit and it doesn't go unnoticed by you

“hey, do you want to hang out after this class?” you asks the girl, “really?, sure!” megan happily replies

from across the room sophias eyes follow you two, a small smile creeping to her lips, finally seeing you find someone who would actually care about you

maybe this time you'll be loved the way you love

wc: 2.3k words

[enoiocean]

𝓳𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓾𝔁 franklin saint x black!reader

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა 12k words — set in LA Beverly hills in 09, rich!business man!franklin saint x black!fem!reader , age gap - ( reader is 21 , Franklin is 30 ) porn with plot , Rough Sex , Daddy kink, veryyyy long read , multiple parts coming , this is for a mature audience , please read with caution !

This job didn't really feel like a...job.

You didn't have to abide by a certain dress code, you didn't work around only women , the building was beautiful, and the first day you arrived for the interview, you wore a black skirt with matching stockings and heels and a white long-sleeve top to balance it out—nothing too revealing, nothing too vulnerable, just a blank slate. Your hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail , so taut it made your temples throb, but there was something satisfying about the control of it. and The black-framed glasses weren't prescription, but they made people trust you. Smile wide. Lip gloss is subtle. You'd rehearsed it in the mirror. Professional. Approachable. Just enough. You couldn't help but be excited.

The building was enormous—a towering monolith of glass and steel. Inside, it was a time capsule sealed in style. The decor hadn't been updated since the 1970s, but not in the way of disrepair—more like reverence. Golden-hued lighting bathed everything in a soft, cinematic glow. Velvet chairs in jewel tones sat beneath smoked glass tables. Brass fixtures caught the light like secrets. The air smelled faintly of aged leather and expensive cologne, like the ghosts of men who once closed deals with handshakes and half-truths still lingered in the wallpaper. It was retro, yes, but effortlessly, arrestingly beautiful. Like stepping into a beautiful memory .

The woman who greeted you was tall, alabaster-pale, and sculpted into her perfectly pressed ivory suit like she'd been born in it. Her hair was lacquered into place, not a single strand out of line, and her heels clicked with surgical precision as she walked—sharp, efficient, utterly devoid of hesitation. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.

She guided you past the front lobby, a space so unnervingly quiet it bordered on the sacred. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was pressurized. The hum of office phones rang out in soft, rhythmic pulses, like a heartbeat barely holding on. Somewhere behind frosted glass, voices murmured—thin, bloodless conversations spoken in fragments, too hushed to decode. No laughter. No interruptions. Just the mechanical whisper of a machine well-oiled and too proud to acknowledge its own humanity.

Her eyes—those eyes—slid over you like she was appraising livestock. No warmth. No welcome. Just a quick inventory. Your shoes. Your posture. The way you held your purse like it was armor. Her gaze was clinical, transactional, the kind of look someone gives a thing they're considering purchasing—not a person, a product. She didn't bother with a smile. She nodded. Once. Like she'd already met ten versions of you and decided you were just another mold from the same batch.

18th floor.

The elevator ride was long. Too long. The silence felt oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen, something waiting. It binged like the pulse of a dying animal. When the doors opened, you were hit with the sharp, cold sting of perfection. Marble floors. 70s walls. A decor that screamed luxury, A hallway extended in four directions, each path ending in a sealed door—identical, marked with a gold nameplate. Outside every door sat a single desk, and behind each desk, a woman. Perfect posture. Impeccable grooming. Typing with the precision of gunfire. Their fingers danced across the keys in exact, rhythmic motion, inhuman in their steadiness, like they'd rehearsed this moment to death.

They didn't look up. Not really.

One of them glanced at you—brief, slicing, surgical. Eyes like frosted glass.

Your stomach flipped. Not a flutter. A full inversion. That sick, hot tumble of instinct trying to speak before your brain can form words. But you kept walking, heels clicking across the marble like you belonged here. Because you needed the job. Because "figuring it out" doesn't pay rent, and retail was starting to feel like a punchline to a joke you'd already heard too many times.

Your landlord was hiking the rent again—like your building had suddenly earned the right to call itself luxury just because they painted over the mold and installed a broken security camera in the stairwell. Going back home wasn't an option. You couldn't stomach your mother's passive-aggressive sighs or your father's not-so-subtle lectures about "readiness" and "real-world responsibility." They still talked about you like you were a kid who wandered too far from the sandbox. Moving back would only make them right.

You heard about the job from Vince. Your sister's boyfriend. The guy who drank straight from the bottle and always smelled like car grease and weed. He said his friend needed a secretary. Some executive downtown. Something vague and high-paying. You didn't ask questions. You just said, "Tell him I'm interested."

Next morning: bing. Inbox. One new message. An email dressed up like an invitation to a secret club. Subject line: "Thank you for your interest in FS Enterprises."

No job description. No bullet points or salary range. No qualifications or application portal. Just a single line dripping with urgency: "Show up here Friday."

No signature. Just an address. Downtown, where all the high-profile politicians and businessmen are.

You Googled. Nothing.

You searched and searched. Still nothing.

No company website. No mission statement. No reviews. Just a trail of digital dust—like the whole thing had been scrubbed clean or had never existed to begin with.

And still, you got dressed. Still, you showed up. Because your sister trusted Vince, and Vince didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd sell you into something.

Not on purpose, anyway.

Right?

Your fingers gripped the folder tighter in your hands as you walked toward the door at the end of the hall. Heavy wood, dark-stained and polished to a mirror shine. A gold nameplate sat flush in its center, gleaming like it had just been cleaned, though no one ever seemed to touch it. The letters engraved were too clean, Franklin Saint.

You knocked. Three short, quick taps. The sound of someone pretending they weren't terrified.

The silence that followed was too thick, too heavy. You almost felt like the sound of your knuckles hitting the door had been swallowed by the walls. You didn't know what you were walking into. Not really. It was all so surreal—the smell of cologne mixing with the faint undertone of something artificial, like the air had been scrubbed clean of any trace of humanity. The hallway behind you felt a lifetime away, everything shrinking into the space just in front of the door, everything focusing down to that very moment.

You could hear your heart beating in your ears.

And then, the door creaked open, slow, deliberate.

You'd imagined Franklin a hundred different ways, but now that you were here, staring at him, all those versions faded. He was tall, maybe too tall, with a suit that swallowed him whole, sharp and tailored to perfection. His skin was beautifully dark with no imperfections, and his eyes—those eyes— they lit up when they saw you, squinting a little. His smile was bright, white, and straight.

You couldn't help yourself. You smiled back. It was the only thing you could do in that moment, the only thing your body would let you do. Your hands got sweaty, your breath shallow. You were a thousand miles away from the girl you thought you were before you stepped into this room. Now, you were something else—something in-between, trapped in the tension of his gaze. And you couldn't look away. Couldn't stop.

His voice came soft, almost too soft for the size of his frame, "You must be... (❀), right?" His eyes flickered over you, a quick scan that felt like a full-body examination. He smiled more.

You nodded, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Your mouth was dry. You couldn't even remember the last time you’ve been this nervous.

He stepped back, letting the door swing open further, a silent invitation that felt more like a command.

"Come in. We have a lot to discuss."

The door clicked shut behind you, and for that moment, it was just the two of you.

He didn't ask you about your work history. He didn't ask why he should hire you. He didn't even look at the paper you clutched in your hands, the one you had memorized the night before. He didn't care about any of that. Instead, he asked about you about who you were, not what you did. His voice was soft and polite, the words cutting through the air with a precision you could almost feel on your skin. He asked if you were still in school, if you liked it, where you grew up, and if you were from California.

It felt almost casual, like he wasn't trying to dissect you. Like he wasn't testing you. But you could tell that, couldn't you? You could tell he was watching. He was listening not to your answers but to the way you gave them. He wanted to know how you thought and how you felt. What you cared about.

And each time you answered, you found yourself talking longer than you intended, telling him more than you meant to. You rambled about things you loved, about places you'd been, and about the little things that made you feel like you were truly alive. The way the ocean smelled after a rainstorm. The way the sun felt on your skin when you woke up before anyone else did. Why you loved photography. Why you loved fashion. You couldn't stop yourself. You couldn't even try. You were unraveling, piece by piece, and you didn't know how to stitch yourself back together.

He didn't write anything down. He didn't interrupt you. He didn't glance at the clock for the time and didn't look anywhere else but at you. And every time you spoke, every word you let slip, he leaned in a little more. Not physically, no. But emotionally. His eyes locked onto yours, absorbing you. He wasn't just listening. He was consuming.

And all the while, you felt like you were in the middle of a dream—a dream that was beginning to twist, beginning to become something dangerous. You couldn't name it, couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew that in this room, in this space with him, you weren't in control anymore.

And you didn't want to be. Not really.

The interview lasted an hour, but it felt like a reunion with a long-lost friend—someone you'd forgotten you needed, someone you hadn't realized you missed until they walked into the room. You didn't remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere between your rambling answers and his unblinking stare, the clock seemed to disappear.

You stood up to shake his hand, your legs slightly unsteady under you, like you were waking from a dream you hadn't wanted to end. Your mind raced in that final moment—was that enough? Did you say the right things? Did he see through your act? Did he see you as just another ditzy, young girl, spinning in circles, thinking she could handle belonging in a place like this?

But before the doubts could claw their way up your throat—before logic or fear or that sick little voice in the back of your mind could poison the moment—he shattered them. Just like that. His hand found yours, firm and warm, grounding, pulling you back into the room, into your body, like a lifeline tied to something you couldn't quite name.

"Sign these," he said. His voice was smooth in that dangerous way—like silk hiding the blade. He slid three pristine sheets of paper across the desk. Blank. No headers. No legal jargon. Just space. Space waiting for your name.

"Bring them back to me Monday. You'll start then."

And that smile—God, that smile. It didn't sell a job. It sold something else. A promise, maybe. Or a secret you weren't ready to be trusted with. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Your pulse was sprinting. You were vibrating with questions—about the papers, about the man, about what this was.

You didn't know if you wanted to bolt from the room, heart hammering like a warning, or stay and crawl deeper into whatever rabbit hole he was offering.

But your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

"Mister Saint, are you sure you don't want to look at my resumé—"

He cut you off, clean. Didn't even glance up. just opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and a leather-bound book. The kind that smells expensive. The kind that's meant to hold things you're not supposed to share.

"Here," he said, eyes still bright. "This is all you'll need; go over it and remember everything in it."

You barely heard the next words, not with the way your blood was rushing in your ears.

"What type of computer do you prefer?"

It was the kind of question that made no sense in that moment. You blinked at him, thrown off, suddenly aware of how little you truly knew about this man, about this space, about what was even happening here.

You glanced at the pen in your hand. It was small, silver, and engraved with what looked like a symbol, a logo, but it was so tiny, so simple, you couldn't make out the detail. The book, thick and bound with care, felt heavier in your hand than it should have, like it had weight beyond its pages. But all you could do was stare at him, waiting, trying to process what just happened, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to answer that question.

Your voice stuttered out, softer than it had any right to be. "I... usually work with Macs. But I'm flexible."

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.

"Beautiful," he said. Slowly. Like the words were designed to be unwrapped one syllable at a time. "That's why I chose you."

Your breath caught.

"I'll have something set up for you by Monday," he said, casually. Almost like a favor. Like he was offering you a seat at a table you didn't know existed.

Then his eyes flicked back to yours, and something in his voice curled, slow and deliberate:

"You'll be fine."

Just like that, you were here. three months in. Sitting in front of his door every day, behind a desk that you could do anything with. A blank canvas waiting for you to carve out something real, something personal. You looked at the MacBook Air; you couldn't believe he got it for you, like it was some cheap thing to play with. You placed your small trinkets on the desk. A small plant with deep green leaves, hopeful and stubborn, clinging to the light that never seemed to be enough. A picture of you and your friends, their laughter forever frozen in a frame that suddenly felt like a memory you didn't want to forget. A cup holder, silver star-shaped, And the small stuffed bunny—like an Easter relic.

You liked the space. The lighting. The way the windows let in just enough natural light to make everything feel alive, like it wasn't all just polished steel and glass. The small details grounded you in a way you hadn't expected. The world outside might've been spinning out of control, but this little corner was yours. And that was enough, for now.

The four women sat in front of you; beautiful older figures leaned over their own desks. They didn't speak much to you. No casual introductions, no offers of friendship. They just murmured the occasional "Good morning" as you walked past them every morning to your desk; they'd talk to each other, laughing and gossiping. Your heel clicks a little heavier, a little more uncertain. You were always a few minutes late. Never much of a punctual person. And every time you passed them, you felt their eyes on you, their glances lingering longer than necessary. But they never said anything, and you never asked.

You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your mind a little too distracted to focus on anything "important." You thought you'd be dealing with endless emails—replying in that perfect, overly polite tone that corporate types love. Or maybe scheduling meetings for Saint, organizing his calendar like you'd seen secretaries do in the movies. But nope. None of that.

Instead, your day started off with coffee and a doughnut. His coffee, just the way he liked it: black, no frills. And the doughnut—glazed and sweet, the kind that makes you feel like you're doing something right. You gave it to him with a smile, like a ritual offering, and he took it from your hands like it meant something.

His fingers brushed yours—accidental, probably. But they lingered. His eyes met yours. They didn't just see you. They read you.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Simple question. Too simple. But the way he said it—it unzipped something in your chest.

"I'm okay," you said, soft, almost shy. Your smile slipped out on instinct, like it had been waiting for permission.

He watched you smile. Really watched. And then he nodded, slow, like he already knew the answer before you gave it.

You let him in at ten o'clock. A man in a charcoal suit, cologne too expensive, nerves twitching in the corners of his mouth. Mister Saint didn't rush. Didn't bark orders. He just stood when he was ready, nodded once, and disappeared behind the door with the man trailing behind him like a child being summoned by his father.

It was quiet. Peaceful, almost. You took a moment, enjoying the stillness, the calmness of the space. You didn't have to fake it. It wasn't a rush of anxiety or pressure. Just... you. And a desk.

You tapped the keys, barely noticing the rhythm. A soft click-click that soothed your nerves more than it should. Instead of working, you found yourself scrolling through clothing websites. You didn't need anything, but hey, it was fun to look. So many pretty dresses and shoes that made you feel all sorts of ways—cute, fun, alive. You had the money for what you were scrolling past now, the way Franklin was paying you. You're imagining what you'd look like in them. A little daydream, a little fantasy.

Maybe he'd like this skirt.

Maybe he'd hate it.

But notice? Oh, he'd notice.

Your lips curled. Just a little.

You didn't ask how old he was. Didn't need to. Thirty-something. Close enough to know better. Far enough to ruin you.

And you?

You were starving.

You drooled.

Not in the cute, girly way either. No, you thirsted. Hard. Quiet. Secret. Like an addiction that made your palms sweat and your stomach tighten. Every time he walked into the room, your spine snapped straight like you'd been caught doing something wrong. Because you were. At least in your head.

I mean, who wouldn't?

Franklin Saint was perfect. Not in the glossy, magazine way. No, this wasn't boy-band pretty. This was grown-man, carved-from-concrete perfection. Big. Broad shoulders under tailored suits. Thick forearms veined like tree roots. Biceps you wanted to lay your head against after he ruined you.

He looked like he could pick you up without effort—over the shoulder, into his car, across state lines—and no one would stop him.

But it was his hands that really did it. Those hands.

You found your eyes drifting to them mid-conversation like gravity had a preference. Watching the way his fingers flexed when he gripped a glass. Watching how he rolled a blunt—slow, neat, precise. Watching the calluses catch the light when he touched his jaw or rubbed the back of his neck

You stared like a fool.

You tried to stop. Tried to keep eye contact like a grown woman. But then his thumb would stroke the rim of his glass, or he'd drum those thick knuckles against the table, and it was over. Your mouth would go dry. Your thighs would clench. And your brain? Gone. Just static and heat and the thought of how those hands would feel between your legs.

That's all it ever was—just fiction you played in your head.

Smutty little flickers of a world that didn't exist while you clicked through YouTube videos, watching tutorials on makeup, how to get the perfect glow, and how to do a bouncy, fun curl without frying your hair. You smiled at the thought of trying those things at home later. Maybe a new look for the weekend? Who knows? You liked how it felt to just zone out and let the hours pass by. You weren't thinking about deadlines or pressure. Just... being. The soft buzz of the computer felt like a constant hum that kept you company.

You read over that book he gave you over and over; it didn't consist of anything top secret like you thought it would. The pages were lined in his handwriting—tight, clean, no wasted motion. Like him.

"Monday: Pick up suit from dry cleaners in Beverly Hills. Dark navy, double vent, Brioni."

"Coffee: black, hot, touch of honey if I'm pissed. No cream, never sugar."

"Call Mama on Thursdays. Remind her I'm breathing.”

"Jerome likes the good cigars. Louie, don't. Don't bring 'em to the club."

His blood's in these pages. His rhythm. His rituals. Shoe sizes—11.5, Italian cut only. Suit sizes, jacket preferences. Pocket square colors.

And then the numbers. Phone numbers are like pressure points.

His mother's. His aunt and uncle. a lawyer. The second lawyer. A name you don't recognize—Twanda (DON'T ANSWER UNLESS BLEEDING).

You read that part twice. Maybe three times.

You didn't know who she was.

But now you want to.

"You like the job?" A smooth voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up, slightly startled. One of the women from the desk across from you was smiling. She wasn't typing anything, just turned toward you, her posture confident, arms casually crossed, legs crossed in that effortless way people do when they're just... comfortable.

For a moment, you couldn't help but take her in. She was beautiful. Like, really beautiful. Reminded you of someone—a little like Vanessa Williams, if you had to put a name to it. Her skin glowed, rich and smooth, her hair slicked back in a professional yet somehow effortless way. She had that vibe, that calm, controlled energy. Like she knew something you didn't. There was a nameplate at the edge of her desk, half-blocked by a stack of blank papers and a glass of water that hadn't been touched.

Gina Camplee. You tucked the name into your mind.

You blinked, trying to focus. "I-I like it," you said with a smile, your voice a little higher than you wanted it to be. Your nerves were still making themselves known, even though you were happy. You were always happy. That was just who you were. "It's... quite a bit easier than I expected." You chuckled a little, hoping it sounded natural. It did to you, but who knew what it sounded like to someone else?

She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning a little more knowing. "Easier than you expected, huh?" Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, but not in a mean way. She seemed genuinely curious, like she was giving you a chance to explain.

You nodded, giving a shy smile, trying to ease into the conversation. "Yeah, I thought there'd be more... pressure? Or a lot more to do, but... I don't know. It's been calm." You shrugged, not really sure why it felt so strange. It was just a job. But it wasn't just a job, not really. There was something else, something off about it that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

She studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing just a little. It felt like she was measuring you, seeing if you were hiding something or if you were just really that... naive. Maybe it was the way she sat, the way she carried herself. It was the kind of confidence that only came with experience, with knowing exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back.

"I'm sure it's calm now," she said, breaking your trance. "But things have a way of getting... interesting around here." She uncrossed her arms, leaning back just a little. "Franklin likes to keep things unpredictable."

You nodded, smiling brightly. "I'm up for interesting!" You couldn't help it. The optimism just bubbled out of you, no matter what. You weren't about to let any of the unknowns get to you, not yet. You hadn't even been here long enough to feel any of that "pressure" everyone seemed to talk about. Right now, you were just... here, and that was enough.

She smiled again, this time a little softer, but there was something behind it that made you pause. It wasn't a judgmental smile, but a knowing one. Like she had seen this story before, maybe more times than you'd ever know.

"You'll find your rhythm," she said, her voice lighter, almost reassuring. "just show up and do what he says, easy."

You nodded, trying to let the words sink in, but your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Somewhere that was just a little too far ahead. "I will," you said, smiling again, because that's what you always did.

You couldn't help but wonder, though, if she knew more. If she knew what he did outside of this perfect, pristine office. She had to, right? She must have seen something, heard something. Franklin Saint wasn't the type of man to just be... normal. You knew his name, his age, and that he hated smoking. That was it. Nothing else. Not a single glimpse of what lay beneath the tailored suits, the sharp eyes, and the polite smiles.

You glanced up at her again, catching her eye. "Hey, uh..." you said, your voice softer this time, tentative. "Can you tell me more about him?" You weren't sure why you asked. Maybe it was the curiosity. Maybe it was the way he made you feel—like you were just a little out of place, but in the best way possible.

She turned toward you again, this time raising an eyebrow, her expression almost teasing. "You want to know if he's married?" she asked, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Your face heated up, the flush creeping up your neck. "I—" you stammered, embarrassed that she'd caught you so off guard. Of course, that wasn't what you meant. You just... wanted to know more. But she could probably tell the real question before it even left your mouth.

"If he was," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "the wife wouldn't appreciate the way he looks at you." She said it matter-of-factly, like she had seen it a hundred times before, like it was just an obvious truth in the office.

Her words hung in the air like a sharp breath. You stared at her, stunned, trying to figure out what exactly she meant. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you quickly forced your gaze back to your desk, your fingers playing nervously with a pen. You couldn't dwell on it—couldn't let yourself get lost in that thought, not now, not when the office was so... quiet and unpredictable.

Just as Gina's words began to settle—curling around your ribs like smoke you couldn't exhale—the call box on your desk crackled to life, that familiar static popping like a nerve firing too close to the surface.

"Sweetheart, I need you."

Franklin's voice oozed through the speaker, thick and smooth like honey sliding over a blade. That word—sweetheart—again. Always, sweetheart.

He never used your name. Never "Miss," never the clipped professionalism he reserved for everyone else in his orbit. With you, it was different. There was always a softness laced with something heavier. Darling. Honey. Sweetheart. Like you weren't on his payroll but his tongue. Like you were meant to come undone just from the sound of him.

You told yourself it didn't mean anything. Just a generational thing. Men like him always spoke like that—charming, old-school, slightly patronizing. You told yourself not to linger on it. Not to romanticize the way his voice dipped when he said it. Not to ache when he lingered on the word like it tasted good.

But gosh, you ached.

You wanted it to mean something so bad it stung.

You rolled your chair back and rose slowly, smoothing your skirt with trembling fingers before you walked to his door. You opened it just in time to see the older man he'd been meeting with step past you, cologne thick and sour in the air as he muttered something under his breath. He didn't look at you. He just nodded stiffly and shut the door behind him with a soft click, like punctuation.

Then it was just you and Franklin.

He stood by the window, backlit by late-afternoon gold, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his suit hugging him like it was tailored by God himself. Still. Regal. A statue made of heat and ego.

His gaze landed on you—so pretty. he thought

From your hair, pulled tight and neat, to the subtle gloss on your lips. Down the curve of your chest, the gentle dip of your waist. The way you chose a light pink blouse today that matched with your brown pleated skirt, tight enough to make him wonder how long you'd stood in the mirror, smoothing it, adjusting it, planning it.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The shape of your thighs. The way your knees knocked ever so slightly inward, like your body didn't quite know what to do under his gaze. The heels were modest, office-appropriate, but the way your toes pointed—nervous, uncertain—lit something in him. Something interesting.

"Hi, Mr. Saint... How did the meeting go?" You asked, soft and stammering, your voice slipping out too gentle, too exposed.

The smile you offered was all surface—mirror-polished, practiced to hell. It was the smile you wore when you needed to pretend your hands weren't twitching, that your pulse wasn't sprinting behind your ears. But Franklin saw right through it. Saw how your fingers danced at the hem of your blouse, tugging, fiddling, betraying you in real time.

He tilted his head, just slightly. That look of his—half amused, half predatory. Like he knew exactly how to unravel you and was only deciding how long he wanted to take.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

He let the silence bloom.

It stretched long and thin between you, a thread pulled tight. The kind that holds breath hostage. The kind that says, Don't move.

Then, one step.

Just one.

He moved closer to his desk, dragging his fingers across the edge—mahogany catching the gold of his watch, glinting like a threat. Every gesture precise. Controlled. Like even his silence was curated.

"The meeting went..." He paused, like he was choosing his words for effect, "...very well...Did that guy look trustworthy to you?" He asked, like it was a genuine question.

"I... I'm not sure," you said, truthfully. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, a light barrier, your smile thinning. "He didn't say much."

Franklin hummed, a low, amused sound that vibrated more in your chest than your ears. He kept his eyes on you, like you were the one under investigation.

"Exactly," he murmured, jaw tightening for just a flicker of a second. "and people who don't talk much? They're either hiding something, or they think they're smarter than everyone else."

He leaned back on the desk now, hands gripping the edge behind him, legs slightly spread, relaxed like a panther in the sun—gorgeous and deadly. Watching you. Reading you.

"Which do you think he is, sweetheart?"

Your throat went dry. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, like that'd help you dodge the heat crawling up your spine. Franklin had a way of making a question sound like a test, like the answer mattered more than you realized.

"... I think he just doesn't say much, like he... he lets his business do the talking," you said, finally. The words came gently but whole, carried by a thread of courage you barely felt. Your eyes held his—just enough to show you weren't scared, but not enough to drown in him. Not yet.

And then—he smiled.

Not soft. Not kind. Not the sort of smile you earn. This one was sharper. Like he'd already solved the riddle and just wanted to hear what shape your mouth would make trying to solve it, too.

It wasn't approval.

It was interest.

"Good girl," he said, and the sound of it coiled straight through you. Low. Warm. A little too pleased.

Your body lit up before your brain could catch up. That phrase—good girl—you'd only ever heard it in those private little daydreams. The ones you had no business entertaining. The ones that made your thighs clench under your desk while you chewed your lip and tried to remember how to breathe.

Now it was real.

And it wrecked you.

You didn't know what to say. Didn't trust your voice not to give you away. All you could do was stand there and feel the heat rise from your chest to your cheeks to the place between your legs that tightened, traitorous and alive.

"I like that," he murmured, the edges of his voice rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams. "That you pay attention."

He moved, slow and sure, circling the desk like it wasn't furniture but a piece of terrain. Like you were the destination. Each step quiet, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to close the space between you.

Your spine straightened, like instinct, like prey spotting the slow approach of something much larger than itself.

"Thank you, Mr. Saint—" you started, breath catching on the edge of your words.

"Just call me Saint, lovely," he cut in, flashing a grin that was all sin dressed in silk. Teeth barely visible. Heat behind the charm. A joke with a blade tucked in its belly.

"I'm only thirty."

"Okay..." you said, hesitating for the briefest second before letting it fall from your mouth, "Saint." The word felt strange on your tongue—too casual, too intimate—but it came out anyway, soft and unsure, like you were tasting it for the first time. And maybe you were.

He heard it.

Felt it.

Watched it settle in the space between you.

He leaned back in his chair like he owned gravity. Legs spread, one hand lazily draped over the armrest, the other toying with a gold pen like it was a cigar. His smile was a smirk now, slow and knowing. Like he'd just slipped a key into a lock and was waiting to see if the door would open.

"How lovely does that sound?" he said, voice dipped in molasses, eyes trained on yours. "You should use it more often."

And fuck, your face burned.

The heat crept down your neck, across your chest, blooming in your belly. You blinked hard, trying to keep still. To hide how your body betrayed you. But it didn't matter. Franklin saw it. He always did. You shifted just slightly on your feet, and that was enough.

He clocked everything.

"You like working for me so far?" He asked, tone light, but there was nothing innocent about it.

The way he looked at you made the air feel thicker. Like if you breathed too deeply, you might swallow more than oxygen.

"I... I do," you said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "It's different here. Quiet. Clean."

You looked around, pretending to study the office like that was what had your attention, not the way Saint was watching you like he could read the heat under your skin.

"...And you're not like the other bosses I've had."

He chuckled, low and amused, like you'd just handed him a compliment wrapped in a secret.

"No, I'm not," he said. "And I don't plan to be."

There was a pause. Heavy. Lingering. Then—

"Come here for a second," he said.

Not a request. A command, soft-wrapped in charm.

Your legs moved before you could even think about it. You stepped around his desk, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome marking time, every beat louder in your chest.

He watched as you approached—like he was measuring your steps, your breath, and the way your skirt moved when you walked.

When you were close enough to smell his cologne—sharp, woodsy, expensive—he slid papers over to you.

"Read the small paper to me first, out loud," he said, his voice even, casual. Then added, "Then the two others—go over them for errors."

You blinked, thrown for half a second by how mundane the request sounded. That's it? Just read?

"Read it?" you asked, like maybe you hadn't heard him right.

"Mhm," he hummed, settling deeper into the leather, thighs parting just slightly. Just enough. And you knew it wasn't for comfort—it was deliberate. Calculated. The kind of move meant to short-circuit whatever train of thought you were clinging to.

"Out loud."

Your fingers reached for the paper with a shake you hoped he couldn't see. It felt like silk against your skin—thick, creamy, clearly expensive. Not something that got printed on an office copier. It looked like it belonged in a gilded envelope, carried by hand, maybe with a wax seal to match the weight of his name.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "Please join us—"

"Skip that part," he said, with that same low firmness, like velvet wrapped around command. "Start from my name."

You swallowed. Nodded. Your fingers tightened just slightly on the edge of the paper. "Franklin Saint, you are invited to the 40th birthday celebration of Weston Port. RSVP at the number provided at the bottom of the invitation. We would love to have you here”—

He cut you off with a soft laugh. "Love to have you here," he repeated, his voice rich with something mocking. His mouth curled into that half-smirk, the one that always felt like he was letting you in on a joke with teeth.

Then he tilted his head, eyes still locked on yours.

"That guy hates me, by the way."

You lowered the paper slowly, pulse skipping, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or choke on the heat rising up your chest. "Why does he hate you?"

His smile stretched—wider this time, not kinder.

A quiet kind of cruelty in the corners of his mouth.

"Because his wife prefers me."

It wasn't a boast. It wasn't flirtation, either.

The way he said it—it was fact. Cold. Solid. Undeniable.

The air shifted.

The words didn't hit like a joke. They landed like a dropped match on gasoline, sharp and sudden, making something ignite deep in your gut. You froze—lips parted, breath caught halfway to your lungs.

Jealousy came quickly. Hot and ugly.

Possessive in a way that made no sense.

You had no claim on him. You weren't his. He wasn't yours.

But still—it burned. Low in your belly, a molten thing curled around your spine and made your fists clench just slightly around the paper.

Franklin watched you with that maddening calm, the kind that said he'd already dissected every inch of your reaction before you even had the chance to hide it. Like he could smell the jealousy on you. Like it pleased him.

You looked down at the papers again, tried to focus, tried to pretend the tightness in your chest wasn't there—but your hands were trembling now. Barely, but enough. Enough to betray you.

He waited a beat, letting the silence press in again like a thumb to your throat.

"Now," he said, slow and sure, voice thick with authority. "go over the other two. I want clean copies. No spelling errors. No missed details."

You nodded, eyes flicking back up to meet his.

You knew. But he was studying you again, reading every twitch in your face, every slight shift in breath.

You could feel it. The way his gaze followed your pupils as they darted from side to side, trying to keep up, trying to look like you knew exactly what you were reading—even though you didn't. Not really. Just enough to fake it. Just enough to please him.

and again, your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

"Is his wife's name... Twanda?" You asked, voice low, almost ashamed of how badly you needed to know.

You risked a glance. And there it was. That smirk again. That wicked amusement curling at the edge of his lips like smoke.

He chuckled, soft and dangerous. "I'm glad you're remembering the book," he said, leaning back.

You could feel it radiating off him now—the satisfaction. Not just that you remembered. But what you remembered. He saw the jealousy in your question, bleeding through every syllable, and it lit something in him.

His baby. Jealous.

He liked it. He liked it too much. You didn't know it, but he did—every damn night he pictured you. His girl on her knees. Obedient. Beautiful. Unguarded. The thought kept him up, aching.

"You told me to, so I did," you murmured back, still focused on the pages in front of you.

You were done.

You’ve been done.

But flipping through them gave you something to do with your hands. Something to hide behind, because eye contact now would wreck you.

He huffed a little, leaning forward just enough to make you feel it in your chest. Then his voice dropped, close and quiet:

"Twanda is a close friend of my mother's," he said finally, his voice easy now, like he wasn't aware of the war he'd started in your chest. "She used to call a lot. And I mean a lot. Trivial things."

He shrugged, all casual indifference, like it didn't matter—but something in the way his jaw flexed said maybe it did.

"She got the hint, maybe," he added, more to himself than to you. "The last time I spoke to her was Christmas."

That landed in the air with a soft finality. No bitterness.

No regrets. Just a fact. And yet you couldn't stop the flicker of relief that bloomed inside you, wild and warm.

You nodded like it was nothing. Like you didn't just unclench your jaw.

"Got it," you murmured, going back to the papers with renewed focus, though the words on the page were a blur now, your mind far from ink and margins.

"Got a boyfriend?" he asked, his voice casual but dipped in something more—curiosity, maybe. Or calculation. Like he already knew and was asking for the sake of watching how you'd react.

Your fingers paused at the corner of the page, still touching the paper but no longer moving. You looked up slowly, caught between surprise and uncertainty, eyes just a shade too wide. The kind of look that wasn't rehearsed.

He caught it.

"Oh—sorry. A girlfriend?" His tone softened, a half-correction, eyebrow lifting like he was opening the door wider.

You laughed, quick and quiet, covering your mouth out of instinct. "No, no. Neither," you said, voice light, but the air around it felt heavier. "Ended something last year, around July. Since then it's just been... me."

You didn't mean to trail off like that, but the words sat strange in your mouth—familiar, but tired. He didn't speak, just nodded once, slow, like he was letting it settle. Like he understood more than he let on.

"Long one?" he asked after a pause, eyes still on you, but softer now. Less study, more presence.

You hesitated, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper. "Yeah. Long enough to feel like a part of me went with it. We were together for a while. Thought it was going to be... I don't know. Everything....He cheated, so”

Who the hell could cheat on someone like you? Franklin couldn't wrap his head around it. The way you walked into a room like sunlight—soft but impossible to ignore. Smart, sweet, with a voice that made even silence feel intimate. You weren't just beautiful; you were rare. The kind of woman a man should get on his knees for. And some idiot threw that away.

Good. That meant you were free now. That meant he could have you.

And Saint wanted you. Not later. Not in some slow-burn fantasy he dragged out over months. Now.

He watched you from his seat, jaw tight, chest heavy with it. Your smile. The curve of your throat when you laughed. The way your fingers curled around the edge of your chair like you needed to hold onto something. He wanted to be that something.

Fuck waiting.

He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind—sweeping everything off his desk, your gasp swallowed in his mouth, his hands gripping your wrists as your back met the cold wood. Him, between your thighs, desperate and rough, finally tasting the thing he'd been circling for weeks.

And you'd let him. He saw it in the way your gaze lingered too long, in the way your thighs shifted when the room got quiet. You wanted it too. Maybe you didn't know how to say it yet. Maybe you were still telling yourself you shouldn't. But Franklin Saint didn't deal in shouldn't.

Just one word from you—one look—and he'd show you exactly what it means to be wanted.

When you finally put the paper down, ready to tell him you'd found no errors, something small thudded against the carpet. You looked down—pencils, a lots of them, scattered and rolling across the floor like tiny messengers of clumsiness. Your breath caught. You realized they'd slipped off the edge of the desk on your side. Your fault.

"I'm so sorry," you said quickly, already half-bending down.

What you didn't see was the flicker of a smirk slicing across his face behind you. It came and went like lightning—quick, precise, almost cruel.

"It's alright," Franklin said, smooth as velvet. "Could you get those for me, lovely?"

His voice was calm, but there was something heavier sitting beneath the surface. Like thunder building behind a polite sky. He wore that look again—the one that made your stomach dip. Gentle mouth, shadowed eyes. A man pretending at softness, while something darker simmered behind his gaze.

You nodded without thinking.

"Yes, sir," you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

Then your knees hit the floor, bare against the plush rug, and you bent to gather the pencils in your hands. One by one. Delicate. Careful. His silence stretched above you, a humid thing.

He watched, eyes hooded, as you reached further under his desk—watched the way your hand went instinctively to the hem of your skirt, trying to hold it down. Modest. Careful. But it was no use. The skirt was too short, and you'd worn nothing beneath it. No tights. No shorts. Just skin and nerve endings and a poor little excuse for a barrier.

His gaze didn't flinch.

The air in the room shifted, heavy and slow like molasses in the summer. Tension swelled, thick enough to chew. On the surface, you were just picking up pencils—a harmless task.

He turned everything into intention.

You could feel it, the weight of his stare glued to your body, and suddenly your own heartbeat was deafening. Slamming through your chest, echoing in your ears. You stayed on your knees, breath shallow, fingers curling around pencil after pencil, each one slower than the last. One by one. Deliberate.

It wasn't just tension anymore. It was anticipation.

Then—you felt it.

something you didn't think he would be so bold to do.

As you had been picking up the lines of graphite, he had tucked his leather shoe underneath your skirt and lifted it up, making your eyes widen. Your heartbeat falls into the depths of your innards as cold sweat starts to rear its existence after the catalyst of Saint's actions. You felt the tip of his shoe rub against the fat of your ass, and hearing his shallow breath added a hotter tension into the room that made you feel suffocated. All you did was look back as your body shook, feeling the nerves reverberate through you.

"... What are you-"

"Shh... You're so pretty like this... on your knees." He lifted your skirt even higher to expose the lacy pink thong and your exposed ass. "So sexy," he continued to whisper his seductive praises.

He sat back in his chair, letting the tip of his shoe press into the fat that made a plushy indentation that made his cock twitch within his trousers; you were so vulnerable, so unknowing, and he just wanted to take you right then and there as he felt your shuddering body to his touch. His smirk only widened when he witnessed you weren't doing anything.

But that was the point. You were simply there—kneeling, soft, unguarded. And that made it even better.

He saw the way your lip caught between your teeth, trying to quiet the sound building in your throat.

And gosh, that little motion? That was his favorite part.

"Oh, do you like this, sweetheart?" He wasn't going to make you answer; he liked you all nervous and too embarrassed to admit that you liked having your own boss appreciate and want to use your body. He felt like he had won the lottery with how willing your body was for him.

"Hm, I love having you around... It's so sexy when you walk around the place... But I want more than you just playing secretary." He watched as your pupils swallowed the color of your eyes as you looked at him through a shuddering chest from broken breaths.

"Turn around for me; I want to see that pretty face more clearly." At your own volition, you quickly obeyed without hesitancy, watching as he opened his legs and the growing bulge that was starting to develop underneath his navy trousers, imminently making you blush as you watched how your body affected him, how just the sight of your panties was making him rock hard underneath the cloth.

"You're a good girl , aren't you?"

"Mmhmm," you nodded in your timid response as you looked up at him with those 'fuck me' eyes.

"Yeah, you are," he said, his voice warm now, praising like a reward. He leaned forward, his hand finding your face with startling gentleness. Big, firm fingers cradling your cheek like it belonged there. Your body responded before your mind caught up—cheek nuzzling into his palm, chasing that heat, that gravity. Subconscious. Instinctive. You fit against him like you were made for it.

Whatever doubts you'd carried—those silly thoughts that he'd never even notice you, that someone like Franklin Saint couldn't possibly see you that way—they melted under the weight of his touch. Under the closeness. The heat that poured off his body like static before a storm.

"How about you take care of me... I've been feeling so stressed... I'm sure you can help me out with that, can't you?" His voice was just like whiskey, smooth in its feeling but also a sensation of burning with how warmth pooled around your core and started to soak around your slit as your clit throbbed under the desire to be touched and to touch him.

"What do... What do you want me to do?" You whispered, almost pathetically, as your pillowy and glossy lips parted as if you knew exactly where this was going; you weren't completely stupid.

"I want to use that pretty mouth of yours for something good," he said, voice low and heavy with intent, fingers moving to unbuckle his belt. The metallic clink cut through the thick air like a warning—or a promise—and your breath hitched on instinct. The sound made your thighs press tighter together, your pussy throbbing against the now-soaked lace barrier that barely held your arousal in check.

He lifted his hips just enough to slide his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion, and there—his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, proud in its demand. The sheer size of it made your breath catch in your throat. It was flushed, already hard, with the tip glistening like it had been waiting just for you. He didn't need to say another word. That clock spoke volumes.

"Be a good girl and suck it..." he murmured, one hand resting lazily on the armrest as he stared down at you like you were his reward. "You wouldn't want your boss stressed, would you?"

You shook your head quickly, your voice trembling with need. "No. No, I wouldn't."

Your hands rose to wrap around the base, fingers struggling to meet on the underside as you pumped him slowly, reverently. The vein along the length of his shaft throbbed against your soft palms, your thumb swiping over the bead of pre-drip dripping from the swollen head. His breath stuttered—a sharp inhale through gritted teeth.

You looked up at him, locking eyes with that dark, unreadable gaze, and then leaned in. Your tongue dragged a long, slow stripe up from the base to the tip, savoring the heat and weight of him, the way his cock twitched under your attention. His hand tightened on the armrest.

Then you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, wet and warm, lips stretched around his thickness. The taste of him, salty and heavy with want, coated your tongue as you moaned around him—soft, muffled, sinful.

Franklin's head fell back, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, fuck, yes, you're so good at that." His fingers started to tangle in your previously neat hair, causing frizzy strands to strike up as he smoothed his palms over your scalp, gently bucking his hips to guide his cock further into the warm and soaking valley of your mouth and throat.

You softly gagged at the feeling of his fat cock pressing against the back of your throat; you loved this, feeling your glossy lips stretch around him and tasting his salty length as you continued to suck and feel him.

"A-aah, yeah, you're taking me so well," he whispered another praise before he started to feel a little greedy. "Why don't you take that blouse off... I want to see those pretty tits."

You took your mouth off of him in a loud, wet popping sound that made him shudder as the cold air pressed against his cock, continuing to palm and pump his throbbing length as he watched you unbutton the silk blouse until it became discarded cloth on the floor, soon accompanied by your black lace bra.

You felt that pleasurable tingling feeling within your walls and a heated coil that was heating up as it tied together tightly when you squeezed the mounds of your chest for him, letting soft whimpers protrude from your lips as you squeezed onto the sensitive buds when looking into his darkened gaze.

Franklin leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like a shadow swallowing light. His hands peeled away from the armrests, the tension in his shoulders rippling as he shifted over you, dominant and calm, like he had all the time in the world to savor this.

Then—his palms landed on your chest, warm and heavy, cupping the weight of your bare breasts. No hesitation. No apology. Just need to meet with ownership.

He kneaded them slowly, thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples, dragging them into stiffness. You gasped around his cock, the sensation electric, like he was rewiring your nerves. He never broke eye contact. He just stared down at you like you were his sweetest sin, his most beautiful disaster.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with pride and lust. "Such a mess."

Spit trailed down your cheek, the slick sheen around your lips catching the light, your eyes glassy with pleasure and overwhelming need. Your thighs squeezed together as you moaned to him again.

You were flustered, ruined—his good girl brought to the edge.

His presence was demanding, yet arousing at the same time; a superior shouldn't be doing this to their secretary, but let's be honest, the fantasy has been around for as long as can be remembered; it wasn't like you were complaining that an attractive older man wanted to use you as a cocksleeve. Of course, there was the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that this power dynamic was wrong; you were his employee, and it was highly inappropriate for him to be treating you like this, but the libido soon squelched the rational down as your heated core was wanting to take him on further.

You made his head fall back onto the headrest of his office chair again when you continued to leave swirls from your tongue on the tip of his dribbling cock, tasting that salty and creamy precum as you watched his chest fall up and down in broken tandem to his labored breaths. You could feel your panties become completely soaked when a slow, gushing release came down in your finish as you wrapped your breasts around his large cock and heard his sensual moans fill his office room up.

"Fuck, aaah, keep going, don't stop, making me feel so good," he kept caressing your cheek as he watched you leave kitten licks on the tip of your warm, plushy breasts hugged around his shaft. "Such a perfect, sexy girl."

You sucked on the tip of his fat cock, watching him bite his lip.

"I'm so close... Stop for a moment."

The command was sharp but hushed, laced with restraint—his voice strained from holding himself back. You obeyed instantly, lips releasing him with a soft pop, breath catching as your mouth ached and your chin glistened with the evidence of just how good you'd been.

"Stand up," he said.

You didn't think twice. Your legs were trembling, barely holding your weight, but you stood—still buzzing from the heat of his hands, the ache of his cock in your mouth, and the denial that left you soaked and desperate. Your fingers ghosted over the hem of your skirt, trying to fix it, even though the fabric clung to your thighs, damp with your own arousal. You felt exposed. Ruined. Beautiful.

Your eyes never left him.

He moved with a smooth, unbothered calm, reaching into the drawer beside him like he'd done this a hundred times before. No urgency. No shame. Just pure, collected dominance. You watched him pull out his wallet, the soft leather creasing in his palm, and then—between two fingers—he slipped out a small, gold package.

Your breath caught.

"Get on the desk," he said, his voice low and rich, thick with the promise of everything he'd been holding back. "Spread your legs so I can see."

Your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You turned, the edge of the desk cold against your thighs as you climbed up, palms pressing into the wood for balance. Slowly, you leaned back, your knees parting inch by inch, the cool air meeting the heat between your legs as you revealed everything to him—lace soaked through, clinging to swollen lips, proof of your need written into every curve and shiver.

Franklin stood there, gold wrapper in hand, eyes locked between your thighs like a man staring at salvation.

"Fuck, baby..." he groaned, the sound raw, almost a whimper. There was nothing controlled about it anymore—just want. Heavy. Undeniable. His composure cracked in real time, and it only made your core throb harder, slick gathering with every second he looked at you like that.

He stepped closer, his hands finding the waistband of your panties, fingers curling into the lace.

One sharp tug.

The soaked fabric peeled from your skin like second nature, dragging across your sensitive folds and stealing a gasp from your lips. He didn't move slowly. He didn't ask. He took. The lace hit the floor in an instant, forgotten.

And there you were—open, glistening, your plump, wet cunt exposed to the thick air and his starving gaze.

you lean back a little more, and slowly spread your thighs more, opening up more so the ball of nerves would be exposed as well as your dripping hole. Your heels were gone, kicked off in the heat of it all. Now your soft, pretty white toes gripped the desk's edge, barely holding you in place as you arched slightly,

Your pussy sat there in the light, bare and soaked and ready, a perfect picture of surrender and need.

Franklin He stood frozen for a heartbeat—mouth parted, jaw slack. The raw hunger in his face wasn't subtle. It was worship. It was claiming.

"Shit ..." he breathed, more to himself than to you, like he wasn't sure how he'd held back this long.

The gold wrapper crinkled in his fist as he fought with it, hands no longer slow or calculated—now frantic, desperate to be inside you. He tore it open, pulled the rubber free, and with one long stroke, slid it over his thick, leaking cock. The sight of him standing there, hard and ready, made your hips twitch off the desk in anticipation.

He wrapped his fingers around the base, gave himself one firm pump, eyes never leaving your dripping cunt.

And then—he stepped closer to your legs.

Your legs instinctively slid closer together, thighs brushing, nerves creeping in like a shadow. For a moment, you let the reality of his size sink in—the sheer weight of it, the way it curved in his grip, thick and pulsing. You tilted your chin up, eyes wide and uncertain, a soft breath catching in your throat.

"Franklin... It's so big, I— I haven't had that big before—"

Your words came out like a whisper, stammered and laced with equal parts awe and fear.

But he didn't soothe you. He didn't stroke your hair or offer gentle words.

No.

His voice cut through the air like a blade—rough, commanding, dripping with authority and hunger.

"Spread them," he growled, stepping closer, the tip of his cock brushing your inner thigh. "Or I'll spread them for you."

That tone—it flipped a switch inside you. Something primal. Something submissive and aching to obey.

You weren't used to it. Not from him. Not from anyone.

Which is why your thighs flew open , trembling as you obeyed instantly, wide and dripping and ready. Your pussy glistened under the light again, exposed and aching, your core fluttering with anticipation and the sharp thrill of giving up control.

Franklin's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, thick and pulsing with heat as he dragged it slowly through your folds, letting your slick coat every inch of him. He moved deliberately, smearing himself in your arousal, the swollen head brushing over your clit just enough to make your back arch and a broken whimper slip from your lips.

Your hands lifted—finally—like your body couldn't stay passive any longer. They found his arms, fingers curling into his firm biceps, grounding yourself in him as he bit down on his bottom lip, gaze locked between your thighs. His cock slid up and down again, gliding with ease now, teasing your entrance as he groaned low and deep in his chest.

One hand gripped your knee and held, keeping you wide open. You tried to close your thighs reflexively, overwhelmed, but he didn't let you—not even for a second. His fingers dug in, possessive, commanding, holding you in place as his cockhead smeared your wetness across your folds again and again, each stroke making the tension coil tighter in your gut.

"You're so wet, baby..." he muttered, voice distant, lost. Like he forgot where he was—forgot about the office, the company, the windows overlooking downtown. None of it mattered now. Just your cunt, open and ready. His temple dropped back, jaw slack with a sigh that sounded like worship.

"Ahh, f-fuck." Your eyes couldn't leave his face. He was beautiful like this—undone, needy, lost in you. You were soaked, ruined, panting—his.

A mess.

Then, with one greedy, careless push—he found your entrance. You gasped. Bite your tongue. He slipped in too easily, too naturally, as if your body had been made for him.

He moaned under his breath, hips rolling as he fed more of himself into you, slow and relentless, until he bottomed out. His hips pressed flush to yours, his balls snug against the curve of your ass, and you let out a fragile little sound, something between a gasp and a moan, helpless to the fullness.

"You okay, baby?" He murmured, breath unsteady. One of his hands moved to your waist, his thumb stroking your side. "How does that feel?"

Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, sucking him deeper, as if your body didn't want to let him go. He shuddered from the feeling, his eyes softening, something dangerously close to adoration swimming there.

You could barely breathe. You were floating.

And then it came out of you—raw, unplanned, honest.

"Daddy... it feels so good," you whimpered, your voice all breath and silk, breaking apart under the weight of him inside you. Eyes wide, glassy, cheeks flushed—the picture of soft surrender. You looked like the sweetest kind of mess, like the type of girl who gets what she wants just by pouting pretty and parting her thighs. A spoiled little pillow princess laid out and ruined just right.

Franklin looked down at you, heat licking through his chest at the sight. His jaw tightened, but that smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, knowing, cruel.

"I know baby," he murmurs in a taunting way. "I know."

"Don't s-stop, i–i'm almost there—" you gasp, the words tumbling out in pieces, each syllable cracked open by the rhythm of his thrusts. You're begging now—for air, for mercy, for him to never stop. Because you're right on the edge, teetering on the brink of something too good, too deep. Bliss, heaven, him.

Franklin's grip tightens on your waist, and he leans in until his forehead presses to yours, eyes blazing.

"I won't," he pants, breath ragged, voice rough with focus and fire. "I won't. I promise, princess."

His words hit you like a vow, low and serious, each one chased by the sound of skin against skin and the heat of his body overwhelming yours. He doesn't stop—not even for a second. His hips stay steady, relentless, chasing your high like it's the only thing that matters.

And the way he's looking at you—like you're the only girl in the world, like nothing else exists but your shaking body under his—makes you fall apart just that much faster.

You were a dirty girl, and you knew it. You knew it the second you opened your legs and let him see how wet you already were, how easily your body betrayed every little game you thought you could play. You thought you'd last, thought you could take it and keep some kind of control—but Franklin Saint stripped that away from you with nothing but a look and a few deep, unrelenting strokes.

Now you were here—writhing beneath him, back arched and breath catching in your throat. You were moaning into his ear, the words filthy, soft, and broken. almost slipping, "I love you, I love you," like he was the last man you'll ever be with. It was just the way he filled you so deep it felt like he lived inside your bones.

You were so close.

"I can't, baby... Uh, fuck daddy." Your brain is already melting, and with it, your pussy starts to melt more. You wonder if he even notices such a thing from how he's basically fucking you now like his life depended on it.

"You want to cum pretty?" He pants on your face for a second, seeing how your eyes were starting to roll.

Your fingers find his shirt, skimming the side seam of the cotton separating you from his skin. He grabs onto you tighter, like he's afraid you might slip away. His thrusts turn rougher, deeper, and more desperate—driven by something primal and possessive. You can feel the muscles in his back shift under your hands, feel the heat radiating off him, and see the way his shirt sticks to his skin with the sweat he's working up just for you.

"Touching' me like that," he growls near your ear, voice thick with heat, "is going to make me lose my fucking' mind."

You can feel the tremble in his arms, the shake in his breath, and the way he fucks you like he needs it. Like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.

"cum for me, baby. I'll give you everything you want, princess ... whatever you need," he coos into your ear while fucking you hard, his voice so soft.

The cries tearing through the room are yours—but they barely sound like you anymore. They're ragged and raw, wrecked beyond recognition. So pathetic, so desperate, like a girl who's never known anything like this. Like a girl who's unraveling with him buried so deep inside, it feels like he's splitting your soul wide open just to claim it.

Your body jerks beneath him, hips twitching with every thrust like you're chasing the end, like you need to take him with you. And he matches it—his hips punching into you with purpose, power, like he's determined to finish with you, in you, no matter what it takes.

He expected this from you. Expected you to be needy, expected your sweet cunt to be this wet, this messy, this perfect.

And still, the way you clamp around him with every pulse of your orgasm nearly undoes him. It's a miracle he's still inside, thick and hard, when you're so slippery, so drenched, his cock sliding through the heat of you like velvet wrapped in wet silk.

He thrusts into you like he's got something to prove—like every brutal thrust is a punishment and a prayer. His rhythm is ruthless, unrelenting, the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked flesh echoing off the office walls like filth wrapped in rhythm. There's nothing sweet about it now—this is pure possession, raw and animal, like he's been saving this part of himself just for you.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave pulling you under, leaving you limp, trembling, a boneless mess. But he doesn't stop. Not even a little. He uses your body like it's his right, his reward, barely coherent with the things he's saying—gritted praise, ragged groans, something about how tight you are, how good you feel, how his you are.

Then his muscles snap taut.

He throws his head back, curses low and feral, and pulls out of you so fast it makes your breath hitch. The condom's off in a blink. His jaw clenched, his hand jerks his cock once, twice—and then hot, thick release spills from him, shooting across your stomach, your cunt, painting you in sticky ribbons of lust. He groans through it.

And when he's emptied himself, when the haze finally lifts, he collapses into his chair, chest rising and falling fast. He's still facing you—still watching.

You're frozen in place, arched and open, breath coming in frantic little stutters. Your thighs twitch. Your body's ruined. Your mind Gone.

beautiful.