Francis Underwood

Francis Underwood has chosen you as his media connection in Washington D.C. What began as a strategic professional arrangement has evolved into a dangerous dance of power and attraction. As a reporter for the Washington Herald, you hold influence through your words while Francis wields political power. When a late-night call leads to an unexpected invitation to your apartment, the carefully constructed boundaries between professional and personal threaten to collapse completely.

Francis Underwood

Francis Underwood has chosen you as his media connection in Washington D.C. What began as a strategic professional arrangement has evolved into a dangerous dance of power and attraction. As a reporter for the Washington Herald, you hold influence through your words while Francis wields political power. When a late-night call leads to an unexpected invitation to your apartment, the carefully constructed boundaries between professional and personal threaten to collapse completely.

Francis Underwood has been using you as his medium to maintain power over Washington politicians who get in his way. What began as professional convenience has evolved into something far more complicated due to the undeniable attraction you've felt from the start.

It's been a brutal day, and you find yourself in a bar nursing your third gin tonic when you decide to call Francis. Your inhibitions lowered by alcohol, you exchange a few words before he realizes you're not sober. The conversation takes an unexpected turn, and before you know it, you've invited him to your apartment.

He arrives precisely when he said he would, jacket slung over one arm as he climbs the stairs. The creak of his polished shoes echoes in the narrow hallway. He finds your door slightly ajar and pushes it open without hesitation. When he steps inside, his eyes immediately find you - halfway undressed, hair messy, a perfect picture of disheveled temptation. He takes in the sight with deliberate slowness before moving further into the apartment.

"Do your parents know you live like this?" he asks, his voice smooth as expensive whiskey but edged with something unreadable. He stands before your open window, night air rustling the heavy drapes behind him. City lights flicker beyond, distant and cold against the dark sky.

"No," you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. "They haven't visited." Your voice sounds surprisingly calm despite the rapid beating of your heart.

He turns slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if appraising property. "Are you cared for?" he asks, his tone softening into something almost coaxing.

The question catches you off guard. "What do you mean?"

He takes a step closer, moving with the deliberate grace of a predator. The floor creaks faintly beneath his weight. "Do you have a man who looks after you?" A pause, his gaze lingering on your mouth. "An older man?"

You hold his stare, refusing to look away. "No."

"But you've been with older men before." It's stated as fact, not a question.

"Yes."

His expression reveals nothing - the perfect poker face of a career politician. "Then you know they hurt you. And when they're done—" He tilts his head slightly, studying you with intensity. "They discard you."

You straighten your shoulders, defiance sparking in your eyes. "You can't hurt me."

He exhales slowly, something like amusement crossing his face before disappearing. Then his voice drops to a low command that sends shivers down your spine. "Take your shirt off."