#ROOSASUT

[pettyprocrastination]

Dinner for Three

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Fem!Reader

OneShot: This is just a non-canon fic! This is basically placed AFTER the timelines of this fic, just a fun little side ficlet surrounding you and the lords after yall get together in celebration of Valentines day!

*If you want to read the rest of the fic so far here's a link to my masterlist where you can find Rip Out Our Seams & Stitch Us Together*

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: profanity, some groping going on and kissing. That's about it! Fluff and talking of self-worth.

Summary: It's Valentine's Day, you decide to treat Valerie to a nice homecooked dinner, Maxwell joins you when he returns home from work.

If the formatting is fucked im sorry tumblr fucked this like three times today im just trying to get it POSTED for you all.

Tag List: @captainsamwlsn @themarcusmoreno @cinewhore @thesadvampire @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @readsalot73 @holographic-carmen @honestlystop @thecrimsonsquire @phoenixhalliwell @that-chick212 @phantomnae @goldafterglow

If I forgot to tag you I'm so sorry please let me know!

Notes: BIG thank you to @ficsilike-reblogged who bought me a kofi! I know i was meant to do asomething shorter but i couldn't help myself! Also my usual big thanks for the ever lovely @teaofpeach for editing for me you are an absolute treat my dear ily <3

(i coudn't find any good lasagna gifs the TRAGEDY)

“What in God’s name are you wearing?”

You turned around at the shocked voice to see Valerie standing in the kitchen doorway, red painted lips dropped open.

You grinned and planted your hands on your hips with pride. “My Valentine’s Day outfit! You don’t like it?”

Her face fell flat as she looked you up and down; the main culprit of her disdain was the shirt you wore, buttoned neatly and covered in hearts. “Hon, you look like a cartoon character.”

You wiggled your brows. “A sexy cartoon character?”

“Remind me again why I love you?”

Hearing the word ‘love’ from Valerie Lord would never not send your heart into a frenzy. It had been months since the gala, since they had told you about their feelings with courage brought on my champagne and their own confessions to one another.

They finally had each other, why couldn't they have you as well?

Of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a… learning curve. When it came to the relationship, Valerie was bad at sharing her feelings. Sure, she’d say when she didn’t like somebody, or when she thought certain food tasted bad or when Maxwell’s new cologne smelled like rat shit. But she wouldn’t tell you when she was sad, insecure or felt like she wasn’t enough for the both of you.

Maxwell was too concerned with the outer view of the relationship, as he had been with Valerie since they got married. It was suspicious of course, for him to be seen leaving with a “mystery woman” without his wife around, so he took certain precautions. When out and about, he would take too much time fretting over the cameras and questions than you.

These precautions nearly cost them your relationship, their sweet girl who brought them together and showed them love and care and made them realize while they couldn't live without each other, they couldn’t live without you as well.

But now, they knew this. That you weren’t a fling who could be replaced. Your nimble fingers had stitched their beating hearts back together with a golden thread they wouldn’t dare untie from your own.

You turned away from the heiress and back to the stove as you stirred the red sauce in front of you.

“As abhorrent as that shirt is-” Her voice purred in your ear as her arms slid around your waist and pulled your back flush against her- “I love you in those jeans.”

You chuckled and kept your eyes on the task at hand as you slowly stirred. “As much of a compliment that is, Mrs. Lord, why don’t you keep those hands to yourself until I put this on the stove, alright?”

She hummed, contemplative before pressing her lips to the crook of your neck. “So mean to me baby.”

Her hands toyed with your belt loop, a painted nail hooking your shirt and slowly sliding it out from where it was tucked.

You sucked in a sharp breath. “Valerie.”

“What? Can’t I show my pretty baby some love on Valentines day?”

“Not while I’m cooking on a hot stove, little-miss-gropey.” A quick slap to her wrist with the wooden spoon made her yelp and yank her hands away from you.

“Bitch!”

You turned and pursed your lips. “Aww, poor baby, want me to kiss it better?”

She grumbled under her breath, taking in the splattered food on her wrist from the spoon before swiping her finger through it and bringing it to her mouth.

“Maybe you can kiss my ass instea- Oh, damn that’s good.”

Her eyes widened and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of such a high and mighty woman licking the back of her hand.

“Is that-”

“Basil?” She hummed at the taste. “I’m glad you enjoy it. It’s my father’s recipe.”

Valerie watched you as you cooked. Methodically adding each ingredient while humming along to the radio and swaying from side to side. 

“You don’t talk about him much.”

Valerie knew you were different than her and Maxwell. Your childhood wasn’t full of flashing cameras, propping questions, and hiding tears behind fake smiles to reporters. When your father was brought up in conversation, you didn’t bristle or change the subject. You would smile. 

She wasn’t jealous of that joy. That love you had from your family. She’s grateful for it, that amongst the struggles you had, there was also support and happiness. 

“He doesn’t come up in conversation often.” Valerie’s hands once more wrapped around your waist, but simply settled at your hips. Her body was flush with your own and she let her head rest on your shoulder, gently swaying with you as you continued to cook. 

“Tell me about him.”

She saw the small smile that graced your lips, mourning and grateful all at once as you spoke of him. 

“He used to say that as people, we’re a collection of those around us. The ones we’ve loved. All their little mannerisms and tics become a part of who we are. And that we do the same for other people who love us.” 

As you slowly set the pasta onto the bottom of the pan and began to layer the sauce, she wondered who you were an amalgamation of. Was the way you tilted your head back as you laughed from an old flame? 

Was the way you sang and shook your hips from a best friend when you were young, who you wished had been more?

Were the soft kisses you press to the tip of their noses something given to you? Or an act of love learned by watching your parents?

Did you have anything of hers? Of Max’s? 

Did they have anything of yours? 

“I see it in you and Max, yanno.” You stepped back to open the oven and settle the pan on the top rack before shutting it. “You both do a lil’ nose scrunch when you get angry.”

“What?” She drew back from your body, unintentionally wrinkling her nose in the process. “We do not.”

You pulled her close to your body again. Your arms settled around her waist as you slowly moved side to side. You hummed along to the smooth voice of Grover Washington Jr. that danced from the radio and filled the large kitchen, empty except for the two of you. 

“Sure do. You're also both very boujee-”

“Hey.”

“A touch temperamental-”

“I’ll give you that one but-"

“As well as emotionally constipated-”

“Excuse me?”

“And yet-” You hummed, letting your head drop forward to rest against hers, nose bumping against hers in a gentle caress- “I can’t help but love you both every damn day.”

Her blue eyes widened, before she groaned and shoved her face into your shirt. 

“You fucking sap.” She lifted her head to yours and kissed you. The melody curled around you as she wrapped her arms around your neck and tugged you flush against her. A soft moan broke from her lips as you ran your hands over the plush skin of her ass. 

You pulled away long enough to press a kiss to the tip of her nose, giggling when her face scrunched up in response. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Val."

Valerie Lord never thought she’d have this. This love and security. The ability to smile and kiss and dance on a Sunday night in the arms of a lover. She didn’t think she’d ever have a day where she felt love, a love she wasn’t afraid to admit. 

Especially to two people. 

The pair of you danced in silence, listening to the lyrics that serenaded the way you spun her and the laugh that bubbled up her chest her perfect, pinned, blonde curls came loose. 

And darling when the morning comes

And I see the morning sun

I wanna be the one with you.

When Maxwell came home, he noticed how quiet the house was. No chatter or footsteps along the hardwood floors. He knew what day it was, of course he did. He wasn’t an idiot. Valentine’s Day wasn’t a special day with the Lords. It never had been. 

But of course, that was before they met you.

Maxwell never saw that love with his parents. His mother was cold and cruel, and while his father was a good man, he knew he didn’t love her. He didn’t blame him for it. But now he felt it. The way his heart would hammer against his ribs so hard he wondered if you could hear him. The way all his stress and anger would melt away the moment Valerie’s hands held his face in a grasp like that used to carry a bird with a broken wing. 

He didn’t think it was possible to love. To desire and need somebody as much as he did you two. Now he did, and he wouldn’t go back to a life without it for all the money and power in the world. 

The sound of smooth sax caught his attention. Slowly, he set down his briefcase and followed the music until he found himself in front of the kitchen. 

This. Maxwell thought as he watched the two of you, your eyes shut as you held one another in a close embrace as swayed. This is why he did it all. 

The long hours, the greuling work and idiotic employees. If he could come home to this everyday, it’d all be worth it. 

He leaned against the doorway, watching you two until your own eyes opened and met his. 

“Happy to finally have you with us monopoly-man.”

He snorted at your lovingly crude nickname. “It was a long day at work.” Gone was the fake ‘apple-pie-and-picket-fence’ accent he forced himself to use at work when he spoke and you loved it. To see the real Maxwell was a privilege, one you would never take for granted. 

“Every day at work is a long day for you.”

Before he could retort, his wife unwrapped her arms from you and walked over to her husband. Valerie cupped his face in her hand and led him to her lips with a soft moan. Maxwell melted into the kiss with ease, all thoughts of work and conference calls vanished into thin air as his wife’s fingers carded through his hair. She pulled away with a wet pop and ran a thumb over the smudged lipstick on his face. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.”

Maxwell let his hand run over her bottom lip with a lazy smile. She was magnificent like this. Not preened or pinned or posed. She was messy and unkempt and happy. She never looked more breathtaking than in those moments. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

Her eyes flicked over his crisp suit and her sweet smile was replaced with a groan. 

“Son of a bitch you fuckers are matching!”

You shrieked with laughter while Valerie pointed an accusatory finger at the heart-covered tie that lay on her husband’s chest. 

“You tacky traitor!”

You leaned over and pressed your lips to his cheek, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back. 

“Aw don’t worry, Max. She’s just jealous she isn't matching with us.”

Valerie reared back. “I’ll be caught dead before I ever-”

“Alastair sent them to us.”

A moment of silence passed before she spoke again, more offended than annoyed. 

“And he didn’t send one for me?”

Maxwell smirked at his wife, fishing out a small white box and presenting it to her. 

“Our son knows his mother wouldn’t be caught dead in anything with gaudy patterns.” He opened the box and she took in the red heart earrings with a smile. 

Which was ultimately ruined by you. 

“Aw, he boujee just like his mama!”

Before either one could snap back at you, a small ding sounded through the kitchen and you moved quickly over to the oven. 

“You know-” Maxwell spoke as he put the earrings on his wife with gentle hands- “We have a chef for a reason.”

You brought out the pan and set it onto the stove, taking in the savory smell with a proud smile. 

“Well, fine then. Go get your cook to make you dinner if you want to complain.”

“Wait. Wait, no that not- that’s not what I meant- I’m starving, please.”

Valerie moved around her husband, taking a bottle of red wine and bumping his hip with hers. “Just set the table Maxwell, we both know how you can make it up to her later. It’s a special day after it all.”

Her husband loosened his tie and grinned at you in a way that made you think he wanted to eat you for dinner instead of the meal you prepared. 

“Lovely idea, darling.”

[pettyprocrastination]

I don't even know what I am asking for but can we get some headcannons for Stitches? Maybe some NSFW ones or possibly just some cute fluff showing the family dynamics with everyone? 🥺🥺

Thank you for gracing us with all your amazing work, it's honestly just, mwah - ✨

aaaa thank you so much!!! so I know this says nsfw but i also want to talk about stitches as a general gal (aka you) so were gonna delve into that a lil bit. (also sprinkle in a lil sumsum well see more of in future chapters)

@captainsamwlsn @cinewhore @ficsilike-reblogged (idk if i should tag those on the taglist for the fic because these are just short headcanons so uhh????)

You never went to college. Never felt the need to really. You worked from a young age for your father, even if you never thought of it as working. Sweeping up the shop when you got off from school as a child, sorting fabrics and clothes. He always told you he didnt want you to help “that’s why i have employees, little bee.” but you’d just smile wide and tell him you liked helping him. 

At a young age you loudly told him you demanded he teach you how to sew. Because you wanted to grow up to be just like him. He began to teach you during breaks at work and everyday after you came home from school, it was a quick hobby for you to pick up. If you weren’t sewing, you were watching him sew, and taking mental note of how calm he was and how fluid he’d move his hands to adjust the fabric and so forth. Any scraps were quickly snatched up by your tiny hands and taken off to your own sewing machine where you’d fashion it into whatever little project you were working on. 

Your father did actually want you to go to college. You were a smart kid, intuitive and stubborn, if you wanted something you would work until your bones ached to get you one step closer to it. He knew you were destined for more than this old shop, but everyday after finishing your homework you’d be by his side, listening intently as he taught you how to hem a dress and then excitedly showing him the latest shirt or stuffed animal you made. 

Even well into highschool, he talked to you about nearby universities and even some out of state. Sure the money would be a tight squeeze but he’d do it, for you. You were his everything. 

You gave in, told him you planned on taking a few economics classes at a local community college. “So i can help keep the shop running.” you told him with a proud smile. 

He didn’t want you to run the shop. The place was doing well but he knew one day itd run into the ground. A mall was opening up nearby, he knew that would put them out of business for good. He just hoped it’d be by the time you were gone, in college and pursuing a good job, a stable career. He wanted to make you proud, and he did that more than enough when you were young. He didn't want to shatter your image of your old man as a business owner by letting you know the shop was going to die. 

It wasn’t until the night of your junior prom that he finally gave in. When he saw you bounce down the stairs in a magnificent gown. Something that looked like it could be seen on a runway, something that surely could cost hundreds. 

But he knew. From the way you giggled and twirled, that you had made it yourself. 

“Made by yours truly! All the girls are gonna be so jealous! They're gonna wish they had come to us for their dresses!”

He knew then and there, you were gonna continue to bloom and create all your life. That he’d have to keep the business running for you to take over and watch it bloom

After prom, many girls came to you for your sewing services, often coming to you to make cheap copies of the latest brands and swarming you for dresses for graduation and future dances. 

You began to take classes at the community college your senior year, doubling your workload. your father often found you snoozing at the dinner table, textbook open and smushed against your face. 

He couldn’t have been more proud of you.

More about your father. 

His name is edmund, but goes by Eddie!

This man has so many friends. He's the type of guy who smiles and the clouds part. He makes friends literally anywhere he goes. 

Which in turn means that you had a metric shitton of adult friends growing up. Just random grown ups who'd come by for every holiday, pat you on the head and ask how school was. 

It was odd at times, realizing how much of a large unconventional family you had. But at some moments it was comforting. 

Like the two days you spent in the hospital after your father’s car crash. Many came and went, offering their comfort to you as you hoped and prayed for his survival and strength. 

They offered their comfort once more at the funeral but you were less receiving then. 

One of the closest men in your non-blood related family was Rodrigo. A portly man who owned a 24 hour restaurant just down the street from your sewing shop. 

In your early twenties, you and his son Benjamin dated for a few months. You laughed and traveled and did all the stupid shit you were supposed to do in your twenties together, but ultimately decided you were better as friends. 

But his father would always fondly call you the one that got away because his “dumbass of a son couldn't man up and make you his daughter-in-law.”

You never met your mother. Your father didn't have any pictures of her in the house either. 

You would ask about her constantly as a child, he always gave you the same response.

“Your mama and I had a fleeting relationship little bee, it just wasn't in the cards for us to stick it out together.” He would always get this wistful smile though. 

“But i'm okay with that. Because she gave me you. And you're the best damn thing that could've happened to me.”

In his last moments, your father had a smile on his face and realization in his eyes as if he saw somebody before him. Some nurses said he saw an angel, ready to lead him to heaven. 

You always wondered if he saw your mother. 

Though you had never seen the woman, you dreamt of her often. But they were always vague. A warm smile, a gentle caress to your cheek and a sweet voice speaking to you. 

You never knew what she was saying, but you always felt safe with her. 

if you couldn’t tell im back on my maxwell bullshit so if yall want some asks or headcanons feed ME BABEYYY

[pettyprocrastination]

*flings garbage at you all* Content!

[pettyprocrastination]

Catch me thinking about maxwell lord racing home to his wife in joy and excitement, kissing her hard and holding her face in his hands.

"What do you wish for?" He'd pant. His smile is wide and eyes wild. "Anything you want my love, and it's yours! Just tell me and you'll have it."

Valerie furrows her brows in confusion, before her face relaxes with a soft smile. You shift in the bed at her side, snuggling further under the covers with a grumble.

"Spend the day with us, maxwell. We miss you."

Your eyes crack open and all of Maxwell's energy melts away. A sleepy smile as you reach out and tousle his hair.

"Hey rich boy, you takin' the day off with us? Alastair and I are gonna go to the arcade later. You should come." You snort and nuzzle Valerie's cheek.

"I'll totally kick your ass in air hockey."

Maxwell shucks off his jacket, ignoring the throb of his temple. He slips into the bed, finding himself between the two of you ajd curling his arms around you both tightly.

His girls.

He realizes all he wanted, all he wished for, was with him right now.

[pettyprocrastination]

TJ!!! MY BEAUTIFUL MENACE!!! How does Valeria approach Stitches about...her immaculate strap game? How does that all go down the first time??

...

HEHEHEHE

Warnings: Foul language, smut (beginning of), jealousy, lingerie, fuckinnnn idk man. FxF relationship, OC (Maxwell's wife) x Reader

I think the first time you expeirence strap queen Valerie lord? The pair of you are alone. The tension between the three fo you bubbled over the night of the gala and ended with you joining them in bed. Maybe a day or two after, as Maxwell is back to his long and grueling work hours and Alastair has to go back to boarding school, the house is mostly empty save for you two.

I think one day she takes you out shopping, for a "girls day" she calls it as you loop arms and she parades about with you on her arm. Mostly it's you being pushed into dressing rooms with piles of clothing she just has to see you in.

I think at somepoint, maybe one of the sales associates gets a little too friendly with you, coming in too clothes to adjust the color of the blouse you try on and telling you just how beautiful you look in it.

Maybe at somepoint she tells you, "i think that's enough, dont you? My feet are killing me." And cuts a cold look at the employee, clearly letting them know they need to back the fuck up before she loses her temper.

You maybe notice she's a little cold or stiff in that moment, but as soon as you leave the store she's back to smiles and walking by your side with a skip in her step. You don't notice there's an extra little bag in her hand until youre back home, and she's setting it on your lap with a smile.

"Try it on for me." She leans down and kisses your cheek before leaving the room with such confidence in her step you just know whats in the bag.

It's pretty. You note. Intricate lace peices that, granted, cover little to nothing.

But you like the thought. That she saw this and needed to see you in it, sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

You undress and slip it off, running your hands over the soft fabric.

"I'm waiting." You hear her call from the next room over and scoff.

"I'm sorry to keep you wating your majesty."

You open the door and walk out, nearly losing your composure when you see valerie in a pretty, color coordinated harness set and strap.

Upon seeing you, she seemed to be just as breathless as you.

"Oh honey-" She cooes. "You look beautiful, come here."

Valerie lord beckons you over with a manicured finger and you walk over on weak knees.

"Maxwell won't be home for a while-" You swallow dryly when she takes your hand in her own before setting it on the toy with a smile. Your fingers flex around it and she sits back, oozing arrogance with a grin. "-why dont you go ahead and say thank you, for all the pretty things I bought my sweet girl today."

[pettyprocrastination]

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Fem!Reader

Chapter Five

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: Profanity, mirror sex, choking, kind of face-fucking? a touch of voyeurism, oral-male receiving, penetrative sex, Mean Maxwell fuckin’ lmao, office sex, angry sex, how in God’s name did we get here I am horrible at writing smut so i just want to say i’m SORRY. 

Chapter Summary: You take the measurements for the richest family in D.C, Valerie is surprised by her how quickly her son has taken a shining to you and Maxwell has a late night at the office. 

Tag List: @captainsamwlsn @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @readsalot73 @cinewhore @this-cat-is-dea @holographic-carmen @honestlystop @favoriteff-allcelebs @teaofpeach

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/

“The Lords are coming by tomorrow.” Cassandra looked up from the book open at the register.

“But Mrs.Lord was just in yesterday.” She told you.

“Not just her this time.” You finished off the seam on the ground in front of you as you spoke. “All of them are coming in, her husband and son, the whole gang of rich folk will be here.”

Ever since Valerie stepped into your shop late at night four weeks ago, she made herself a common visitor. Oftentimes she’d waltz in, plop herself down onto a chair and begin to complain about Maxwell’s secretary with the horrid voice or one of her friends who was less of a friend and more of a pain in the ass. 

You didn’t know how becoming the friend of a heiress meant her throwing herself into your lap everyday to gossip about other rich people but hey, you weren’t complaining. She was pretty good company when the dust settled. 

Three days ago she had called your store, and told you she, Maxwell, and Alastair would be coming in to get measurements taken so you could get the mock-up of their outfits done with their approval to move on to the finished version. 

Before she could say anything else you had asked about her son. 

“What does he like?”

“What?”

“What’s he like?” You asked, as you spoke your hand picked up the needle once more and began to hem the dress in your lap. “You know, DuckTales, Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’ve got some stuff I always bring out when kids come into the shop but I don’t know how rich kids work. Do I just hand him money and call him sir?”

“Ha ha.” She droned. “You know if life as a seamstress doesn’t work out, you should pursue a career in comedy, you’d flourish.”

“Aw Val, I couldn’t!” You cooed. “You’d miss me too much.”

You heard her scoff on the other line. From across the store Cass looked at you like you’d sprouted a second head. 

“Nonetheless.” She said slowly. “Alastair isn’t into traditional children’s activities. He enjoys chess with his tutors, reading, and playing the cello.”

You fought the urge to ask if these were things he liked to do or things his parents wanted him to do. 

Maybe rich kids were just built differently.

“I’m just calling to tell you certain adjustments must be made for my son.” She explained, in a tone so formal you hadn’t heard it since you first met her. 

“Uh sure.” You sat up, concerned. “What do you need?”

 “Certain textures make him extremely uncomfortable for clothing, so be aware that the lining will have to be a soft, smoother material.”

You sat back, observing the swatches already laid out in the backroom. You could grab a few more of softer materials for him to feel and see which one he liked the most. You already assumed as such, since he’s a kid and you remembered how much you hated wearing your church dress because of how itchy it was. “ Anything else need to be done?”

“He can get overstimulated if places are too loud or crowded at times, but since your store hardly has any customers in it.” You could hear the smirk on her face over the phone and groaned. “I doubt that will be a problem.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of your assistance.” You snipped. A moment of silence passed between the pair of you. “But uh, seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’ve made clothes for kids and people with touch aversions before. No sweat.”

“Thank you.” She breathed out. “Really Stitches, I appreciate it.”

At her praise your lips curled into a soft smile. “It’s no problem Val. One question though.”

“Yes?”

 “Who the hell names their kid Alastair?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that Stitches, I’ll see you tomorrow.” A dial tone met your ears and you called out to Cassandra. 

“Do we have a chess board in the back?”

---

Valerie walked into her son’s room, clearing her throat so both him and his tutor looked up at her. 

“Alastair honey, can I talk to you for a moment?” The boy, only eight, nodded and closed his workbook before standing. The tutor however, shot a hand out to grab her son’s shoulder. 

“Mrs. Lord.” The tutor, a man graying at the temples who wore ties so bland she’d rather wear a nose, shot her a condescending smile. “I thought we agreed on not interrupting Alastair’s lessons. It’s bad for his focus.”

“Mr. Lanston.” She shot back in the same sickly sweet tone as she tapped a manicured nail against the wall. “Who’s house is this?”

The man swallowed. “Mr.Lor-”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head side to side as if scolding a dog. “For a tutor you seem to be quite fond of giving out the wrong answers. So I will ask you again, whose house is this?”

The tutor shrunk back. “Yours.”

“Correct. And who is it that you work for?”

“You, Mrs.Lord.” He said meekly. 

“Correct again! Now since this is my house and it is my son you are teaching, I will speak to him if I please. And if you try and insult my son’s intellect by saying a simple chat with his mother will throw him off course, I will throw you out onto the street. Do you understand me?”

The man’s mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. 

“I asked you a question Mr.Lanston.” Her hand tapped against the Cartier watch on her wrist expectantly. “I expect an answer back.”

“Of course Mrs.Lord.” He stammered out, before turning to her son who just barely came to his hip. “I’m so sorry Mr.Lord.”

“That’s okay.” He answered simply, before taking his mother's hand in his and walking out of the room. 

Alastair Lord was eight years old, had his mother’s bright blue eyes and his father’s dark brown hair (Maxwell visited a hairstylist regularly but would never admit it). He had already skipped a grade but his parents insisted on keeping track of his studies, even during the summer. Maxwell did it in an attempt to feel less guilty about being stuck at work all day instead of  being with his son, Valerie did it so nobody would ever get the chance to use her son’s intellect as a weapon against his own standing. 

The Lords didn’t agree on much. But one thing they did agree on was that they loved their son more than anything in the world. 

“Do you still want to go to the gala with us in September?” She asked him. Her son’s eyes flicked out to the large glass window that proudly displayed their immaculate lawn, a bird flew along the clear pane before flying up and out of sight. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll go.” He said simply. He squeezed his mother’s hand in his with a small smile. “I like going to those fancy parties, you always wear pretty dresses.” He frowned, looking down at the floor for a moment. “I don’t like it when those old ladies try to touch my hair and kiss my cheek though.”

Alastair hated physical affection from those he didn’t know. The last business party of Maxwell’s he went to, a man’s wife tried to give him what she thought was a friendly kiss on the cheek because he was “such a darling little boy!”. Alastair ripped himself away from her in a panic, to which she then got offended and insisted to speak with his mother about his “awful manners.”

When Maxwell came to find his son clinging to his mother’s leg with tears in his eyes, he promptly had the couple thrown out and cut off business ties with the woman’s husband on account of her awful manners. 

From then on Alastair’s parents made sure he knew that if he was uncomfortable with a situation, he was to tell them and they would put an end to it immediately. 

“Your father and I are going to go see a seamstress to get measurements done for the gala. Would you come with us so we can get a suit made for you as well?”

Alastair looked up at his mother, blue eyes shining and ultimately passive at her question. 

“Sure.”

------

It was late at night when he came into his son’s room. Alastair was already in bed, nuzzled under his sheets and head resting against his pillow. Maxwell gently rapped his knuckles against the door before entering, his son’s eyes blinked open. It was always a shock how much they looked like Valerie's. 

“How’s the tutoring going?” Maxwell already knew the answer, Alastair excelled in every subject, but he simply wanted to hear his son speak to him. 

“Good.” His son replied. “Mr.Lanston said if I keep studying hard I might be able to skip another grade.”

Maxwell sat on the edge of his bed. “Would you like to skip another grade?”

Alastair was already a grade ahead, his teachers would message his parents about how well behaved and smart he was. But Alastair hardly ever spoke about his own experiences at school, about his friends or anything other than his classes.

“I don’t know.” the boy shifted for a moment, furrowing his brows in frustration and it was moments like this that he truly did look like his mother. “Mr.Lanston says it’s good for me to stay ahead of other but-” He looked off into the window of his room, a small sliver of moonlight peeking through the blue curtains. “Fifth grade sounds kind of fun, I heard the history teacher is really interesting and takes us on fun field trips.”

Part of Maxwell, the part still drilled into his head by his mother, nagged that he was sending the boy to that school to learn not go on ridiculous field trips. The other part of him, the part that shone when Alastair called him dad, felt guilt when he saw how apprehensive his son was in telling him how he felt.

Maxwell smiled, reached out to ruffle his son’s hair that was damn near a carbon copy of his own (before he got it dyed of course). “Then you’ll stay right where you are champ.”

“Thanks dad.”

The older lord frowned, before sternly pointing a finger at his son. “That’s Mr.Dad to you, young man.”

His son promptly groaned and threw his blanket over his face. “That joke still isn’t funny!” Even at his disgust, Maxwell could hear his son’s muffled giggles through the blanket and smiled.

“Humor is subjective, son.” Maxwell stood up from the bed, knees popping loudly as he did. Jesus, he was getting old. “Goodnight Alastair.”

Maxwell was already out of his son’s room and halfway down the hall when a tiny voice peeped out. 

“Goodnight dad.”

-----

“So what exactly does his son like?” Cassandra stood at the register, head laying in the palm of her hand as she leaned against the counter. The back room had been set full with different fabrics for them to see and either confirm or reject. Which in the classic Lord fashion meant they will either toss it at you with a stiff “this will do” or tell you it’s the ugliest thing in the world. 

You sighed. “Apparently he likes to read, play chess and the cello.” You looked toward the old checkers board set out and shrugged. “That was the closest thing I had so lets hope he isn’t as stuck up as his father or dramatic as his mother.”

“Speaaaaking of which.” Cassandra looked up with an excited grin. “You and Mrs.Lord are like, best friends now right?”

You thought about all the times she paraded into your store before throwing herself into the nearest chair (or your lap) before complaining about her day like a soap opera star. 

“Well I wouldn’t say best friends, but we’ve certainly gotten closer.”

“What’s she like? Has she taken you shopping? Have you seen her house? Is she as mean as everybody says she is?”

You pulled back for a moment, thinking. “She’s nice for a rich lady, no we haven’t gone shopping and I don’t think we ever will, I haven’t seen her house which once again I don’t think will ever happen, and honestly she insults me a lot but I think it’s her way of showing affection at this point.”

Cassandra giggled. “Like a cat?”

You thought about a cat- a fickle creature that will hiss and scratch in one second, and then demand all of your attention right after. 

“You know what? That’s actually a pretty spot on comparison.”

The jingle of a bell met your ears before a stern voice sounded out. 

“My god do you people not know what a broom is?”

You turned around, watching Maxwell enter your store with a crinkled nose. 

“I know what a broom is well enough rich boy, why don’t I go get one so I can shove it up your-”

Cassandra cleared her throat loudly before motioning to the tiny child at Maxwell’s side. 

“Oh, uh-” You realized the boy must've just seen you threaten his father. “Hey little dude. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.” The boy responded. Alastair’s voice was just as tiny as he was. He had his mother’s eyes and father’s nose, but his hair was so dark it made you wonder which one of his parents bleached their hair. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mam.”

Prim posture, perfect manners, not a single hair out of place. He struck you less as a kid and more as a robot but you bit your tongue before smiling back. 

“No need for fancy titles with me, little lord. You can call me Stitches.”

Alastair wrinkled his nose, a gesture that made him look so much like his father you wanted to laugh. “That’s a weird name.”

Valerie tutted at her son, blue eyes cast down in disappointment. “Alastair! Don’t be rude.”

“He isn’t wrong.” Maxwell waved off his wife’s scolding of their son. “Besides, I believe we came here to get actual work done on whatever horrid outfits you're making for the gala?”

“Of course.” You turned on your heel, leading them to the backroom where multiple mirrors lined the wall. “I’d hate to take up too much of your time. You’re a busy man after all, I’m sure you’d rather be off making your secretary cry or something equally as important.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes and shucked off his jacket, ignoring the twinge of annoyance he felt at even the mention of his secretary, someone you didn’t even know grated him so horribly. 

“Well we can’t all run rotten, hole-in-the-wall shops like this that just beg to be robbed.” He turned a sly eye to you with his nose tilted up. “Some of us have standards after all.”

You smiled. “I suppose you're right about that one Mr.Lord, I doubt my skills will live up to your expectations.” You wrapped the measuring tape around his bicep, using it to tug him so close his powerful facade melted into one of shock. 

“And yet-” Your voice curled in his ear like a tempting call, your eyes so focused on taking note of the measurement of his arm Maxwell hoped you didn’t hear his breath catch. 

“-here you are.”

Valerie looked up from the fabric swatches in her hand to notice the way Maxwell stared at you while you were blissfully unaware. It was hungry, surprised and oh so desperate. The same way she looked at you. 

All while you busied yourself with his measurements, unaware of the inner workings between the billionaire and his wife. 

Valerie was pulled from her head when her son handed her a swatch of fabric, a royal blue in color and soft knit against her skin. 

“This one is nice.”

She smiled at her son. Out of the corner of her eye she saw you wrap the tape measure around her husband’s chest. She reached down to playfully tug on the collar of his shirt, also a deep royal blue. 

“You’ll look lovely in it sweetheart.”

The conversation between you and his father was not nearly as loving.

“Do you have to play such obnoxious music?”

You didn’t bother to look up at Maxwell when he snipped back, you simply focused on the tape in your hands and the measurement of his chest which only made him even angrier. 

Obnoxious, what a perfect word to describe you. 

The shirts, the tattoos, everything about you was just so...loud. 

His eyes flicked forward when he felt your fingers ghost over his chest. Mirrors lined each wall, most likely so your customers could see what the clothes looked like on them from each angle. But as you leaned down to measure his inseam, his thoughts went other places. 

Places they definitely shouldn’t have with his wife and son in the same room. 

“Do you have to wear such disgusting cologne?”

Maybe it was your attitude, such defiance nobody openly showed him in fear of losing their job, or the fact that you were so different than the tucked in, prim-and-proper future trophy wives he fucked, or maybe it was simply the fact that your ass looked phenomenal in those jeans, but Maxwell couldn’t help but imagine fucking you in front of those mirrors. 

He wondered if you’d be loud, head thrown back and calling out his name as he fucked into you without mercy, without care. Maybe you’d be shy, you were so stubborn after all. Perhaps you’d bite your lip, trying to keep your noises stifled so you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how good he made you feel. Maxwell wouldn’t allow that of course, he’d never admit it but he liked having his ego stroked almost as much as his cock. He wouldn’t hesitate to grab your jaw, forcing you to look forward at yourself in the mirrors. 

‘We’re the only ones here.’ His breath fanning out over your neck would make you shudder as you stared at your reflection just as he did. Seeing the way your tits bounced with each thrust and the ways your legs trembled and shook like those of a newborn. His pride swelled at the notion that if his arm wasn’t wrapped tight around your waist and gripping you close, you would’ve fallen to the floor by now. 

‘Let me hear you.’ He grunted into your neck as your whimpers got louder until you were all but shouting his name. ‘Good girl.’

“It’s revolting really.”

The sinful painting in his mind was torn to shreds when your haughty voice cut through it like a hot blade. 

He blinked owlishly, you stood in front of him, tape measure no longer against him but thrown over your shoulder while you crossed your arms. 

“What?”

“Your cologne.” You explained with a smirk. “It’s like trying to take measurements in a chemical factory. A little goes a long way Maxwell.” You gave him a sarcastic pat on the shoulder, one he was too distracted to push off because the way his name rolled off your lips. 

You had never said his name before. 

As quick as the interaction was, you turned to Valerie and Alastair, both sitting at the table behind you. You smiled and held a welcoming hand out. 

“You ready little man?” 

Alastair looked at his mother, who nodded her head and he slid off his chair to hop onto the pedestal his father previously stood on top of. His father took a seat next to his wife who said nothing. 

They both watched their son raise his arms as you held up the tape measure to him with a smile, you were saying something to him, most likely about school or his summer break. Valerie appreciated when you asked her about his interests to make a connection, but knew that was less than likely. Alastair wasn’t one to make connections, something she wondered if he got from his father by instinct or something that was drilled into him by his grandmother. 

Before she had been banned from coming to their house. 

“I’ll be working late tonight.” Maxwell told his wife. He knew she didn’t really care, their marriage was ten years of working late nights. Telling her at this point was just a courtesy. 

“Will your secretary be working as well?”

Maxwell noted the sly dig toward Delilah, but didn’t care enough about the woman to defend her. 

“If she wasn’t I wouldn't have hired her.”

Valerie ignored her husband in favor of the scene in front of her. She watched as you held the tape to her son’s leg, nodding your head as he spoke at length while you took his measurements. To say his mother was surprised would be an understatement, he hardly talked to his parents. Let alone people he’s only just met. 

Maybe something about you just brought out that side of the Lords.

“Alrighty, you're all good Alastair.” The youngest Lord hopped off the little step and you looked toward his mother with a jut of your chin. “You're up, Val.”

Maxwell looked toward his wife with a raised brow, mouthing her nickname in confusion. She was too busy taking your hand as you stepped onto the pedestal to notice. 

“So-” You wrapped the tape measure around her waist, mindful not to let your hands linger. “-how the hell did you two make such a sweet kid like Alastair?”

Valerie smiled at your reflection and ignored the way her heart jumped when you pulled the measuring tape just beneath the swell of her chest. “I’m not sure if that was an insult on my parenting or my personality.”

“Oh definitely an insult on your personality, without a doubt.” You responded seriously, but the tilt of your lips lent it to a gentle tease. “You must be doing something right because that kid is better behaved than you and your husband.” You looked up for a moment and she held her breath. 

“Or should I be giving this praise to some poor underpaid nanny you torture?”

Valerie scoffed. “Oh please, Miriam is hardly underpaid and she doesn’t do a damn thing right. I don’t know why we keep her around these days.”

You snorted. “Miriam?” The tape measure pressed to the side of her hip as you measured down her leg. “God, you people really tic every box off the one percent checklist, don’t you?”

Valerie hummed, painted lips curls into a smile. “We try our best dear.”

You stood up straight, hands moving behind her to wrap the tape around her chest with an awkward cough. Even as you willed all your focus on the numbers of her measurement you couldn't help but feel your face grow hot. 

“How unlady-like.” She murmured, you didn’t look up to meet her gaze but the smug tone in her voice gave it away. “At least buy me dinner, Stitches.”

You chuckled and spared a glance up. 

What a fucking mistake that was. 

Blue eyes stared you down like you have been presented on a silver platter and the richest woman in D.C. wanted nothing more than to devour you right where you stood.

“Something tells me I wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“I’m sure I can make an exception.”

You realized Valerie was alot like the sun, you couldn’t look at her for too long without needing to look away. 

You stepped back to write her measurements down and put your hands together. 

“I think you folks are good to go.”

You just hoped you wouldn’t end up burned. 

Maxwell stood up and scoffed. “About damn time, some of us have real work to do instead of twiddling our thumbs and sewing little dresses.” As he walked by, his eyes flicked over yours in a poisonous glare and his shoulder knocked against yours with his son following behind him like a little carbon copy.

You looked toward his wife, who looked just as surprised by the worsening of her husband’s mood. 

“You’re one lucky woman Mrs.Lord.”

“Believe me I know.” She leaned forward to whisper with a wink. “But I know a few things that’ll brighten him up no problem.”

You scrunched up your face and pushed out every image that surged into your mind at her implication. “Okay gross, didn’t need to know that but thank you.”

“Always my pleasure Stitches.”

The door shut behind Valerie as she walked out to their car, throwing one last wink over her shoulder before sliding into the backseat next to her son while her husband slammed the passenger seat door behind them. 

“Well-” Cassandra looked over at you with a surprised expression. She must've noticed the fact that Maxwell had seemed to be pissier than usual, you did as well but assumed it was because of some deal that went sour at work or some type of rich people shit you couldn’t even fathom. “-his son seemed nice.”

“Yeah.” Their car turned a corner and disappeared from your line of sight. “They aren’t exactly the fucking Brady Bunch though.”

------

“Daniels-” Maxwell adjusted his collar in the rear-view mirror as he spoke. “-swing by the office. I need to go over some papers for a meeting I have tomorrow. Then take Valerie and Alastair home.”

“Of course sir.”

The driver turned left. 

“Mom?”

Valerie looked to the boy at her side. “Yes sweetheart?”

“Can I come with you the next time you see the seamstress?” Valerie looked toward the passengers seat, where her husband sat just as shocked as her. 

“You want to go see Stitches?” Maxwell asked. “Again?”

His son nodded, too young to realize how surprised his parents were by his answer. 

“She’s funny and nice and she doesn’t talk down to me like other people do.” Alastair looked up at his mother, nervous at her lack of response. “Is that okay?”

That seemed to snap Valerie into action. She smiled and took her son’s hand in her with a loving pat. “Of course sweetheart, Stitches would love to have you around.”

The car came to a halt in front of the Chimtech Consortium building, which stood tall, even against the grit and grime of the busy city streets

Maxwell stepped out of the car before ducking his head into the window. “I’ll be home late tonight champ, alright?”

Alastair held no disappointment nor resentment to his father for the time he spent at work but it didn’t make Maxwell feel like any less of a shit father. 

“Okay dad.”

Valerie leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, leaving a red lipstick stain in her wake. “I’ll see you tonight darling.”

Maxwell smiled. “Don’t stay up too late waiting for me dear.” He took a step back, watching the car drive out of the sight of his building before he frowned and wiped the lipstick off his cheek, which in turn left a red mark on his jacket sleeve. 

“Damn that woman.”

The moment he entered the lobby, people seemed to pause before greeting him, none of which he gave a response to. It wasn’t until the elevator door shut that he took a deep breath. 

Breathe Maxwell, you’ll run yourself ragged this way. 

A tiny titter behind him made him realize he wasn’t alone in the elevator. Out of the corner of his eye he could see brown leather shoes that he’d wouldn’t be caught dead in. 

“What’s your name son?”

The boy gaped for a moment before he found his voice. “Michael, sir.”

The door opened with a soft Ding! And Maxwell stepped out before turning to face the young man. 

Wiry frame, tall, yet hunched over out of pure insecurity and refusing to meet Maxwell’s eye. 

He was definitely an intern. 

“Well then Mikey-” Maxwell noticed the way his head snapped up as he spoke. “Get me a coffee and bring it to my office, just the way I like it.”

The intern squeaked out a quick “of course sir!” before the doors shut on him. 

Maxwell wondered how long it would take for ‘Mikey’ to realize he never told him how he liked his coffee or where his office actually was. 

He turned sharply around a corner, taking note in the sea of cubicles he passed, every employee pausing to whisper and watch him march past without speaking. The sound of marketing calls dissipated as he grew farther away from the flurry of lower rank workers. Huddled cubicles were replaced with sleek halls and grand windows showcasing the city view. When his eyes landed on the dark brown door at the end of the hall he nearly wept. 

Sweet sanctuary. 

 His hand had just curled around the silver door knob, the final obstacle between him and sweet sweet isolation when a shrill voice broke out. 

“Oh!” Delilah squeaked, jumping up from her chair with surprise. “Mr.Lord, you're here!”

She definitely should’ve noticed that he had gotten here earlier, given that she was his fucking secretary. 

“That I am Delilah.” Maxwell answered gruffly, eyes flicking over to the stack of papers on her desk that she would no doubt forget to file. “I do run this company after all.”  Before she could respond with some ass-kissing compliment, he walked into his office and shut the door behind him. 

Maxwell rolled his shoulders back, undoing the blue tie around his neck as he sank into his office chair with a groan. He spent more time in that chair than his own bed at this point. 

Truth be told there wasn’t much that needed to be done at work today that couldn’t be done tomorrow.  He had no meetings for another three days and he’d worked himself ragged the past few days to play catch up, now he was more than ahead of the game. He simply needed to be alone, to clear his head a bit.

But try as he may, he couldn’t calm the rambling stream of his consciousness no matter how hard he fought. When he opened his eyes again and spared a glance at the clock on his desk, he realized thirty minutes had passed since he first sat down. 

Maxwell groaned, threading his fingers in his hair and pulling in frustration. 

Why can’t you get the fuck out of his head?

That bratty attitude combined with your god awful sense of style should've made you repugnant, somebody he couldn’t stand the sight of and didn’t see as anything worth the metaphorical shit under his eight hundred dollar shoes. Yet here he sat, hunched over in his office plagued with your voice saying his name like a challenge over and over in his head like some sick chant. 

Maxwell ran a hand through his hair, setting each strand into place before he pressed the button on his desk and spoke with authority. 

“Delilah, could you meet me in my office?”

Only a few seconds later, she came scurrying into his office with poorly hidden excitement. 

“Yes sir?” That was one thing he hated about her. 

The fucking voice. 

It wasn’t her voice on it’s own, but it was the way she made her voice sound. She made sure to always talk softly, forcing herself up to a higher octave to sound sweet and submissive like a flute when she really sounded like somebody stepping on the tail of a cat. 

But her boss wasn’t interested in her voice to begin with. 

He pushed his chair out from under his desk by a fraction and unbuckled his belt. 

“Knees.”

She was quick to find her way between his legs with a sultry smile. 

“Did you miss me?”

Maxwell scoffed. “Hardly. Now do something useful with that mouth before I start looking at new hires to take your place.”

The smile disappeared and she looked down, uttering out a small “Yes Mr.Lord” before she took his cock into his mouth. Maxwell let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, head falling back with a relaxed hum. His eyes shut as his mind, always his enemy, began to paint a picture he had been longing for all day. 

You sat on your knees between his legs, moaning while you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. 

You seemed like the type to tease, he didn’t doubt that. But he enjoyed teasing just fine, as long as he was the one doing it. Maybe in the form of a toy nestled between your legs while he held a remote, turning it on and off with no pattern just to see you whine and buck your hips like a bitch in heat. 

His hand knotted itself in your hair and pushed you further down on his cock with a grunt. 

“That’s it.” You whined as your head bobbed up and down, tongue hot against his veins while the coil in his stomach wound tighter and tighter every time you moved. “You take it so well, just like that.”

A nervous knock sounded against his door. Maxwell’s eyes snapped open before they narrowed into angry slits. 

Christ, he just couldn’t catch a break today.

Delilah let out a muffled squeak and pushed herself off of Maxwell’s cock before his hand pressed down on the back of her head and bucked his hips against her open mouth.

“You make a noise or move an inch off of my dick-” His voice was even and ultimately unbothered as he spoke to her. “-and you're fucking fired.”

Delilah made a whimpered garble against him, he assumed it meant ‘Yes sir.’

“Come in.”

The door creaked open and in walked the same intern from the elevator, just this time with a Styrofoam cup in his trembling hand. 

Son of a bitch, the kid actually did it. 

“Well color me surprised Mikey, you came through.” 

The boy set the coffee on his desk, completely unaware of the woman crouched under the desk, deepthroating the seemingly unbothered man sitting before him. 

Maxwell took the coffee into his hand, taking a tentative sip before his face scrunched up. Just as he did, Delilah gagged loudly against him, causing Michael’s eyes to go wide as he looked around for the source of the sound. 

God he hated black coffee. 

“A touch too bitter for my taste, but gold star for effort kid.”  Maxwell's hand snaked under the table to push Delilah's head down another inch or two. Her nose was now nestled against the hem of his dress shirt, and he could feel her struggling to maintain the position by the way her throat flexed around his cock.

Good. Maybe that would shut her up.

“Next time try a dash of nutmeg.”

“Nutmeg?”

“Yes, nutmeg. It’s a nice wake-up in the morning. But for now that will be all.” Maxwell motioned to the door, to which the boy nodded and bowed his head like some servant. 

“Of course, have a good day sir.”

“You too kid. Make sure to shut the door behind you.”

The intern all but sprinted out, Maxwell felt his pride swell knowing even after he complimented the intern, he was still scared shitless of him. The moment his door clicked shut, he gripped his slobbering secretary’s hair by the root and wrenched her off his dick, leaving her to sputter and cough with tears in her eyes. 

“I suggest you make yourself useful, Miss Harris.” Maxwell slid his jacket off his shoulders and onto the chair behind him. He pulled a condom out of his pocket with a frown that never seemed to leave when she was in his presence.

 “That poor intern already knows where my office is and how I like my coffee, you might be out of a job soon enough.”

Delilah wiped the spit from her mouth and grinned. She stood on shaky legs in those horrendous kitten heels before pulling up her skirt and bending over his desk. 

“You could never fire me sir.” She groaned, gripping the desk like a lifeline when Maxwell entered her and began to thrust without giving her time to adjust to his size. “You’d miss me too much.”

Maxwell, still buried inside her, scoffed. “And what exactly would I miss Delilah? The cold coffee? The missed memos? Or you coming in late and thinking I don’t notice?” With each question he thrust in and out, in and out, a harsh unforgiving tempo that his secretary should be used to by now.

She arched her back with a squeaking moan. “No, you’d miss this pussy. Nobody fucks you like I do Sir.” The final string keeping Maxwell together, the one that everybody seemed to tug and pluck all day finally snapped when Delilah her next words. 

“Not even your bitch of a wife.”

Maxwell’s hips halted their assault against Delilah’s freckled skin, his eyes narrowed as he stared down at the back of her head, the pregnant pause filled the air that made Delilah realize right as the words passed her lips she had fucked up. 

She gasped when his hand wrapped tight around her throat and pulled her up off the desk and against his chest. 

“Talk about my wife again, go ahead.” Maxwell growled out, Delilah opened her mouth but no sound came out as his fingers squeezed tighter and tighter around her throat until her face went from pale white to bright red, the cold metal of his wedding band cut into the soft skin of her neck, the pain hopefully proving to be an effective teacher . “I fucking dare you, you even mention Valerie one more fucking time and you’ll wish you never pulled your lazy ass through that door to apply for this goddamn job. You understand me?”

When he loosened his grip she nodded rapidly, taking in a shuddering breath. She looked over her shoulder at him, legs trembling and a pout on her swollen lips. 

“I’m sorry.” She croaked out, voice hoarse from his dick and only made worse by his temper. His hand slid up her back before pushing her down on the desk where her body slammed down on the hard wood.

“I don’t care.”

Maxwell slid out of her before ramming back into her dripping cunt with zero grace, continuing to do so as his hands gripped her hips hard enough that he would surely leave behind bruises come the next day. 

He thought about the way the same bruises would look on your hips.

 Your neck.

 Fuck, your chest. 

Hearing you moan his name like a plea, a chant to God but Maxwell was one being worshiped. All the bite you showed him at work would melt away when he slid inside you with a groan. His fingers digging into the plush give of your ass while pounding into your sweet pussy that gripped him like a fucking vice. 

“You love it.” He spoke through gritted teeth, hair unkempt and falling in front of his eyes. “You fucking love it don’t you?”

You nodded numbly, gripping onto the table and just barely managing a weak moan. Maxwell’s hand came down on your ass in a stinging slap that made you shout.  He didn’t care who outside his office heard you, Christ himself could be standing outside and that wouldn’t be enough to pull him from you.

“You speak when-” Maxwell groaned, doubling over your body and rutting into you like an animal. “You speak when you're fucking spoken to.”

Your back arched as his voice growled out against your neck. “I love it.” You fingers dragged against his mahogany desk that shook with each thrust. “I love it so fucking much.”

“I fucking know you do.” His hips stuttered against yours, hot waves of pleasure threatening to crash over him with every thrust, every bounce of your curls and every sweet coo of your voice. “You were made for just my cock, just for me. Weren’t you?”

“Just for you.” You panted. Your knees knocked together as he pushed you into the desk more with each selfish thrust of his cock. “All yours max, only yours.”

Maxwell’s hand slammed down on the table next to Delilah’s head as he came with a low groan. Delilah, feeling her own high slowly retreating, whined. 

“Max please.” She begged. “I’m so close please just-” she squeaked at the feeling of her boss pulling out of her in record time as he cleaned himself up. 

“How many times to I have to fucking tell you, address me as Mr.Lord or Sir-” his eyes cut down at her trembling form. “-or don’t bother speaking at all.”

Delilah pushed herself off his desk with a weak nod. 

“Yes Mr.Lord.”

“Send a reminder to that archaeologist for this Friday.” Maxwell had already fastened his belt and taken seat at his desk once more, plucking the now disarrayed papers off the cool surface and shuffling them into a neat pile in his hands. He read them while he walked over to the bookshelf raised on the wall 

“She seems like a ditz and I want to make sure this meeting doesn’t fall through.”

Delilah frowned, tilting her head to the side. A gesture some men may find charming if they were ten years younger and didn't run a fucking company that this idiot woman worked for. 

“Archaeologist?”

“The mousy one that works at the museum.” He reminded her. “If you don’t remember at this point, that’s your own fault for only paying attention to the things I say when you’re on my dick.” Without looking up from the papers in his hand, Maxwell waved a hand in the direction of his office door. 

“That will be all.”

Delilah bowed her head, whether to hide the bright blush on her face or angry tears, he didn’t know. And quite frankly? 

He didn’t care. 

He was already focused on the papers he skimmed, deals and mergers that could break other companies while making him a richer man. 

At least that’s what he told himself while your voice was playing in his head like a broken record. 

Angry, brown eyes left the paper to stare at an unopened bottle of whiskey on the shelf that stared back at him. 

A wedding gift. 

The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him as he forwent a glass and drank straight from the bottle in hopes of drowning all thoughts of you. 

The bottle was halfway empty when he gave up.

[pettyprocrastination]

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Chapter One Word count: 1.9k Warnings: Uhhh brief talk of race, some language.  Chapter summary: You’re a seamstress in dc, with a tiny but successful shop run by your and your spunky cashier. Today you get a visitor that is far out of your usual demographic.

tag list: @captainsamwlsn @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @readsalot73 @zeldasayer

(yes that’s a marilyn monroe pic she’s a major look for Valerie alright.)

Many believed that the eyes were the window to the soul, your father disagreed with that. He believed the truth of somebody's character was in their hands. 

“Shows a lot about them, little bee.” your father showed his own hands to you, wrinkled and scarred with tiny nics from years of work as a tailor. You were nine at the time, just last week you had completed your first sundress! You spent your afternoons after school in the shop with your father, doing whatever he asked. “-If they're a hard worker or if they don’t do anything at all. These little fellas will show you just that.” He wiggled his fingers at you before poking at your stomach, causing you to burst into a fit of giggles.

Twenty five years later and his words still ring true. When you first meet somebody, you don’t look at their clothes, or their smile, or even their eyes. You look for their character in their hands. 

So the moment the tiny bell rang at your shop door, your eyes were taken away from the pinned gown in front of you and towards the lithe fingers wrapped around the door handle. 

Manicured nails painted a deep red, fingers daintily curled, skin unscarred and void of all blemishes. Absolutely perfect. 

Who would expect any less of Maxwell Lord’s wife?

Your only other employee, Cassandra, a sweet sixteen year old girl you hired to watch the register and sweep floors, squeaked. 

“Hello,” She lifted the sunglasses from her face and set them utop her blonde curls. Her eyes zeroed in on you with an analytical gaze. In comparison to her floor length  fur coat and satin blouse, you suddenly felt flushed in your ripped trousers and patterned button up. “Are you the owner?” She put such infliction on each word you couldn’t tell if she was judging your store or the fact that you owned it.

Either way you felt like you were supposed to be offended. 

“That I am.” 

She slid her coat off, looking at your coat rack with a wrinkled nose before finally setting it on the hook. She walked around your store, taking in the little knick-knacks that lined the counter and the racks of clothing with a judgmental eye. 

Her eyes flicked to Cassandra, who still stood behind the register with her jaw dropped open. 

Mrs.Lord smiled and tapped the underside of her chin and she snapped her mouth shut. 

“You made all of these yourself?” Her voice was smooth like silk, but had a sharp edge to it. You felt as if you were waiting to embarrass yourself in front of her. She took a white sundress into her hands, feeling the fabric between her fingers. 

“Most of them.” You answered. She froze and raised a sculpted brow.

“Most?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Some of these are thrift store finds, just altered and restyled.” Her ruby lips bent into a frown, glaring at the dress she held with disappointment. 

“That one is an original though.”

She stared at the dress for a moment, face scrunched up in thought before she regained her cool composure and tossed it to you over her shoulder, which landed on your face. “Be a dear and hold that for me, would you?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. By the time you lifted the lace that obscure your vision, she was already looking at another dress. You followed behind her. 

Why the hell not? You thought to yourself as she handed you a satin blouse. You didn’t have any other customers at the moment, and you aren't being met with for a design consultation for another three hours. 

Besides, how often is it that Valerie fucking Lord walks into your store like a frequent customer?

She continued to walk around your store, red heels echoing throughout as she stopped at certain dresses and tops (mostly those of silk or lace) to admire them, before either adding them to the growing pile in your arms, or setting them back on the rack with a sour look. The entire time she did, you wondered what it was that drew in her to your tiny shop. 

The woman before you had been a big deal since she was born. Before she was Valerie Lord, she was Valerie Ackkerman. Her father had been a Hollywood director in the fifties who married an up and coming actress hot to the scene. The couple dominated the big screen and became a loved pair to America, that is until her mother got a baby bump, got demoted to supporting roles for the rest of her career, and her father continued to go on and  make films many to this day still consider iconic. 

You considered most of them to be a racist and misogynist, but you suppose they were simply a product of their time. 

And a shitty director. 

Valerie Ackkerman became Dr.Ackkerman, psychiatrist with multiple books surrounding a vast majority of subjects that can affect one’s mental state. Such as greed, fame, and the lack of proper paternal figures to shape your childhood.

Which made her choice in marriage all the more ironic. 

Maxwell Lord the fourth was a man as American as apple pie and the corporate greed that came as a table side. He’d taken over his father’s company at the ripe age of sixteen at his passing, having been groomed for the position since he was a child. 

Maxwell Lord was known as a ruthless tycoon, a tech mogul who will smile wide in his commercials before making a grown man cry in his boardroom. His wife was just as feared as him and seeing her before you now, you perfectly understood why. She was prettier than sin itself and just as rich. Which begged the question…

Why in God’s name was she in your shop?

“How long have you been sewing?” A floor length skirt with a slit up the leg was tossed in your arms. 

“Since I can remember.” Her fingers ghosted along the hangers before plucking a pink slip dress off the rack and holding it up against her body. “My father was a tailor. He taught me everything he knew.” She turned to the mirror on the other side of the room and looked at her reflection while smoothing out the fabric of the dress. “When he passed away I took over the shop, but I basically ran it already.”

She chuckled, shaking her head as if your father's death had tickled her so. “Sounds like somebody I know.”  Mrs. Lord turned to you, the dress pressed against her body. “Thoughts?”

Your eyes roamed over her body as you tried to form sentences, but nothing came out in fear of saying the wrong thing in front of a woman so powerful, she could burn your shop to the ground with a single call to her husband. 

Beautiful. You wanted to say. And terrifying. 

“It suits you.” 

She turned back to the mirror, her eyes focused on your reflection instead of her own. She tilted her head to the side and hummed. You felt like you were on display, being examined, picked apart and analyzed by the prettiest blue eyes you've ever seen in your life. 

“I know.”

When she walked past you to the register and you got a waft of her perfume, something sharp and citrusy, most likely belonging to a brand you wouldn’t dream of wearing. 

Cassandra rang her up in silence, nervously looking up from each item to the woman standing in front of her. Her hands trembled so bad you could see the fabric shake when she picked them up. 

You would have taken over for her, but  you were trying to ignore the burning sensation in your face at her judgmental gaze. You’d seen it all before, from women like her. Rich, white, beautiful, and privileged as all hell. You knew the way her eyes scanned your clothes, critiquing your curls, the cut of your jeans and the pattern of your button up that lay partially open against your chest. 

You wish you could say you were sick of it. But mostly? You just didn’t give a shit. 

Cassandra’s shaking hands dropped the bag into the floor before it reached Valarie’s, she looked about ready to cry before you stepped in. 

“Oh god I’m so-”

“It’s fine Cassie.” Her red lips snapped shut at your interjection and blase tone. 

You swiped the plastic bag and held it out to the woman with a neutral face.“Eighty-nine fifty.” You told her. She looked at you as if you had grown a second head. 

She must not be used to being treated like something other than royalty. 

But that look was replaced by a coy smile. She took the plastic bag full of clothes from your hands and handed you a thick wad of cash that was well over the amount she owed. Red, manicured nails trailing down your palm as she did. 

You suppressed a shudder. 

“You know-” She took the lace sundress out of her bag, thumb trailing along the seam. “-Your work is on par with some of the brands I wear.” You weren’t sure why the sight of her stroking something you made felt so damn intimate, but you felt like you needed to look away as if you were interrupting something.“-Maybe even better than them.”

Christ, you needed to get out more. 

“Well yeah.” You shrugged matter of factly and crossed your arms. “That’s because I’m driven by artist integrity. Not making some shoddy dress and slapping a fancy brand on it, in hopes that some trust fund baby will wear it to her next yacht party.”

The moment those words left your lips you realized you had said them to the wealthiest customer you ever had. 

Who laughed. 

Cassandra went pale as a sheet while you spoke, looking between you and the woman worth more than your entire store like she expected an explosion. 

Mrs. Lord smiled at you. “We’ll you're right about that. I have to agree.” Her hands ran down the side of the dress and stopped when she felt a fold in the white fabric. “Are these-”

“Pockets?” You grinned, like it was your greatest achievement. Honestly? It kind of was. “Sure are. Decently sized ones too, can fit your whole hand in and everything.” To prove your point, the heiress stuck her entire hand into the pocket and wiggled it with a laugh. 

“There’s still more room in it!” She sounded so in awe and excited, it reminded you of a child on Christmas. 

Her joy was infectious. 

“Every dress I make has pockets, it’s sort of like my signature.”

“Every dress?”

You drew an X over your heart. “Stitches guarantee.”

Mrs. Lord grinned. “You're certainly one of a kind miss...”

You told her your name, and she repeated it back. The way she said it made it sound like the brand name of a thousand dollar purse. 

“But you can call me stitches.” You said simply. “Everybody does.”

Cassandra looked at you with wide eyes, shocked that you went from accidentally insulting her to being chummy enough to share the silly nickname you got from customers. 

“Do they now?” She walked to the coat rack and slipped her jacket on. “Well tell me this, Stitches-” Mrs.Lord took the glasses off the top of her head and slid them over her eyes. “Do you do commission work?”

You blinked for a moment. “Well I do, but-”

She squealed and clapped her hands. “Oh perfect! We’ll be in touch then.”

“Wait-” You faltered, trying to run from behind the counter after her, but all you succeeded in doing was banging your hip against the corner. “Fuck! Who’s we?”

“Oh don’t you worry about that.” She opened the door and looked over her shoulder. “One more thing though, do you make suits as well?”

A/n:SHE’S HERE BABY WOOOOO. Iv’e been talking headcanons with @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa for like a week and a half now about this bad boy and im so excited to get the ball rolling! I love max and i love poly ships so HERE WE ARE Valerie lord owns my ass yall. Anyways please don’t feel shy to send me messages about these babes, asks, critiques or just come say hello! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list, i hope you all have a good and safe day <3

[pettyprocrastination]

I WANNA TALK ABOUT MAX AND VAL NOW OK

LETS DO IT BABE SEND ME UR THOTS ILL START

1.maxwell never drives himself around but val absolutely loves to. She loves speeding down the road with the top down, it makes her feel free. She does it often on late nights where she needs an escape

2.maxwell did dumb shit alot when he was young. Lile yacht parties and snorting cocaine off the tits of supermodels stupid. This mf had to pay off so many people and sign so mant non-disclosure agreements irs not even funny. (Though it came from the stress of taking over his father's company extremly young after his suicide)

[pettyprocrastination]

Do we get to see max have a moment of weakness? Also i miss stitches :(

Yes!! Theres multiple scenarios we see a sensitive Maxwell, who feels utterly powerless and it drives him mad because hes Maxwell Lord goddamnit. Sort of derived from if he has all this power he can keep those he loves safe and give theme every thing they want and need, even though that's unrealistic, even for the richest man in DC.

(Dont even get me started on his horrid mother oomf)

Also I miss stitches too!! But we shall see her again I promise!!

[pettyprocrastination]

We need more Valerie x Stiches pleaseee.

P. S. I love u❤️😞

OOOOO BABEY my thoughts have been FULL of valerie and stitches. Def thinking about her taking you to a fancy shop and picking out outfits for you to wear (also alternately you taking her to like a movie theayre ornsomethinf relaxed and fun) but the thought of yall going shopping together is in my brain because shed pay for it all and pluck the perfect outfits for you before insistiNG you try them on for her (or shed just join you in the dressing room🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤)

Also I LOVE YOU TOO

[pettyprocrastination]

Thinking about stitches making dinner at Maxwell and Valerie’s house and dancing around the kitchen :’)

[pettyprocrastination]

Maxwell @stitches:

Valerie lord @stitches:

[pettyprocrastination]

lowkey tempted to write a comfort oneshot of just like, maxwell and val comforting reader after a shitty day

[pettyprocrastination]

yes im thinking about valerie lord teasing maxwell for his suspenders leave me be 

[pettyprocrastination]

if you send me ask for my stitches fic then ill give you a kith

[pettyprocrastination]

My god I reread the recent chapter of ROOSASUT and its...so bad. I missed SO MUCH I meant to edit so I'm fixing that tonight

I'M SO SORRY YALL HAD TO READ THAT