#Corporate Blouses Designs

[mizcreepy]

VIRAL BATIK SPAN (CREEPER CREATIVE)

Batik Viral SPAN. WARNA MENYERLAH DAN LAIN DARI YANG LAIN. Cepat LOCK DESIGN ANDA sekarnag !! 017 220 8845 ( ADMIN )

[cherryredstars]

good morning cherry!

may i please request a nsfw miguel x fem reader where miguel is a business ceo (or any sort of high ranking position) and reader is his personal assistant? miguel gets hard while doing paperwork, calls in reader, and bangs her from the back 💗

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Smut with Little Plot, Degrading, Masturbation, Unprotected Penetrative Sex, Hair Pulling, Slight Fingering, Choking, Creampie

Summary: You might need to buy a new blouse and a pair of panties.

A/N: Screamed and kicked and yelled when I saw this!!!

Word Count: 2.2K (Barely Edited)

It was extremely unprofessional.

That’s what Miguel thought every time you came into his office, a cute little button down blouse and a too short pencil skirt hugging your thighs. He had to grit his teeth whenever your big doe eyes blinked at him, asking him if there was anything else he needed in the most innocent, seductive voice he has ever heard. Hates the way he had to grip onto the armrest of his office chair whenever you turned around to leave, his eyes wandering to your ass all the way down your long legs to the pretty heels you wore. He wonders if they were a gift. If you bought them just for work, just for him. Wonders if some lousy guy bought them for you in a show of affection. I can do better, he thinks to himself, I can buy you a hundred pairs of designer shoes if you want me to.

He shakes the thought away, scoffing at himself. He shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable with the semi he’s now sporting. He grunts as he opens the file you had given him, picking up a pen and trying to get to work. But it’s so annoying. The sound of your voice keeps floating through his wooden door as you talk on the phone with whoever it is. Probably someone wanting to set up a company meeting with Miguel. He’s trying to focus on the words on the business proposal in front of him, trying to remember where he was and what he’s supposed to be signing on, but he just can’t. Not when the syrupy sweet business voice of yours keeps distracting him and each little giggle you let out goes straight to his cock. 

His grip on the pen tightens and he lets out a stressed breath as he leans his head back on the chair. He sits there, eyes closing as your voice continues going on and on about whatever you won’t shut up about. He fidgets with the pen in his hand, his other hand coming to undo his pants. He reaches into his work pants, groaning as his hand pulls out his painfully hard cock. His thumb pushes into his tip, his hips bucking into the pressure. Slowly, his hand pumps his length, hissing at how good it feels. 

It’s so dirty that he has to chuckle at himself. Here he is, scary CEO to one of the biggest science corporations in Nueva York, getting off to the sound of his pretty little assistant’s voice like a high school boy. He wonders what your voice would sound like if he slid into you. Would you still try to keep your work voice on as he thrusted into you? Would you still call him Mr. O’Hara or would you call out Miguel? The thought of you just moaning for him has his cock twitching in his hand. 

Right when he feels the pleasure build up, right when he starts speeding his hand up, your voice stops and he hears the phone click. A curse leaves his mouth as his eyes snap open and looks down towards his weeping cock. His head is red and swollen, angry that he’s stopped jerking himself off. A vein on his neck twitches in irritation as he presses the button on his desk. Instantly, a speaker clicks and your voice returns, “Mr. O’Hara?”

“Get. In. Here.” He grounds out, releasing his finger off the button.

In less then a few seconds, your shy face peaks into his office, slowly walking in and closing the door behind you. You fidget with your fingers as you stand in front of his desk. He has to keep down a moan as you bite your lipstick-stained lips as you blink your eyes at him.

“Is there anything I can do for you Mr. O’Hara?”

“Yes. Get over here.” He instantly responds, pushing his chair out slightly. 

With a confused look, you start to round his desk before you stop. A scarlet blush covers your face as you see his hard erection out in the open. Your eyes can’t look away from it, your mouth dropping open slightly. Miguel’s chuckle pulls your eyes away bashfully, a smirk on his face when you look up at him. He makes a little come here gesture with his hand, and you hesitantly start walking towards him again. When you get close enough, his hands grab your waist and pull you in between his legs. 

A small yelp leaves your mouth and your hands shoot up to hold onto his shoulder so you don’t fall over. You look down at Miguel with widened eyes, looking like a deer caught in headlights. One of Miguel’s hands leaves your waist, reaching up and playing with one of your curls. The strand coils around his fingers, and he gives it a slight tug that has you gasping. 

“You know, you’re such a fucking tease.” Miguel chuckles out, a lazy smirk covering his face.

“Always wearing these practically see-through blouses,” His hand leaves your hair and he comes to unbutton the top button of your shirt. “No use wearing them when they don’t cover anything up.”

A sharp gasp escapes your lips as he grabs the top of your blouse, tugging hard so it rips open and buttons can be heard flying and falling to the ground. The cool air causes goosebumps to rise on your exposed skin, looking down to see your white bra revealed to your boss. Quickly, your hands reach up to try to cover yourself up again, but you’re stopped by Miguel gripping onto your wrists. You’re eyes snap up to him as he growls at you. 

He pushes your hands away, staring intently at you. Your bra pushes your boobs together, almost offering them to him. He lets out a groan as his mouth wraps around where your nipple would be. A startled sound leaves you and your hands instinctively fall to his hair as your face drops down to him. Miguel’s eyes are closed as he sucks and licks the fabric of your bra, pulling away to reveal a spot wet with his saliva. 

Impatient, Miguel grabs your hips and spins you around. You trip on your heels, your chest falling onto his desk. Your hands grab at the ledge for support, causing objects to be pushed off the edge and fall to the ground. Your body jolts further onto the desk as you feel Miguel push up against you from behind.

Miguel grabs your hair, pulling your chest off the surface of the desk. His warm breath meets your ear and you shiver. “Mr. O”Hara! W-we can’t do this. You’re my boss.”

The little chuckle he lets out makes you feel small and it causes warmth to rush to your core. A nervous breath escapes your mouth as Miguel pushes your skirt up to your waist. Your knuckles turn white as your grip on the desk tightens, body tensing as Miguel’s fingers brush over the damp spot on your panties. 

“How dirty. You like this don’t you, dirty little slut wanting to get fucked by her boss’s cock.” Miguel’s voice is teasing, pushing your panties to the side to feel your pussy lips. 

“We can’t…” You try to voice again, your voice is small as your body pushes itself more into his fingers. 

“But we can, it’s in the job description, remember?” Miguel replies simply, finger slowly pushing into you. “You’re supposed to meet my every need.”

A soft moan leaves your mouth as his fingers curl slightly, pressing into your gummy walls. You bite your lip, squinting your eyes at the door in an effort to stop more noises from surfacing. You can taste coppery blood on your tongue, teeth biting through your lip. You look away from the door, looking over your shoulder the best you can with Miguel’s hand still in your hair. “Yes, but this isn’t… this isn’t part of those needs.” 

Miguel hums, ignoring your small gasp as he slides his fingers out to rip your panties off. He shoves them into his pocket for safekeeping before his hand spreads against your back, pushing you back onto the desk. “Huh, guess you just missed it then.”

A sharp gasp leaves you as he thrusts into you unexpectedly. Miguel lets out a deep moan, watching the way your entrance swallows him perfectly. Your walls pulse around him and he grits his teeth. He pulls back to the tip, snapping his hips into you again. Your body slides up at the force, and his hands grab your waist to pull you back towards him. He continues the action, pushing himself deep into your throbbing cunt. You lose hope in trying to stop yourself from moaning, your noises filling his office. 

“Such a pretty little whore, yeah? Lettin’ me use you like this.” Miguel laughs, watching as your body squirms under him. Your moans are absolute music to his ears, encouraging him to speed up his thrusts. Your body keeps pushing into him, desperate for everything he’s giving you. 

“Can’t with those pretty fucking voices. Had me fucking my hand earlier to the sound of your slutty little voice.” His confession causes a broken moan to leave you. You can’t really think clearly, too consumed in the way his hands hold you tightly and how his cock brushes up against that sweet spot inside you. 

Miguel lets out a curse as you clench around him, his hand coming down to play with your clit. It has you jolting in his hands, your mouth mumbling incoherent words. His other hand reaches up and grabs the front of your neck, applying slight pleasure that causes you to whimper. He bends over you, causing him to push deeper and for your walls to spasm. You’re close, you don't know how long you’ll last with him hitting your g-spot and his hand pinching and teasing your bud. 

“Yeah? You like that, nena? Gonna cum all over my cock?” His words are cooed in your ear and you can’t help the small nod your head does in response. 

Your agreement causes Miguel to grunt, quickening his fingers to press tight circles to your clit. Stuttering gasps leave your mouth, eyes rolling back as you feel that pressure about to explode. With a sharp flick of his fingers and his hold tightening on your throat, you cry out his name as you explode. His hand leaves your throat, your head slumping forward to rest on the desk as he continues to thrust into you. Your body spasms as he doesn’t let up on your clit. You don’t think he even hears your sobs, begging for him to stop as his thrusts turn sloppy. Your pleads are drowned out by his heavy moans as he snaps his hips into you desperately, hand wrapping your hair around his fist as he desperately tries to finish. 

With a grumbling grunt, his hips snap forward and still. A weak moan leaves your lips as you feel his warm seed fill you. Miguel’s heavy pants mix with yours, trying to catch his breath as his hands slide to your hips. He pulls out of you with a hiss, collapsing onto his office chair that groans with his sudden weight. He watches with a soft moan as a mix of cum follows after his cock, white liquid leaving your entrance and running down your thigh. A small whimper leaves you as you feel it, looking over your shoulder to watch Miguel’s hungry eyes. 

After a few minutes, Miguel grunts and reaches for a few tissues from the tissue box on his desk. He wipes off the cum from your skin, throwing away the napkins and pulling your skirt back over you. Hesitantly, you stand back up again, fixing your hair quickly while clearing your throat. You don’t meet Miguel’s eyes right away, looking at your heels on the floor before trailing up to his face. He still has a cocky smile on his face as he tucks his cock back into his pants. He gently guides you to the side of his desk, grabbing the file and pen that fell. 

You watch in shock as he opens it, beginning to work as if he didn’t just fuck you over his desk seconds ago. He chuckles at your shocked expression, not looking up from his work. “Be a doll and get me a coffee, yeah?”

Your mouth falls open more at his casual request. You blink at him, before straightening up and fixing up your blouse the best you can. You reply with a curt ‘yes, sir’, before you begin walking towards the door. The breeze between your legs makes you stop before you exit, warmth flooding your cheeks as you slowly turn around. 

“Um, Mr. O’Hara,” You don’t look at him as you clear your throat, “Can I have my panties back, please?”

Even with his face turned towards his desk, you can see the small smile on his face, “Don’t know what you mean, I’m afraid.” 

Your eyes widen and you resist the urge to stomp your foot like a child. You nod, letting out a deep breath as you clench your hands. As you open the door and are about to close it, your annoying ass boss calls out: “Two sugars.”

Reverse AU Part 1.5 Part 2

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[buckets-and-trees]

Red, White & True: Manhattan & Brooklyn (1/?)

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers (future x curvy Millennial Female!Reader), Pepper Potts, Sam Wilson Word Count: 4k Summary: "There was an idea..." Words at the heart of what brought the Avengers together. Pepper Potts has persuaded Steve Rogers to step up and help again - but this time in a battle to The White House. She invites you to consider a key position.

Content/Warnings: none

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Prologue | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[MAY 15 - Manhattan, New York]

You try not to hold still while you wait in the lobby, but you’re nervous and the longer you sit, the more difficult it is to resist drumming your fingers, tapping your foot, jiggling your right leg as it’s crossed over your left, or even just chewing on your bottom lip.

You’re not anxious at all over meeting with Pepper, but what has you on alert is the possibility that you could theoretically meet Steve Rogers, former Captain America, today.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. The lobby of Stark Industries is immaculate, all sleek lines and modern design. The large windows let in plenty of natural light, making the space feel open and inviting despite its corporate purpose.

Your mind wanders back to your college days when you’d walked into a different Stark Industries lobby for the first time, a hopeful intern wanting to make a difference at the then-new Stark Foundation office. Pepper had been very involved in building the Foundation at the time, and had become a key mentor and - as the years passed and you left Stark Industries - a dear friend. She had helped fuel some of your late-night study sessions through grad school. Living in a new state, she had shown up and seen you through breakups, family drama, and the stress of putting together your thesis. Even when your paths diverged, you'd managed to stay in touch.

Back then, she’d become like the older sister you never had, seeing you through some of the difficult years figuring out how to be a real adult. Now, here you are, waiting to potentially join a presidential campaign she’s orchestrating for none other than Steve Rogers.

The receptionist's voice startles you out of your reverie. "Ms. Potts will see you now."

You stand, smoothing down your carefully chosen outfit - professional, but not stuffy. As you follow the receptionist down the hallway, your mind races with possibilities. What position could Pepper have in mind for you? Your background in political science and your years working in non-profit management seem like they could be useful, but you can't help feeling a little out of your depth.

As you approach Pepper's office, you take a deep breath to steady yourself. The door opens, and there she is - Pepper Potts, looking as poised and confident as ever in a crisp white blouse and tailored navy suit. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her smile is warm and welcoming.

"It's so good to see you," she says, embracing you in a quick hug. "Come in, please."

You step into her spacious office, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Pepper gestures to a comfortable-looking chair across from her desk, and you sit, trying to keep your nerves in check.

"I appreciate you coming on such short notice," Pepper begins. "I know it's been a few years since we’ve been able to catch up - even before the Blip.”

You were among the half who disappeared - still such a strange concept to grasp though you were supposedly settled back in. “I was happy to come! And of course I don’t mind a trip on the Stark Industries dime,” you say with a grin.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"

You shake your head. "I'm fine, thanks."

Pepper settles into her chair, folding her hands on the desk. "So, I know I told you we’re putting together the campaign team for Rogers for America, but I'm sure you're wondering more specifically why I called you here."

You nod, leaning forward in your chair, eager to hear Pepper’s vision.

"We're putting together an incredible team," she begins, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I've been reaching out to some of the brightest minds in politics, economics, and social justice. We have former White House staffers, grassroots organizers, and even a few unexpected faces from the private sector who are eager to contribute their expertise."

You are instantly intrigued, trying to imagine the caliber of people she's describing. Your mind races with possibilities - perhaps that brilliant campaign manager who orchestrated the upset victory in the last Senate race, or the economist whose revolutionary ideas about sustainable development have been making waves in academic circles.

"We've got strategists who are anticipating every move our opponents might make," Pepper continues, "and communications experts who can craft messages that will resonate with voters across the political spectrum.”

You listen intently, trying to pinpoint where you might fit into this powerhouse group.

"There's Maria Hill," Pepper continues, "who's handling security and intelligence briefings. She's got connections that'll be invaluable. Then there's Peter Parker - you might know him as Spider-Man - he's officially our youth outreach coordinator, but he's also got a brilliant scientific mind that we're tapping into for policy development."

Your eyebrows raise at the mention of Spider-Man.

Pepper leans forward, her eyes locking with yours. "But here's the thing - we're not just assembling a team of political operatives and policy experts. We need people who understand the heart of what we're trying to do, who can see the bigger picture and help keep us grounded in our core values."

Your heart begins to race as you start to realize where this might be going.

"That's where you come in," Pepper says, a warm smile spreading across her face. "I've watched your career over the years, how you've navigated the non-profit world, building coalitions and making real change happen. You have a gift for bringing people together, for seeing connections that others miss. Your experience gives you a unique perspective that we desperately need."

Your heart races as you process her words. You had assumed you might be offered some kind of advisory role, perhaps in fundraising or event planning. Maybe even appearance management or offering occasional input on strategy. But from Pepper's tone, it sounds like she has something more substantial in mind.

"Where do you see me on this team?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I've been putting a lot of thought into this," Pepper continues, her voice filled with conviction. “You know we’re doing something unconventional. Did you read the presidential plan?”

You nod. Steve’s bid for President of the United States was still technically not public knowledge. You had signed an NDA - being told only that you were receiving a proposal Pepper wanted your input and consultation on, with potential to join the team if you supported the initiative, and just silence if you didn’t.

“It’s bold, idealistic, aspirational; but it’s also unapologetic, has clear plans of action, and could be transformational in ways we haven’t seen in living memory,” you give your assessment.

“And it’s something you could see yourself being a part of?”

You take a deep breath, but smile genuinely. “I couldn’t sleep the first night after you sent it over. I couldn’t stop reading, hoping, re-reading, imagining possibilities!”

“Good,” Pepper responds. “Perfect.”

“Put me to work wherever you need me!”

“I was hoping you would say that because I have a very specific position I need to get filled, and you’re my first - and only - pick for the job.”

“Pepper, stop holding out!” A nervous and eager laugh escapes you. “Tell me!”

Her response slams into you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs.

“Future First Lady.”

You feel your jaw drop in shock, almost hitting the ground as your mind races with disbelief and anger. The room feels like it's spinning as you struggle to process the weight of her words.

"What?" you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper. "Pepper, I... I don't understand. First Lady? But that would mean..."

Pepper holds up a hand, her expression serious. "We're not just running a campaign here. We're trying to redefine what leadership looks like in this country. Steve is an incredible man, and he needs a partner who understands the complexities of modern America, not just a trophy wife, someone who can connect with people from all walks of life."

You shake your head, still reeling. "But I'm not - I mean, Steve and I aren't even - we've never even met!"

"I know," Pepper says softly. "That's part of the plan. We want to show that leadership isn't about who you're married to or what your last name is. It's about vision, compassion, and the ability to bring people together."

Pepper leans back in her chair, her expression at least revealing some concern over your reaction. "I know it's a lot to take in."

"A lot to take in?" you interrupt, your voice rising. "Pepper, it's insane! It’s May, and the election is in November. How could I possibly be the First Lady?"

Pepper holds up a hand, trying to calm you. "I know, I know. Let me explain."

But you're on a roll now, your initial shock giving way to indignation. "Explain what? How you thought it was okay to offer me a position that requires me to be married to a stranger? Use me to score points?”

"I understand your reaction," Pepper says calmly, "but please, hear me out. This isn't about scoring political points or creating some sham marriage. We're trying to redefine what leadership looks like in this country."

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. "Go on," you say, your voice tight, “because you’re still trotting out marriage.”

"We can’t outright ignore traditional expectations and polling numbers. If Steve were running as the nominee for either of the major parties, we could probably win without him being married, but since he’s running as an independent, he needs a wife. That being said, we want to move away from the traditional concept of the First Lady as just the President's wife," Pepper explains. "The vision is a First Partnership. Two people who work together. There’ve been a few First Ladies who have done more with their platform and position, and that’s what we would want for you, too.”

You chew on your lip, not persuaded yet, but a little less angry.

“We have an opportunity to show what a healthy partnership in marriage could look like to new generations. You’re my first and only choice because of your skills, experience, and the vision I know you would bring to the table. But you’re also my first and only choice because I think you two are well-suited for each other.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Pepper raises her hand to stop you.

“You and Steve don’t have to put on a show and be madly in love - that’s not what I want, that’s not what he wants or expects either.”

You frown. “What does he expect?” you ask. And then you perk up even more. “Has he agreed to this? Shouldn’t he at least be here to make the offer himself?”

Pepper sighs. “It was easier for me to convince him to run in the first place than to agree that he needed a wife.”

“But you’re telling me he did agree?”

Pepper nods. “He did.”

You unconsciously rub the empty space on your left ring finger. “Couldn’t we just get engaged and leave the question of a marriage for whether or not he wins?”

A soft laugh falls from Pepper’s mouth. “He actually asked the same thing.”

“And…?” You raise your eyes expectantly.

“The public would rake us over the coals and accuse us of only doing it as a publicity stunt. The campaign would become a gossip column on your relationship status and nothing more.”

“But isn’t it a publicity stunt?”

“We can spin a marriage that seems to appear out of nowhere. Steve’s always been a private person when it comes to his personal life. We will tell people you met through me - which is true. I thought you were well-suited for each other - which I do. When people asked why the wedding just before announcing his bid for the presidency, we tell them you two didn’t want your relationship status to become the big question on everyone’s minds so they can focus on the platforms and policies instead and that every marriage takes work regardless of the length of the courtship.”

You sit in stunned silence for a moment, trying to process everything Pepper has said. The idea of marrying someone you've never met, let alone becoming the First Lady of the United States, seems utterly surreal. And yet, there's a part of you that's intrigued by the challenge, by the opportunity to make a real difference on such a grand scale.

"I need some time to think about this," you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Pepper nods understandingly. "Of course. It's a lot to take in. But I want you to know that I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't think you were perfect for this role. Not just as a political partner, but as someone who could genuinely connect with Steve."

You raise an eyebrow. "You really think we'd be well-suited?"

"I do," Pepper says with confidence and warmth.

You rub your ring finger again, but this time you see Pepper’s eyes drop to watch your unconscious action, and you quickly stop. Her eyes, when you meet them again, are full of sympathy. You both lost husbands, but you don’t want to talk about it, yet again, and you don’t want to bring up a painful subject for her either.

She can read that in your tight-lipped smile.

So instead she says, “I can give you three days to think it over.”

You sigh and rise from your seat to go. “I don’t know if that’s long enough, but if you give me three days or three weeks, I don’t think it will change my decision I’ll land on. Give me the night to sleep on it. I think I’ll know by tomorrow morning.”

[JUNE 4 - Brooklyn, New York]

Three weeks later, your life has been packed up and put in a truck on its way to the new brownstone in Brooklyn that’s been acquired for you and Steve to move into, and you’re sitting at a table in a café a few blocks away, waiting to meet your future husband for the first time over breakfast. Every time the bell rings over the door, you dart your head to see if it’s him, but he’s evidently running late.

As you wait, checking to see if you have any messages on your phone, the bell over the door chimes once more. This time, when you look up, your breath catches in your throat. A tall, athletic man with dark skin and an easy smile has entered the café. You recognize him immediately as Sam Wilson, the new Captain America. Your heart sinks a little as you realize Steve isn't with him.

Sam spots you and makes his way over, his stride confident but casual. As he approaches, you notice the way his eyes scan the room, a habit born from years of military training and superhero work. He's dressed in civilian clothes - a leather jacket over a simple t-shirt and jeans - but there's no mistaking the aura of strength and capability that surrounds him.

"You must be the future Mrs. Rogers," Sam says with a warm smile, extending his hand. "I'm Sam Wilson. Steve asked me to come apologize and explain - and to have breakfast with you, if you’ll have me.”

You nod, forcing a smile, and shake his hand. "Of course. I understand.” You motion toward the chair across the table from you, inviting him to sit. “I know campaign prep must keep him incredibly busy."

Ever since you’d accepted the proposition to marry Steve Rogers and join him on the campaign trail to the White House, your own life had turned upside down, giving you hardly any time to breathe, and you’d been told this was only a mild version of what your own schedule was going to look like once Steve formally announced.

“Former President Bartlet agreed to meet with him, and the schedules ended up aligning this morning for Steve to go up to New Hampshire for a sit down,” Sam explains.

“President Bartlet?” you can’t help the awe in your voice. “I’d skip out on breakfast with me, too.”

“I hope I’m not a disappointment of a substitute,” Sam teases. “Since we’ll be working together as part of the senior staff, I volunteered because I was eager to finally meet you.”

His smile is genuine, and you feel the absolute truth of his sentiment. It melts away some of your disappointment and worry.

In return, your smile becomes a little warmer and easier. “I can’t help being a little disappointed - since I was hoping to finally meet my future husband - but he’s unemployed and you’re technically Captain America, so I guess it’s really an upgrade.”

Sam laughs. “Oh, I’m going to love you, I can tell.”

“Just promise me he’ll actually be at the ceremony tomorrow?” you ask. Your tone is light, but Sam calls your bluff.

His laughter fades, replaced by a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, he'll be there. Wild horses couldn't keep him away. Or androids. Or aliens. Or wizards. Or..." He trails off, realizing he might be overdoing it. "You get the idea."

You nod, appreciating Sam's attempt at humor. "I hope so. It would be pretty awkward to explain to the press why the groom was a no-show at his own wedding."

"Trust me, Steve takes this very seriously," Sam says, his tone becoming more earnest. "He may not know you yet, but he respects you and the commitment you're making. He's not the type to back out or let you down."

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and nervousness. "I suppose I should get used to schedule changes and last-minute adjustments," you say, trying to keep your tone light.

"It's part of the package," Sam agrees. "But so is having a team of people who have your back, no matter what." He leans forward, his eyes meeting yours intently. "I want you to know that includes me. We're not just colleagues in this; we're family."

His words touch you deeply, and you feel a bloom of warmth in your chest, the firs time you’ve felt grounded since you agreed to do this. "Thank you, Sam," you manage to say. "That means a lot."

The waitress approaches, he orders coffee, and you both order breakfast.

As she walks away, you take a sip of the drink you’d ordered while you were waiting before, mulling over Sam's words. "Can I ask you something, Sam? You know Steve better than almost anyone. Do you think...?”

You hesitate, uncertain if you should voice your doubts to Sam. But his open, friendly demeanor encourages you to continue, and you’re going to need to learn to trust this new circle of people you’ll be surrounded with.

"Do you think this is crazy?" you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Marrying someone I've never even met, maybe becoming First Lady... it all feels so surreal."

Sam leans back in his chair, considering your question carefully. "Crazy? Maybe," he admits with a small smile. "But then again, I've seen a lot of crazy things in my time with the Avengers. This? This actually feels like one of the more normal things I've been part of."

You can't help but chuckle at that, some of the tension easing from your shoulders.

"Look," Sam continues, his tone becoming more serious. "I won't lie to you. It's not going to be easy. The scrutiny, the pressure, the constant demands on your time and energy - it's going to be a lot. But if anyone can handle it, it's Steve. And from what I've heard about you, I think you're up for the challenge, too."

Sam pauses as the waitress returns with your breakfasts and his coffee. Once she's gone, he continues, "Steve doesn't do anything halfway. When he commits to something, he's all in. And he's committed to this - to you, to this campaign, to trying to make a real difference."

You nod, appreciating his honesty. "And what about... us? Steve and me, I mean. Do you think we can make this work? Not just for the campaign, but as a real partnership?"

Sam's eyes soften. "Steve's one of the best men I know. He's loyal, compassionate, and has a moral compass that doesn't quit. But he's also been through a lot, and he can be... guarded. It might take some time for him to open up fully."

You absorb this information, feeling a mix of apprehension and curiosity about your future husband. "I appreciate your honesty, Sam," you say softly. "I guess we'll both be navigating uncharted waters."

Sam nods, taking a sip of his coffee before responding. "True, but you won't be doing it alone. Not only do you have the support of the team, but I think you and Steve might surprise yourselves. You both have a strong sense of purpose, a desire to help others. That's a solid foundation to build on."

You pick at your breakfast, mulling over Sam's words. "I just hope we can find some common ground beyond the campaign," you admit.

Sam leans in, his expression earnest. "Like I said, when Steve commits to something, he gives it his all. That includes relationships. He may be reserved at first, but once he lets you in, you'll have his unwavering loyalty and support."

You nod, feeling a bit more reassured. "I appreciate that. I’m not some hopeless romantic, I’m not looking to be swept off my feet, but I just hope we can find some chemistry, some spark beyond just being political partners."

Sam chuckles. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that. Steve might be from the 1940s, but he's still a red-blooded man. And you," he gestures at you with his fork, "are definitely his type."

You feel your cheeks flush slightly. "His type?"

"Smart, independent, passionate about making a difference," Sam lists off. “

Your work in non-profits, your passion for social justice - that's right up Steve's alley. Plus, you've got that whole 'take no crap' vibe that he needs. I have a sense about these things, and you have it.”

You laugh, feeling some of the tension dissipate. "Well, I'll take your word for it. Though I have to admit, the idea of being Steve Rogers' 'type' is a bit surreal."

Sam grins. "Trust me, once you two actually meet, you'll see what I mean. Just don't let that 'aw shucks' routine fool you. He might look like an all-American boy scout, but there's a lot more going on under the surface."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Sam shakes his head, still smiling. "Nah, I'll let you discover that for yourself. Where's the fun if I spoil all the surprises?"

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. "Fine, keep your secrets. But seriously, Sam, thank you. For breakfast, for the pep talk, for everything. I'm really glad I got to meet you before tomorrow."

"Me too," Sam says, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast. "To new beginnings and unexpected partnerships."

You clink your own mug against his, feeling a surge of warmth and camaraderie. As you finish your breakfast, the conversation flows easily between you and Sam. He regales you with stories of his adventures with Steve, carefully omitting any classified details but painting a vivid picture of the man you're about to marry.

You learn about Steve's dry sense of humor, his unwavering loyalty to his friends, and his surprising skill at sketching. Sam describes missions where Steve's quick thinking saved the day, but also quieter moments - movie nights with the team, intense debates over board games, and Steve's ongoing struggle to catch up on pop culture.

As Sam talks, you find yourself leaning in, captivated by these glimpses of reality, getting to know more about the man behind the myth. And even if the next twenty-four hours will be a whirlwind of you choosing and getting fitted for your wedding dress; interviewing candidates that have been vetted for your personal staff - assistant, pr strategist, stylist, initiative director; and a bachelorette party; you feel like you’ll be able to face it all with the bit of reassurance you’ve gained by spending this time with Sam.

next part: LAS VEGAS & CLEVELAND

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

This story will have 3-4 chapters, depending on where I split up the narrative. I anticipate about a chapter a week, usually posted on Fridays.

[pinkofatom]

An irresistible offer

Cassandra put her glasses down on the wooden desk. She tried to alleviate a headache by pinching her nose. Again this insistent company sent an offer. HEXBIM. The name elicited a huff of annoyance. Red hair fell freely as Cassandra rolled her neck. The constant pressure of non-stop messages built up uncomfortable tension.

How dare these corporate drones thought she needed their help. Cassandra became a successful therapist on her own merits. Yes her methods were unconventional — and light on prescriptions. But every single person that reached out for help, left only satisfied.

Bing! Another offer filled her mailbox. Bleary-eyed the therapist read the topic. Letters swam in front of her eyes. Rubbing her eyes Cassandra put on her glasses. With a sigh she opened the cursed message. Maybe if she gave a scathing answer they would finally cease.

Dear Cassandra,

We are HEXBIM, a company specializing in cutting edge technologies, dedicated to helping people reach their full potential.

We recently became aware of your exceptional therapeutic practice. After much consideration, we have decided to adjust our sponsorship proposal to suit your unique requirements and ensure it meets your needs.

The font made the letters dance. Cassandra had to reread it a few times. It did not help her headache. But — she had to admit — it sounded good. Shaking her head the redhead continued.

We are proud of the exceptional success rates our sponsored therapists have achieved, with 100% client satisfaction guaranteed.

By accepting this proposal, you'll receive top-of-the-line technology and cutting-edge therapeutic techniques, ensuring your clients experience transformative results like never before.

Cassandra's eyebrow rose. This sounded far too good. And tailored to her. A twinge of worry curled inside her. However the redhead couldn't stop.

To prove our expertise we have included a simple sample in form of a program.

Please inform us of its effectiveness and of your agreement.

Best regards,

Annika, HEXBIM Connect

Cassandra let out an undignified snort. Did they think she was stupid enough to fall for such bait. Her long fingers moved over the touch pad. Cassandra was going to write them an answer they wouldn't forget. Her mouse pointer hovered over the file. This headache killed her.

Cassandra clicked it. And a new program popped open.

Soothing music filled the office. It made the redhead relax. Her eyes grew heavy and Cassandra's head nodded forward.

A flash of light made her flinch. A simple image of concentric circles appeared on the screen. The colors moved in waves.

Relaxation spread through the redhead's body. Her mouth grew slack and drool collected on her tongue. A single drop escaped Cassandra's lips and landed on her blouse.

Another wave of sounds assaulted the redhead. They mixed with the pain. She felt a strange, unbidden need to keep staring. Her mind tumbled towards it, her focus narrowing as all other thoughts fell away.

Cassandra tried to tear her gaze from it. She tried to move her hands. To close her eyes. But all she managed to do was let out a soft whimper. It felt like something had a hold of her mind. She sagged into her chair.

The redhead felt helpless, her mind trapped within an inescapable web. With each futile effort to free herself, her willpower waned. The music, the light... they seeped into her mind. Every note, every flicker of the colors seemed designed to chip away at her resolve, ensnaring her in their hypnotic grip. Panic surged within Cassandra as she realized the true extent of her peril.

And then a voice came through. It cut through her thoughts like a hot knife, making the therapist whimper.

"I know it feels bad." Cassandra whined.

"Your head is a mess of worries. You feel powerless, unable to help." Her hands clenched the desk. Her knuckles grew white. Cassandra's face contorted.

"But that ends here." A soft gasp escaped the therapist's lips. It was true! All those thoughts that swirled through her head, all that stress. She couldn't stop herself. Tears fell down Cassandra's cheeks and the redhead sobbed in relief.

"HEXBIM has the solution." Cassandra felt the tension and worry drain. "All you have to do is accept." Her face lit up.

"And that's all." She sagged back in her seat. Cassandra felt... relaxed, almost. The redhead felt so light, like she could fly. A soft moan of bliss fell from her parted lips.

"Your clients will become happier, better. They will transform into perfect versions of themselves." Cassandra smiled. "Drones owned by HEXBIM." Her smile became an expression of utter happiness. "And all you have to do is guide them." She felt such an urge to help.

"Open your mind." Her thoughts slowed to a crawl. Cassandra couldn't form a cohesive thought if her life depended on it.

"Listen." She did, listening to the soft music and the dulcet tone. "Watch." The redhead stared into the shifting colors, her eyes growing wide.

"And learn."

🌀🌀🌀

Cassandra let out a long moan. She was in the back of her clinic. Strapped into reclining chairs rested her receptionist and assistant. VR-headsets obscured their faces. The redhead remembered the instructions from that message. Cassandra was going to guide them to become better versions of themselves. To transform into drones for HEXBIM.

Another shiver ran down the redhead's back. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It felt right, she knew that this was the correct way to help — the only way to help. In response to her thoughts the tight latex uniform buzzed. Vibrations danced over her sensitive skin. A gasp of delight and lust escaped the redhead. Her head nodded forward as she enjoyed her obedience.

Cassandra had to make sure her assistants would be transformed properly. That they would reach their full potential and become the best versions of themselves — perfect, happy drones for HEXBIM.

Her long fingers flew over the controls and a soft moan of pleasure escaped her lips. The two bound women followed suit. It made Cassandra's nipples harden as a shiver ran down her spine. Her clit throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

The redhead bit down on her lips, a faint moan escaped anyway. She had to focus on the task. Cassandra was going to transform them into HEXBIM drones.

The redhead's fingers flew across the keyboard as she made the necessary adjustments. The buzzing and humming of machinery filled the air, adding to the already electrifying atmosphere. She still remembered the delicious drones that installed them. Encased completely in glossy latex. Cassandra imagined her future patients inside such uniforms. The redhead licked her lips at the mental image.

A sting returned the therapist's focus back to her employees. Cassandra felt a wave of bliss and obedience crash into her. It was a reminder of how much easier life was now. How she didn't have to think for herself. The redhead just had to do what HEXBIM wanted. And in return the redhead experienced this amazing pleasure and bliss.

Cassandra concentrated on the task. Her hands danced over the keyboard. She could see their minds being rewired, transformed. Their previous lives erased. All of their wants, dreams and aspirations. The therapist had no doubt that her assistants were experiencing the same euphoric sensations she had.

A warm hug that caressed their minds, slowly replacing their individuality with uniformity. They would lose all of that pesky, annoying willpower. In their place Cassandra knew that they would gain the drive to become the best version of themselves. The willpower to become perfect HEXBIM drones.

And once finished all of them would continue with bringing the freedom of thought to all patients.

[totallyshattered]

5-Star Ride

Alison's plane touched down, and she was so relieved to finally be home!

She trudged off the plane, still in the button-down blouse, pencil skirt and heels she'd been wearing in Chicago. In the rush to get out of her hotel room that morning, Alison had forgotten to pack her duffel bag with a change of clothes for the flight. She hadn't realized the mistake until after she checked her suitcase. and the uncomfortable clothes just added to her weariness.

The whole trip had been exhausting. Well, less of a trip, more of a tour. Alison hadn't been home in almost 3 months. She worked as an aide and layout designer to an advertising executive, Mr. Alexander Tennyson, and they'd been doing a cross country campaign for a new pharmaceutical product line.

She’d been transferred under Mr. Tennyson specifically for the campaign and had spent nearly every waking moment of the previous six months with him. He was a tall, Oxford-educated man of African descent with impeccable taste and skill at their business. His deep voice, chiseled features, well-pressed suits, and almost imperial manner had enamored Alison the entire time.

Alison had been at his beck and call, working on the project itself, running errands, getting food, and doing everything Mr. Tennyson and the firm had needed. She’d gotten PAID, but 12-hour days had been the norm, they were in a new city every few days, and then there had been that little incident where she'd gotten drunk and fucked Mr. Tennyson two weeks before the end of the tour.

She shivered, thinking about it. It had been incredible. She'd fantasized about him since she was transferred under him, and when they'd finally hooked up, he was so manly and masterful, he took complete control of the night, and she had let him do things she'd never have dreamed.

But, in the cold light of day, she'd been mortified that she'd given in to her lusts and had rejected him far too harshly the next morning when Mr. Tennyson had tried to broach the subject. The hurt in his eyes haunted her, and the cold deadness that followed had made her cry in her lonely hotel room more than once since.

He hadn't mentioned it again, and he'd remained completely professional, but it was obvious that he was still upset and just going through the motions with her. Alison felt she didn't owe him anything, but she knew she'd handled it wrong and was ignoring all of her feelings from the last half-year.

Deep in her own thoughts, she wandered listlessly to baggage pickup, grabbed her suitcase, and headed to the exit while her regrets and snippets of their passionate night spiraled through her brain.

Not that it mattered anymore, she sighed to herself. He’d probably transfer her away soon now that the job was done.

As she neared the exit, Alison pulled out her phone to set up a ride-share home. She changed accounts to select the corporate account, so she didn't have to go through the pain in the ass of expensing it but was only half paying attention as she swiped through the options.

When she hit submit, her phone buzzed, and the app made a sound she hadn't heard before. She frowned and checked the status. It looked normal, scanning for rides, so she shrugged it off.

She exited the airport and was immediately hit by an icy blast that her light overcoat could not compensate for. Alison shrieked and ducked back into the relative shelter the building offered.

Alison asked one of the porters if she could sit inside and wait, but was told, no, all ride-share clients had to sit in the loading zone. She tried to give him the sad kitty face, but no go.

Finally, she trudged out, found a seat in the ride share waiting area, and hugged her arms around herself, shivering.

Then she waited.

And waited.

Aaaaaannnnd waited until, at some point, she dozed off on the bench despite the brisk wind.

Alison dreamed about Mr. Tennyson. Dreamed about begging forgiveness, dreamed about submitting to him again, and dreamed about servicing his every desire.

Sometime later, she was wrenched from her dreamers sleep by a firm shake.

"Hello, young lass, are you waiting for a ride?" Asked a nondescript, middle-aged man in a bomber jacket and newsboy cap. His voice had a slight brogue that she couldn’t identify in her bewildered state.

Alison shook her head, "...ride? Oh, yes! I'm sorry, I was waiting, and I must have dozed off!"

She tried to stand on shaky legs when the driver scolded her, "Sit down, you daft girl. Stay there and let me do my job."

If she were more awake, she probably would have snapped back, but tired as she was, she obeyed his order.

The driver loaded her bags into a surprisingly nice town car and then opened the door, beckoning her inside. Alison was still a bit shaky when she stood, but she made it into the car before collapsing on the seat.

Oooo, she thought, it was so warm in the car, and the seats were even heated!

Now, wrapped in warmth, her sluggishness returned tenfold, and she smiled slightly as the driver got in and began the trip. He called himself Shane and told her he'd get her to her proper destination.

Shane did the normal driver shtick, asking her questions about herself, her trip, her job, etc. Allison answered the questions far less guarded than she would normally because she felt so warm, so drowsy, that she didn’t think to hold back. She only just managed to stop herself from describing her night with Mr. Tennyson.

Shane wasn't fooled, though. He zeroed in on her sudden silence, “Did something happen between you, and your boss?"

Allison flushed, "Um, that's not really your business, Shane."

"Sir," he corrected sharply.

The directness startled Allison, "Wait, what?"

"You should address men properly when they are leading you," he elaborated condescendingly. "I am leading you to your proper destination, you should address me with respect. You call Mr. Tennyson 'sir' when he directs you, don't you?"

Alison's bleary mind tried to latch onto a coherent response, but all that came out was, "Yes, sir."

"Good girl," he responded smugly.

Alison flushed.

"Now, tell me what happened?"

The story flowed out of Alison. Every detail.

Drinking a few too many cocktails at the client mixer.

Shamelessly making out with Mr. Tennyson after the client called it a night.

Grinding on his bulge on the dance floor.

Being ordered to come to his hotel room and practically creaming herself.

Actually cumming when he'd pulled her head down to suck his huge cock from the passenger seat of the rental.

His hidden fingers buried in her cunt from behind while she desperately tried not to make a sound during the seemingly endless elevator ride to his suite.

Being stripped and servicing him on her knees in the entryway of the room.

Giving and getting licked, sucked, and fucked on every surface in the room and in every position Mr. Tennyson twisted her pliable body into.

Feeling his bare rod fill her unprotected pussy with potent cum at least four times before they’d passed out.

Waking up to being taken and filled again during the night, and then falling asleep with his cock in her mouth when he ordered her to clean it with her mouth.

And finally, the shame, the panic she’d felt the next day, and her subsequent mistreatment of her boss.

Alison was mortified, beyond embarrassed, and almost impossibly turned on as she finished the story.

Shane, smirking, but saying nothing, offered her a drink that looked like a flavored sparkling water.

After that whole train wreck, a drink sounded good to her though she wished it was something stronger.  Shouldn’t she be home by now?

The liquid inside was a bright neon pink color, the kind she'd loved as a teen, but had tried to distance herself from as an adult. At that moment, the nostalgic feeling of pink was a comfort instead of an embarrassment.

Alison hesitantly took the bottle, but before she could open it, Shane reached back and grabbed her wrist firmly, but without pain.

"What do you say, girl?" He growled.

Despite her exhaustion, adrenaline spiked through her. Her mind searched for the answer while her eyes were locked with his harsh gaze. Finally, she sputtered out, “Thank you! Uh, sir. Thank you, sir!”

He smiled at her, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Better, but that’s twice. You’d better not forget yourself again on this ride.”

Rattled, Alison finally got the bottle opened and sipped the saccharine liquid, and to her surprise, the drink even tasted pink. She giggled and took another sip, trying to keep her dignity, but just ended up gulping it down, little rivulets of pink escaping her lips dripping on her black coat.

Alison finished the bottle in one long draught and felt a different kind of warmth pour through her. Goosebumps raced down her body as if she was being caressed with slender fingers. She gasped for air at the feeling and then began giggling again.

"Have another," Shane ordered her. Part of Alison tried to rebel against being commanded, but the Pink told her to be a good girl and have another.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” said the Pink Ali.

Alison opened the second bottle and began to gulp the oversweet elixir down. The feelings intensified, and she felt the heat surge through her.

It was so hot, and it felt so good, but at the same time, she was so tired, all she could do was moan, giggle, and drift.

Shane’s voice cut through the haze, “Doesn’t it feel good when you do what you’re told?”

“Uh, um, what?” Mumbled Alison. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think.

“I told you to take a drink, you did it, and then you felt good, right you stupid girl?�� Asked Shane.

“Yes… but, the drink,” Alison tried to respond. She felt so strange. Were her clothes tighter? Did her tits always bulge out from her shirt like that?

“No,” he cut her off. “You already felt good when you obeyed, didn’t you?”

“…yes”

“And then when you obeyed again, and took another drink, and it felt even better, correct?”

“Yes…”

“So,” the sneering Shane concluded, “It feels good when you obey.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl, good girl.”

Pink Ali beamed. Yes, she was a good girl, she obeyed.

“It’s proper for a stupid lass like you to obey men.”

“No, not… not stupid,” Alison responded.

“Yes, you are stupid,” Shane confirmed, smirking. “You don’t respect men properly, you don’t have any manners and need instructions like a child, and you tell all of your personal business to perfect strangers. Only stupid girls do that.”

“Yes, yes I’m so stupid,” agreed Ali as Alison subsided again.

“You are a stupid girl. Stupid girls obey and respect men. You should always obey and respect men.”

“Yesss…,” Ali was getting stronger. Her skirt felt tight, her panties wedged between her big ass cheeks.

“It feels good to obey, and stupid girls need to obey men. Men like Mr. Tennyson,” continued Shane.

At the mention of Mr. Tennyson, Ali moaned, “Ohh, yessss…”

“It feels good to obey Mr. Tennyson. You always have to obey him like a servant, don’t you?”

Alison clawed her way back, “No… not always… not a servant… just a job…”

“Stupid girl!” Scolded Shane. Alison winced, tried to hold on. “It is your job to do whatever Mr. Tennyson says to do so he can do his work, yes?”

“Uh, uh, yes,” stammered Alison losing her grip.

“If you have to do whatever he tells you all the time, it means you always obey him, and obedience feels good.”

“Yessss,” Ali agreed, she started rubbing her plumping thighs. They were so smooth. Her nails were so cute and pink.

“You obey everything Mr. Tennyson says, obeying him feels good. Servants always obey, it’s their job. You are his servant.”

“I… I am… servant,” Ali wheezed, feeling so good.

“Good girl,” Shane rewarded Ali. Ali beamed, and her fingers slipped into her thong to rub her pussy.

Shane continued, “You are Mr. Tennyson’s servant. You love to obey him. It feels good. It makes your stupid girl cunt drip.”

“YES” Ali gushed, figuratively and literally.

“You take care of all his needs. Whatever he needs, you obey, right?”

Alison made a desperate surge. “No, not… not everything he needs… Not...  everything…” She was getting weaker and weaker. It felt so good to let Ali talk. It was easier. Felt so good. Why was she trying so hard?

“Yes, everything,” Shane reinforced. “Remember when you took care of his needs as a man. When he told you to follow, you followed. When he told you to suck, you sucked. When he told you to fuck, you fucked. When he told you to cum, you came.”

“Oh yes! Yes!” Ali groaned happily. She began stroking her other fingers across her cock sucking lips. They felt so good, they felt so much bigger, so much more sensitive, like she had another clit on her lips.

“Heehee, pussy mouth,” Ali giggled.

Shane rolled his eyes and continued, “So, obeying Mr. Tennyson doesn’t just feel good. It makes your pussy wet. Stupid girls like you get wet when they obey strong men like Mr. Tennyson.”

“I… I… “ Alison tried to deny it.

“You obey Mr. Tennyson. Obeying him makes your pussy wet. You are wet for Mr. Tennyson. Say it!”

“I get wet from Mr. Tennyson!” cried Ali, exultantly. Her fingers were buried in her pussy now. She pinched the nipple of one of her massive tits that had finally burst free of her blouse.

“If you obey Mr. Tennyson, and obeying makes you wet, and you do anything for him including taking care of his manly needs, you aren’t just a servant, you’re a slave.”

“Noooooo…,” wailed Alison weakly. There wasn’t much left of her.

“You are a stupid girl who only obeys him. Your only value is serving him and servicing him. You help him do his work. You drain his cock. It’s all you’re good for,” Shane grinned at her in his review mirror, enjoying her transformation. “You are his slave.”

“Yes! Yes, Ali is Mr. Tennyson’s slave!” Ali squealed happily. She wanted to cum so bad. She wanted to cum on Mr. Tennyson’s cock.

“Slaves don’t call their owners by their names,” Shane told her. “What do they call him?”

“Mmmmaasstteeerrrrr!!!” Ali exulted. It seemed Alison was gone.

“Good slave,” said Shane, his job done. “Now, don’t cum until your Master tells you. He would be very angry.”

Ali gasped, “Oh no, I’ll be a good girl, I won’t cum until Master says so!” It was so hard, she was so warm, so wet, so horny, she wanted to cummmm. But she had to obey!

Ali continued to edge, the rest of the world forgotten. She vaguely heard Shane talking, but not to her.

“Yes sir, it’s done. I’ll be there in a few minutes. You should bring a blanket. Mmhm. Mmhm. Yes, Mr. Tennyson, I expect payment on delivery”

Ali heard him say Master’s name! She was going to Master! Shane was so nice to take her to Master!

The car finally pulled up to a gated, modest sized, but elegant house with a well-manicured lawn. The electric gate opened, and Shane pulled in.

All 6’4” of Mr. Alexander Tennyson waited at the bottom of the steps, a blanket slung over his arm.

Shane stopped, got out, and opened the passenger door. The smell of sugar and arousal flowed out. Tennyson smirked at the vision inside. A caricature of his assistant sat, head back, eyes closed, fingers pumping in her cunt, awaiting her new life.

“Come here, Alison,” he ordered.

Ali’s eyes fluttered open, and she set her eyes on Master. She cried out for him and leapt from the car. She embraced him and burst into tears.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” the tiny remaining shred of Alison sobbed out. “I love you, Master. I always wanted to be yours!”

Tennyson’s face softened. He bent down, wrapped her in the blanket, and lifted her, holding her close to his chest. He whispered to her, “I know, Alison. I forgive you. I love you, too. Now you’re mine forever.”

Ali fell asleep in his arms as Master carried her into her new home.

----------

Shane picked up all the luggage he had stowed in the car and took it into the house and feeling very smug at another job well done.

The Full-Service package was expensive, but he guaranteed satisfaction.

Shane checked his phone, making sure the wire transfer had gone through. He confirmed it, closed the door, and got back into his car.

Just as he was about to drive off, he felt a buzz at his elbow. It was the bimbo’s phone, still open, and sitting on the completed screen for the ride-share app. She’d never even noticed the destination change or the Full-Service package request. Stupid girl.

He picked up the phone, smiled evilly, and rated the trip 5-stars. Shane always took them where they needed to go.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

HELLO! I would like to request a full on fluffy modern!Sihtric fic, where he's desperately in love with reader and he takes her on their first date, and does everything he can to impress her 🥰 (I hope you like the idea! just want to give you a feel good fic to write)

Authors note: thank you @sihtricfedaraaahvicius so much for this lovely request! In the beginning I thought it’s going to be a short and sweet drabble, but then I started writing and it just got longer and longer and now the story already has more than 8000 words and I haven’t  fully finished yet, so I decided to split it into several parts. Don’t worry - that sweet date will come somewhere towards the end, please, just be patient …

Summary: Sihtric – a talented artist – juggles between his passion for painting and his job as a graphic designer. At the corporate Christmas party, Sihtric's unspoken feelings for his boss are tested when a twist of fate brings them closer than expected. 

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Warnings: actually none, fluff, suppressed feelings

Word Count: 3,4 K

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Tags: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @hb8301 @zillahvathek

If you want to be added to the tag list - write to me.

Sihtric's alarm buzzed softly, pulling him out of his slumber with a gentle tune. He'd done it again, painted till the wee hours, lost in his own world. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up. 

"Man, today's gonna be a long one," he mumbled, stretching wide enough to feel every vertebra pop.

Hopping out of bed, he wandered to the bathroom. While scrubbing his teeth and waking himself up with a splash of cold water, his mind played out the day's agenda. And looming large on that list was that meeting with you, his boss.

He had joined the advertising firm as a graphic designer just six months back, when it once again had become evident that his unpredictable art sales were simply not enough to cover rent and other bills. And in this short time, he had come to genuinely admire you. It wasn't just because you were the master over his paycheck. No, it was more. You were smart and intelligent, with a discerning eye, having worked with some of the industry's best, always full of energy and bursting with unexpected ideas.

As his coffee brewed, filling the room with a comforting aroma, Sihtric glanced at his workstation. Sketches, notes, and reminders littered the space. He had poured his soul into designs for a crucial client this week.

Sipping his coffee, warmth spreading through his fingers, Sihtric's mind drifted. He thought back to his job interview with you - how awe-struck he had been by your charisma. Every tiny detail from that day was imprinted in his mind: the way your hair framed your face, that crisp white blouse, your piercing gaze, and the assertive yet gentle tone of your voice. It felt like a dream, one where he forgot the reason he was even in that room to begin with.

You looked down at his portfolio and then back up at him, your gaze unyielding.

"Sihtric, I see you've worked with a few ad agencies before. Can you tell me about a particularly challenging project you've undertaken and how you tackled it?"

Those eyes of yours, he got trapped in them like a butterfly in a giant coweb, the question almost going unnoticed. "Oh, um, yeah," he started, voice wavering a touch, "So, there was this campaign... for a... thing, and I did, well, design stuff?"

Your eyebrow raised in a playful challenge, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, "Design stuff? Could you elaborate, please?"

Embarrassed, he tried to muster a clearer answer. "Right, what I meant was I led the visual side of this big campaign. We had... differing views in the team. But, I managed to sort it out, and... made some designs?" He was mentally slapping himself on the face for his incoherence, but there was nothing he could do about it. His mind was racing. He couldn't help but notice the little details – the glint of your necklace, the soft curve of your lips. Vivid images of your fingers brushing against his skin or tangling in his hair made him sweat and he could swear his heart had jumped to his throat.

You leaned forward, placing his portfolio on the desk. "Sihtric, take a deep breath. I'm interested in your work and your experience. Let's try that again. Take your time."

He nodded, grateful for the second chance. Drawing a long breath, he tried to push aside his nervous admiration for you to give a more composed answer. The whole meeting remained a hazy whirlwind for him. Exiting your office, he felt like he'd just finished a marathon, convinced he’d made a fool of himself and butchered his chances. The real shocker came the next day when your secretary called to tell him he'd landed the job.

Sometimes he pondered if he should've declined. He never foresaw the toll it'd take on his heart. Sure, you were drop-dead gorgeous, but it wasn't just that. It was the air around you, the way you carried yourself, the balance between assertiveness and genuine warmth.

And therein lay the rub. Each interaction, from official meetings to casual chat near the coffee machine, even the fleeting moments your fingers grazed while sharing documents, tested Sihtric’s composure. He'd often find himself lingering on your laugh a second too long or jumping at chances to help you out, constantly trying to dial back before raising suspicion.

He had a love-hate relationship with big projects, especially the one he was working on now. The upside was of course spending more time with you – those endless late brainstorming evenings, project discussions gulping down morning coffees, or those afternoon progress check-ins. And then there were of course those quick breaks with some casual chats about movies or music. He lived for these moments, yet they twisted his gut, making the 'keep it professional' attitude so much harder. 

Man, when you'd burst into laughter over some silly office joke or shared tidbits from your weekend, it was like a sneak peek into the real you, the person behind the boss. And, boy, did it send him spiralling.

It was a rollercoaster of emotions. The giddy highs from just being close to you followed by sinking  lows, realising his feelings might always remain a secret. Sihtric took a deep breath, setting down his drained coffee cup. Another day, another challenge to keep that secret under wraps.

And let's be real. The odds were stacked against him. On one end, there was him – an artist, struggling for recognition and forced to juggle between his passion and job in order to be able to pay his bills. On the other, there was you – successful and recognised art director of one of the city's top ad agencies, mastering work challenges with a mix of grit and grace. The idea that you might ever look his way seemed... well, ludicrous and the fact that he was your direct subordinate only emphasised how absolutely fantasy like this notion was.

—----------------------------------------------------

The company's annual Christmas party was always a big deal  — a bright spot in the midst of deadlines and stress. The office would light up, literally, with twinkling lights and festive baubles, and for a night, it'd transform into a party wonderland. The aroma of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts wafted through the air as soft carols played in the background making everybody feel warm and fuzzy.

Sihtric was in his element, chatting away with buddies about holiday escapades and the usual office gossip. The night was looking good, he was happy and truly enjoying himself, especially because he'd been recently introduced to this big-shot art lover, who seemed genuinely interested in his unique art style. And thanks to this unexpected acquaintance an exhibition was already in preparation – a dream Sihtric had cherished for years was coming true. Late nights, brushes, paints, and the chaos of bringing art to life now dominated his hours and he revelled in that even if some darker rings around his eyes testified to the lack of proper sleep.

Amid this whirlwind of preparation, another thought continually hovered at the edge of Sihtric's mind — inviting you to his exhibition. He wanted you to see beyond the office guy, to the artist, the dreamer. What better time than a Christmas party? Every time he played the scene in his mind, it would end differently. Sometimes he'd imagine you looking thrilled and promising to attend. Other times, he'd envision a polite but distant decline.

And so he was anticipating your arrival, feverishly brainstorming about the perfect moment for his invitation, as the door swung open, revealing you, looking radiant in a black dress that accentuated every line of your body, leaving Sihtric momentarily speechless and stumbling over his words. He almost choked on his drink, his gaze glued to you, following every so gracious move, his jaw slowly dropping and eyes filling with an expression of deep frustration.

You were laughing, your eyes gleaming with joy as they met those of the tall, dashing man beside you. His arm was draped casually around your waist, a possessive yet tender gesture that made Sihtric's heart sink.

Every laugh you shared, each subtle touch, and those warm exchanges of glances between you and the guy  – it all was like a dagger to Sihtric's heart. A cocktail of jealousy and a pinch of sadness brewed within him, although he kept reminding himself he had no claim over you. He had never voiced his feelings, nor had he let himself believe that someone as radiant and accomplished as you could ever see past his name tag. "Get a grip, Sihtric. She's out of your league, and you had always known that," he told himself. 

But still there had always been that small, naive part of him that harboured hope, whispering tales of “what ifs”. What if one day everything would change and he would muster the courage to share his feelings? But tonight, that hope was crushed under the weight of reality.

Pulling together every remaining bit of his self-control, Sihtric pivoted back to the conversation at hand, all the while battling the urge to keep peeking over at you. But from the corner of his eye, he still saw you both — so wrapped up in each other, dancing to your own rhythm.

As the night rolled on, he kinda lost track of you two. A part of him scolded himself for even daydreaming. Of course, someone as magnetic as you couldn't be single. But, man, it didn’t dull the sting.

Feeling the need to step away for a moment and escape the party's cheerful cacophony, Sihtric made his way to the big, spacious balcony. He hoped the chilly night air might help clear his head from the whirlwind inside. The evening had started so full of hope and anticipation and now was completely ruined for him. Sihtric lit his cigarette, as he suddenly caught a murmured conversation approaching. Hoping for some privacy, he ducked behind a column, trying to blend into the shadows.

He heard at least two people stepping out on the balcony, and suddenly, it was your unmistakable voice that reached him, filled with pain and frustration. "Why her, of all people? My own secretary!" you exclaimed.

"It just... happened," the defensive reply came, which he recognized as your boyfriend's voice.

You shot back, "And you thought hiding it was the answer? I had to find out at our office Christmas party?"

The man mumbled something incomprehensible in response. 

"We're done. Just go. I need to be alone right now," Sihtric heard your voice, quivering with a mix of anger and hurt. 

Caught off guard, Sihtric felt awkward overhearing such a raw, personal exchange. He contemplated stepping out and admitting he was there, but before he could, he heard your boyfriend's quick exit and the sharp sound of the balcony door closing.

He briefly considered staying hidden and letting the moment pass, but seeing the unmistakable pain in your stance, he instantly ditched the idea. Taking a breath, he gave a gentle cough to signal his presence and slowly stepped forward, finding you looking distraught, the twinkling lights from inside casting a glow that made your tear-streaked face glisten. It stung seeing you like this, especially when it felt like he was trespassing on such a personal moment.

Embarrassment and shock pulsed through you with every beat of your heart. Of everyone to witness this breakdown, it just had to be Sihtric - not some fleeting acquaintance, but someone you saw and interacted with every day, someone who knew you and respected you. At least until now.

A wave of panic washed over you. Would he think differently of you now? Your carefully curated image of always being composed was now in pieces. The barriers you'd built so diligently over time  – gone in a heartbeat.

 “Of all the moments...” you whispered.

Sihtric, sensing your turmoil and looking for a distraction handed you a tissue. The balcony was wrapped in a heavy silence until you mustered, "I'm sorry. You didn’t need to be a part of that."

"I didn’t mean to intrude," he responded, "It just happened so fast."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "This isn’t how I imagined tonight would go."

"We've all been there," he said gently, trying to lighten the mood.

Choking back a laugh, you replied, "Yeah, but usually not with an audience."

He grinned, trying to keep things casual. "Think of me as a very interested passerby."

Seeing your surprise, he quipped, "Your ex might think he's a shooting star, but to me, he seemed more like a sparkler that fizzled out. And for the record – he's an idiot."

A small laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head. "Nice try. But thank you. Really."

Sihtric gave a playful shrug. "I’m just being real. But hey, are you okay?"

You paused, your voice softer, "Been better. Thanks for lightening the mood, though."

He took a breath, "Look, I don't want to intrude any more than I have, but you seem like you could use company right now. Can I do something for you? Can I get you a drink perhaps?"

You mulled it over briefly, then nodded, "Alright. As if things could get any worse."

With a comforting smile, Sihtric said, "I’ll be right back."

—-----------------------------------------

The party's noise faded to a dull murmur as you both got lost in the chat.

Sihtric felt a mix of things. It pained him to see you upset, but man, he couldn't deny the thrill of getting this unplanned time with you. He kept sneaking looks, thinking how your smile looked even cooler up close.

A strand of your hair playfully draped across your face, and he had to resist the urge to gently push it back. And with the soft background music, an invitation to dance nearly escaped his lips. But he held back, sensing it might be a step too far.

His art exhibition was on his mind too. He wanted to share it, just needed to slide it into the conversation smoothly.

"You know," he started, swirling the last sip of his drink thoughtfully.  "Besides the whole graphic designer stuff, I paint. There's something magic about splashing colours on a canvas."

You looked intrigued. "Is that so? I always thought your designs had an extra touch of soul. Like there's a story hidden in every piece."

Sihtric chuckled, his eyes brightening, clearly stoked by your comment. The two of you continued to chat, the conversation flowing effortlessly. Emboldened by the ambiance and perhaps that second cocktail, Sihtric leaned in a bit, "You know, I actually have an exhibition coming up soon. It's a collection of my recent works. I... I’d really love it if you could come. I think you might appreciate the stories behind the paintings."

You blinked, processing this. You knew Sihtric was talented, but an entire exhibition? "I'm in," you smiled. "Always had a soft spot for art, especially when it's by someone I know."

His eyes brightened noticeably, and he fought to keep his composure, a warmth spreading across his cheeks.

As the evening wore on, the earlier events combined with the cocktails left you in a heady state. Your laughter became louder, and your steps weren't as sure. Noticing your state and the watchful eyes around, Sihtric decided to step in. This was not the right place to put your vulnerability on display with all the employees and bosses of the company gathered in one place. 

Fetching your coat, he gently wrapped it around you, subtly guiding you towards the exit.

“Okay, boss, looks like it’s home time,” Sihtric said, his tone light, attempting to infuse some humour into the situation.

You chuckled, a sound that was melodious yet laced with the unmistakable touch of too many cocktails. “I’m not ready for the night to end,” you protested mildly, though made no effort to resist as Sihtric waved down a taxi.

When the car pulled up, Sihtric had a moment of awkward realisation - he had no clue where you lived. That was a detail that, somehow, had never come up in all your office interactions.

“So, uh, where to?” he ventured, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

You rattled off an address, the words a bit slurred but intelligible. When he recognized it as one of the city’s posh neighbourhoods, Sihtric's eyebrows rose a notch. 

The gentle hum of the car's engine provided a steady backdrop to your sporadic, light-hearted giggles. Every so often, Sihtric would sneak a peek at you. Tonight had been a whirlwind, and he was spinning from the rapid shifts in emotion. One moment he felt he'd lost any chance with you, the next, he learned you were single again. And amidst it all, he had managed to extend an invite to his exhibition. But as he looked at your tipsy, carefree state, he silently hoped you'd remember their conversation come morning.

Upon arrival at your grand apartment complex, you leaned into him, the evening's indulgences making your steps falter. As you fumbled around in your pockets for keys that were conspicuously absent, the reality of the situation began to set in.

"Oh no," you murmured, panic lining your voice, "I think I left my handbag at the party."

Sihtric's eyes widened as he processed your words. "Are you sure? Think. Where did you last see it?"

You tried to recall, but the fog of alcohol muddled your memories. "I...I don’t know. I think I left it on the bar counter when I went to get a drink."

Sihtric sighed, taking a moment to think. Feeling your weight lean into him as you struggled to maintain your balance, he instinctively wrapped an arm around your waist to stabilise you.

"Okay, let's think this through," Sihtric began, his voice calm and measured, "Going back to the party venue at this hour might not be the best idea. They're likely cleaning up or closing already. Tomorrow first thing, we can check for your handbag. For tonight, do you have any friends or family nearby?"

Your head shake was slow and a bit exaggerated. "They're miles away."

“Any chance there’s a spare key somewhere? Maybe a friendly neighbour?" he asked.

You hesitated, "I... I've kept to myself mostly."

In the quiet night, the predicament seemed to amplify. Here he was, in the dead of night, with his drunken boss outside her apartment, both locked out. He could never have imagined a scenario like this.

After a deep breath, he said, "Alright, look, I have a couch at my place. It's not much, but it's comfortable. You can crash there for the night, and we’ll sort everything out in the morning."

You blinked, a bit caught off guard by the unexpected offer. On any normal day, you would've politely declined. But right now, with your thoughts swimming in a cocktail haze, you giggled and responded, "Really? Are you sure?"

Sihtric smiled, "It's not a problem. It's late, you need a place, and I can't, in good conscience, leave you out here."

The car ride to Sihtric's place was a tranquil one. You leaned into the window's cool embrace, fighting off sleep, while Sihtric's mind raced, piecing together the night's unexpected twists.

The dim lighting of the apartment complex hallway cast elongated shadows as Sihtric tried to guide you up the stairs. But with every step, it became more apparent that the task was not going to be easy. Your laughter, interspersed with hiccups and mumbled comments about your ex-boyfriend, echoed in the quiet corridor. And then, without warning, your laughter turned into soft sobs.

Sihtric, concerned, looked down to find tears streaming down your face. "Hey, hey," he tried to console, "Husch, it's okay."

"I just can't believe he... he..." you hiccupped, struggling to find words, the hurt evident in your eyes.

Seeing you in this state and realising that climbing the stairs in your condition would be an ordeal, Sihtric made a quick decision. Gently, he swept you up in his arms. It wasn't about your weight but more the electric jolt from the closeness, that sudden rush of intimacy that had his heart doing flips in his chest. Instead of pushing him away, you snuggled deeper into his embrace, your head finding its natural resting place on his shoulder.

Feeling your soft breaths against his neck and the gentle grip of your fingers, he had to fight to keep his balance. The ticklish sensation of your hair brushing against his cheek, your soothing breathing rhythm, and the lingering scent of your perfume all combined to form a heady mix that sent his head spinning. Every part of him was hyper-aware of you, so close and real, making everything else fade into the background.

Managing to unlock his apartment door, he stepped inside and gently placed you on his bed. "Just... just stay here for a second," he whispered, moving quickly to rummage through his closet for spare sheets and blankets for the couch.

But when he turned back, the gentle sounds of your breathing told him you'd already drifted off to sleep. For a moment Sihtric stood frozen, absorbing the sight before him - the serene rise and fall of your breath, the way the dim light from the street painted your face in soft shades. It was a moment of quiet beauty. Your hair splayed out, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows—everything about you in this moment felt so intimate, personal. It was a sight he'd never imagined he'd witness. 

Despite the unexpected turn the evening had taken, a warm feeling settled in his chest. He carefully removed your shoes and tucked you in, making sure you were comfortable. And this time he gave in to his urge to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek for a moment, silently wishing he could be the rock you leaned on, the one to chase away any sadness. In his heart, he knew he'd move mountains just to keep you from any pain. You deserved nothing but happiness, and the thought of someone causing you heartache infuriated him.

With you sleeping soundly, he settled on the couch, wrapping himself in the cosiness of blankets. As sleep claimed him, a dreamy smile played on his lips—a dream where he was your hero.

[reallygroovyninja]

Blurred Lines Part 2

The early morning light filtered through the blinds of Lexa high-rise apartment, casting sleek lines of shadow and light across the room. She lay in bed for a moment, her eyes open, gazing at the ceiling, her mind already racing through the day's agenda. The life of a corporate VP was a relentless cycle of decisions and responsibilities. 

With a disciplined sigh, Lexa slid out of bed, her feet touching the cool, polished floor. Her apartment was a reflection of her professional success – modern, minimalist, and impeccably organized. The walls adorned with tasteful art, the furniture angular and stylish, each piece carefully chosen to project a sense of sophisticated efficiency. 

In the kitchen, her high-end coffee machine hummed quietly, producing the perfect cup of coffee with the press of a button. Lexa filled a sleek, designer travel mug, her movements brisk and purposeful. She appreciated these small luxuries, brief moments of personal indulgence in her otherwise structured life. 

Pausing for a moment, she glanced at a photograph on the kitchen counter – a serene landscape, a contrast to her urban existence. It was a silent nod to her hidden longing for the tranquility of nature amidst her bustling city life. 

Dressing for the day, Lexa chose her attire with careful consideration. She selected a sharply tailored suit, its fabric rich and commanding, paired with a crisp, white blouse. The suit was a statement of her status and authority, a necessary armor in the corporate world. Her shoes were elegant yet practical, high heels that clicked authoritatively on her apartment's hardwood floors. 

Before leaving, Lexa stood before the full-length mirror in her hallway. She adjusted her jacket, smoothed her hair, her expression a blend of confidence and introspection. The reflection staring back at her was that of a powerful businesswoman, poised and ready to conquer the challenges of the day. 

As she was about to turn away, a soft presence emerged behind her. Clarke, with her gentle demeanor and understanding eyes, appeared like a comforting echo in the mirror.  

Clarke’s arms slipped around Lexa’s waist, a warm and reassuring embrace that contrasted with the cool precision of Lexa’s corporate armor. Lexa’s initial posture of rigid control visibly softened under Clarke’s touch. Her eyes closed momentarily, allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability, a silent acceptance of the comfort offered. 

In the mirror, the contrast between them was striking yet harmonious. Clarke, in her more casual attire, her blonde hair falling softly around her shoulders, radiated a sense of freedom and emotional openness. Lexa, in her business suit, the epitome of corporate success, yet in this moment, her façade was gently stripped away by Clarke’s affectionate gesture. 

Clarke’s hands moved slowly, caressing Lexa’s torso, a soothing motion that spoke volumes. It was a silent communication of support, understanding, and deep connection. The tension in Lexa’s shoulders eased, her expression softening as she leaned back slightly into Clarke’s embrace. It was a rare moment of stillness in Lexa’s usually hectic life, a peaceful interlude in the reflective glass of the mirror. 

The world outside continued its relentless pace, but in the sanctuary of her apartment, time seemed to pause. In Clarke's hold, Lexa found a moment of tranquility, a gentle reminder of the life and love existing beyond her professional realm. Her eyes met Clarke’s in the mirror, a shared glance that needed no words, rich with meaning and mutual respect. 

Suddenly, the ring of her phone pierced the silence of the room, jolting Lexa back to reality. The sound was a sharp reminder of the world she actually inhabited, one of schedules and responsibilities, far removed from the gentle fantasy she had momentarily indulged in. 

Lexa blinked, her eyes refocusing on her own image in the mirror. The corporate VP, the woman of control and authority, stared back at her. The softness that had momentarily graced her features faded, replaced by a familiar mask of composed determination. 

With a deep, steadying breath, Lexa mentally chastised herself. "Get a grip, Lexa," she muttered under her breath, her voice a low whisper. 

She straightened her jacket, a physical act to realign her thoughts, her posture regaining its usual firmness. The reflection in the mirror now showed the Lexa Woods the world knew – confident, unyielding, a pillar of strength in the high-stakes corporate arena. 

With one last glance at her reflection, a final affirmation of her resolve, Lexa turned away from the mirror. As she stepped out of her apartment, her mind firmly anchored in the present, the fantasy of Clarke's embrace lingered like a whispered promise, a secret yearning safely tucked away for another day. 

[harshildesignstudio]

Presenting our exquisite 'Rose Pink Skirt Top Set,' a harmonious creation designed by Vilas Satasiya at Harshil Design Studio.

Product Highlights:

Product Name: Rose Pink Skirt Top Set

Product Design by: Vilas Satasiya

Color: Rose Pink

Material Speciality: Soft & Cool, Light Weight

Material Purchased from: Delhi

Time Duration: 20 Days

Occasion Perfect: Ideal for Partywear

Type of Fabric:

Fabric: Artificial Silk & Organza

Weight: Light Weight

Design Features:

Wash Care: Dry Clean Only

Comfort: Comfortable Material

Lead Time: 30 days

Sustainability: Crafted from sustainable materials

Climate Suitability: Suitable for the intended season or climate

Sample Availability: Samples available for testing and evaluation

Trend Consideration: Inspired by current fashion trends, particularly Bollywood Fashion

Step into the limelight with our Rose Pink Skirt Top Set, featuring a corporate godet skirt and a low back blouse adorned with front/back ruffles!

Ready for a style upgrade? Let's discuss your fashion goals with Harshil Design Studio. Contact us for a consultation, and let the transformation begin!

[prvtocol]

@sayitan : hc + 👗 for a clothes-themed headcanon | Thematic Headcanons. ᠂ ⚘ ˚

One’s clothing style demarcates what subdivision or sector an individual works for in the RDA. SecOps are outfitted in standard camo and gear. Miners and construction workers are fitted for manual labor. Corporates are fussy in their standard office wear with men even wearing white button-down shirts, ties, and blazers. Meanwhile, scientists are the most casual often wearing t-shirts and khakis under traditional lab coats. 

Brianne’s wardrobe is strictly corporate. Modest work dresses, silk blouses, pencil skirts, cigarette trousers, and high heels. All neutral in color. All designer labels. The highest quality due to her class and position. However, one will often see her wearing an RDA-issued lab coat thrown over her attire to proudly display her connection to SciOps. 

This all changes when she becomes a Recom. The “capsule wardrobe” she meticulously curated for her Pandora tour is no longer usable because of her larger size. Clothing choices are relegated to the limited variety stocked for Recoms and Avatars, the latter more appropriate considering. She has no choice but to dress down in RDA-logo t-shirts and (sometimes khaki) trousers, but at least she has a similar style lab coat to before to throw on over it (thanks to the Avatar Program reboot for fitting their scientists with them). On her feet are a pair of trainers/sneakers or lace-up boots. She dislikes it for its lack of corporate professionalism but at least it's comfortable.

With the Resistance, she is still wearing what's left of this wardrobe, but the RDA logos on her few t-shirts significantly fade over time. Her style does not change again until much later (when she slowly adopts more of her mate's clan's (life)style).

Some art of her corporate style is under the cut:

(thanks to @badtrigger for bringing her to life! ♡)

[professorpski]

Flouncing Out of the Room: Vogue 9726 

I was leafing through my skirt patterns looking for one with some walking ease when I found this one, and realized something strange: it offers only a back view. Most pattern envelopes offer only front views of front and back views. So why only the back?

The skirt is relatively plain in the front, although many fitted skirts are plain. From the front, you can only see the corners of the large single flounce, or the pleats, as they come around from the back of the skirt and wrap over to the front. The back gets all the attention because it has all the drama. It can have a a large flounce, a large, sheer chiffon flounce on the longest version which shoots it into evening wear category, or a set of graduated pleats which made it perfect for office work wear. Notice how the illustration pairs the collared blouse with the pleated version, another nod to work wear. This is a 1997 pattern, a time  when women had been climbing the corporate ladder enough that their work wear was moving away from the era of giant-shoulder pads, and a skirt with some crisp details was considered appropriate. 

It has no waistband; instead the designer suggested merely running seam binding along the inner waistline seam where the lining and the fashion fabric at attached to one another, and then the side zipper has a hook an eye at the top. This struck me as too flimsy a closing, so I borrowed a feature from ready-to-wear: a waistline facing, and a tab with flat button on the inside across the zipper closing.

The fabrics recommended are wool crepe, which I have made before, and which has just the right amount of body and drape for the short flounced version. I would add a good quality ponte would probably work too, as it would have the drape and the body. They also suggest gabardine, which seems best for the pleated version, and lightweight tweed which would work for the flounce if not tightly woven. And then silk chiffon or georgette for the larger flounce. I haven’t made the chiffon version, but you can imagine the charm of its longer, fuller sway as you walk across the room.  

[malloryhuitson]

Elegance, grace, professional. The main descriptors of Mallory Huitson's style. Classic and corporate, her personality reflects through her powersuits without undercutting her feminity. Each piece of clothing, even the more casual seeming jean and blouse combination, is tailored specifically to her. Consisting of a neutral palette, with matching, understated accessories, Mallory's wardrobe is completely designer, with a few tailor-made pieces. It indicates who is she, and what she expects in terms of quality.

[nny11writes]

WiP Wednesday - Meaner Cleaner Crew

Turns out I’m still in love with the Catra is a window washer and Glimmer is some sort of corporate executive story that’s a meet cute. And also hilarious imo. Whole ass scene below the cut!

Glimmer had waited all day, the shirt ordered months before and stashed in her office ready to take her shot. Mid month, like clockwork, she saw the window washer’s van and scurried to her office to quickly change into the shirt. For one moment she imagined them swinging down while she was changing, which was hot but also only hot in fantasy land. So off came the blouse, on went the tee with shocking speed, and within an hour she was rewarded.

For a moment Glimmer worried she’d gone too far when their ears went limp and tail fluffed out, but then they got back into their usual routine with a few additional dick drawings before vanishing.

She had a laugh, a hearty chuckle, and got back to work.

Forgetting about the shirt until she was washing her hands in the bathroom where a large woman with massive red claws saw her and gasped. Or. Well. Shouted- “OH MY GOSH! Meaner Cleaner crew- what up!!!”

“Wha!?” Glimmer yelped, scared by the shouting before looking down, realizing she’d worn the tee shirt all day. Like, at all her meetings and everything all day. That kind of literal all day. Oh her mom was gonna kill her. “Y-yeah! Love the videos! And the work here too, a-ha!”

Could she be more awkward?

“Nice, nice, nice! I’m Scorpia, I designed that lil guy.” She pointed a claw out, accidentally poking one of Glimmer’s boobs and apparently unaware of having done so. Probably the price one pays for claws. “Wow, Catra’s gonna be thrilled when I tell them I saw Mucket in the wild! You know, mucket ‘cause he’s a mean bucket and it sounds almost like muppet.”

Was Glimmer about to be a big jerk? Probably. But if Scorpia had claws and, now that she’d squeezed into the small restroom Glimmer could see a giant stinger, then Catra might be- “Is that the magicat? I see them every time! Highlight of the day.”

Scorpia nodded enthusiastically, “Yup, that’s our Catra alright!” and then she smiled wickedly, in a manner Glimmer would not have suspected the excitable woman to be capable of. “I’m guessing your the reason they always take that side of the building?”

“Y-yeah? I mean, I don’t know why they always do my side, but I’m really glad!”

“Mmmhmm, so I think-”

“Czar Scorpia, please heed my humble plebeian pleading and stop blocking the door. I gotta piss super bad!” The voice was high pitched and when they spoke louder it was a little rough, but it was jovial and Glimmer felt herself blushing to her roots as Scorpia’s wicked smile went pure evil.

Her mother had always warned her to be careful with first impressions as you can never take them back. There was no taking this train wreck back.

“Sure thing Catra, I was just chatting with a lovely lady who’s MEANER CLEANER CREW FOR LIFE!! Woot woot!”

Scorpia then delicately, apologizing profusely, maneuvered her way around Glimmer to the largest stall, squishing her against the sink a tiny bit in her quest to both use the bathroom and make space. Catra ducked out of the way of her swinging stinger and then Glimmer was real life face to face with her long-time crush.

Oh no.

Her brain unhelpfully added, “Don’t forget the dorky shirt you bought as a gag.”

Oh no!

“Hi!” She chirped right as Catra started laughing. Oh it was as endearing and annoying and captivating and obnoxious as she’d always known. Glimmer was fucked. “Rude.”

“You look like a bad meme!” Was Catra’s half gasped contribution between cackling.

Her time had come. All those hours sunk into vine were finally paying off. “Okay, first of all? I look good in this shirt. And second of all I look good in this shirt! Third of all, I look good in this shirt. So don’t tell me I don’t look good in this shirt!”

“Oh fuck, I gotta pee.” Catra moaned skittering into the nearest stall.

“Just admit you couldn’t come up with anything great in response!” Glimmer called out right as what sounded like a rain gutter after a heavy downpour started up. “Okay, I stand corrected.”

“Catra, don’t be gross!” Scorpia tried to whisper.

“She laughed at my dick earlier, I’m in the clear.”

“UhM!?”

Glimmer could not salvage this, but by god she was gonna try anyways, “Nononono! Not their literal dick, like, dick drawings, I laughed at their dick drawings!”

“Am I interrupting something?” Angella asked, half in the bathroom and looking somehow both offended and delighted.

“Mom! NO!”

It was too late, Catra was howling with laughter again as Scorpia frantically called out, “Be cool Wild Cat, that’s our boss out there!”

“What in the world- what are you wearing?” Angella’s face was going red, eyes wild as she looked at the tee shirt that Glimmer forgot she was wearing again.

Scorpia was (of course) the one who called back, “Meaner Cleaner Crew! Woot woot!”

“I’M LEAVING!” Glimmer shrieked, fleeing the bathroom back to her office. “Bye mom, talk to you later orneveragainwhichevercomesfirstbye!”

“Glimma!”

But she was out in a flash and locked her office door before calling her assistant. “Frosta, if anyone asks, I’m dead today, chance of resurrection tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

God she was so unbelievably fucked!

[appleslices]

i was tagged by @thesentdowngirl and @plusque

Nickname: zee

Height: 5'4"

Last google search: diy miniatures

Song stuck in my head: i dont remember the title but its kylie minogue and its the one with the "remember the old days walking in rhythm the night is for livin' it's in your hands now to... something something" i lose the lyrics at this point

Number of followers: 390ish

Amount of sleep: a blissful 7ish hours of sleep last night

Lucky number: i don't have one of these i don't believe in numbers

Dream job: i get money to fuck around with art and crafts all day but with no pressure to scramble for freelance work or do corporate design altho atp its inevitable LOL

What are you wearing right now: jeans and a sweater vest with a teddybear pattern

Favorite media: god ig video games bc they engage like audio, visual, and tactile senses At once its very easy for me to be invested in the narrative, concepts, visuals etc. but like tv shows are also very big for me, there are many good ones out there and i love learning abt the visual language and story telling of that kind of "long term" film.

Favorite song: song of the week is "ya no soy tu baby" by princess alba

Favorite instrument: cello, synths, drums

Aesthetic: idk i enjoy a lot of different aesthetic movements and it's impossible to boil my Tastes into a singular movement or even blend them together BUT a few key faves are bauhaus and memphis group, i like brutalism but in combination with more color, i also enjoy baroque and some elements of rococo but i think even for someone who leans towards maximalism rococo can be overwhelming for me sometimes. fashion wise i really enjoy blending morikei with classic/gothic lolita i also have a few sort of like techwear adjacent and athleisure pieces i try and blend with my EGL to uhm varying degrees of success but also sometimes i just want to wear sweatpants but most of my shirts are blouses so they dont blend easily together.

Favorite author: god i dont know i don't read enough to answer this </3

Favorite animal noise: love cat sounds any noise a cat makes will be entertaining

Random: have any of u guys watched the dangerous liaisons tv series its actually really good im watching it with hannah and a lot of our commentary is very sort of like reactionary like we're watching a reality show but it's so engaging and the costume design is beautiful. and also i think there's some gender and sexuality going on with the two leads somethingggg about them is insane. sorry for spoilers but there's this one scene where camillle corssdresses to get into a gentleman's club and the whole time she and valmont are sooo h*rny about it and i really had to have hannah pause it while i had thoughts and she laughed at me (affectionately) the whole time while i was trying to Get Myself Together.

i've rambled on for sooo long i'm just going to tag "anyone who wants to do this" xoxox <333

[vexic929]

What aesthetics do your OCs gravitate towards?

Ooh let's see

Vice: visual-kei or nu-goth; they're very into playing with gender and wearing extravagant, avant-garde pieces, much to his boyfriend's chagrin lol

Soliton: she tends to sway between soft femme and cyberpunk raver aesthetics with no in between

Berrie: definitely 1970s fashion (though on Earth-100 that's the current modern aesthetic); lots of oranges, high-waisted bell-bottoms, sweater-vests and loose, patterned button-downs

Aria: catwalk corporate; nothing she ever wears costs less than $300 and most of it is in the thousands purchased straight from the designers themselves

The Ace Arrow: grunge; lots of soft layers with mismatched prints in varying shades of grey, black, and purple

Harmonic Sine: Y2K girly-girl vibes with lots of sky blues and dreamy prints (and she always matches her glasses and hearing aids to the outfit)

Agent V-92: just so much black and red leather, why does she own so much leather

Fire & Ice: business casual unless she's going out drinking with her boyfriend, then she'll switch to the classic sexy little black dress and stilettos or something sparklier for special occasions

Earth-63 preface; China is the main global superpower on this Earth and has been for centuries so all of the aesthetics have Chinese influence such as resembling qipao/cheongsam or hanfu

Reverse: catwalk corporate as well; she dresses as well-to-do as her family with highly decorated qipao, custom yellow leather jackets, and tailored slacks and blouses (though on rare occasion she'll wear the old, worn Flash t-shirt she got in college)

The Flash: she favors the basics; jeans and a simple blouse or t-shirt or sweatshirt on a casual day with comfortable, heat-resistant shoes

Dr. H Wells: business casual; before her wife's death, they would often wear matching qipao-inspired dresses on formal occasions and steal each others' sweaters in the lab while the other was working so it made things easier on both of them to just wear a monochromatic palette of blacks and greys. after her wife's death, she's had to pare down some of their wardrobe to just comfortable items she can easily put on or modify to work for her as a paraplegic

Pied Piper: corporate goth with green accents; she always wants to look perfectly put-together but she can't quite get rid of her dramatic emo kid past

Nightwing: retro or basics; usually high-waisted pants with tucked-in, half-unbuttoned blouses or tight sweaters and jeans with a leather jacket or a Superwoman t-shirt; she's either the chicest person in the room or a fashion disaster and you'll never know which

Red Hood: goth or punk or grunge depending on the day

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[sajbahari1]

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