#Professional ID cards

[namebadgesindia]

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[faunandfloraas]

I love putting together gifts. I believe I'm very good at making things cute.

[anotherpapercut]

trying to email someone I barely know to see if they can give me free stuff. wish me luck

[3amsnek]

hi if this isn’t something you prefer answering you can ignore my ask!

so i wanted to know how much stripe reveals your info to people who pay you? through ko fi and all that. what i mean is when someone gives the creator money through ko fi using paypal their name (legal name) is revealed on invoice so does that happen with stripe as well?

i’ve heard with stripe, creators can hide their legal name and use another which shows up on invoices but im unsure if it’s true

hi! I actually had this same concern and did a lot of poking around for how different platforms handle this while setting up my commissions so I will attempt to answer! disclaimer I am just a guy who is bad with technology so there is a chance I am wrong about things ok here’s a readmore attempt click to get Snek’s business knowledge

this is actually the main reason I rly like stripe, you can customize pretty much everything clients will see including how much information about yourself you want to give away- I literally only have 3amsnek as my name in there, it’s just my business name (the Public Details section of settings lets you mess with this as much as you like, it’s under the Business Settings category)

it gives my country & state on some invoices but no further details (I can’t remember if state is mandatory or I clicked on the wrong button somewhere setting it up but I can’t disable it so keep that in mind) (I can change it along with everything else in my info though)

you do need to give Stripe all of your information for legal and payment purposes which can be kinda intimidating to set up but within my account I can customize what name will show up everywhere it shows up, put a different email than the one I signed up with as a customer support email to go at the bottom of receipts, decide specifically how much of my location is shown- idk if this is super clear bc I’m not at all experienced in Business Advice but by my memory/experience it doesn’t even ask for a Firstname Lastname name anywhere that’ll be shown to customers

for the record I’ve never actually used paypal bc my account got nuked within a day of making it and they have simply refused to fix it so I don’t have a direct comparison from personal experience but from my various hours of research trying to put comms together it seemed like paypal will always give everyone involved in the transaction a stupid amount of information about each other and there rly isn’t much to do about it/things can’t be changed ever or at least without huge difficulty and my experience with Stripe has been not that at All,,, it’s been very nice tbh I even found a whole invoices feature that allows international bank transfers as a payment method making a workaround for people who only have paypal & no card

if this is still confusing you can dm me and I’ll send you a picture of my checkout page/invoice/email receipt templates, it rly only shows my profile picture for stripe which I selected and can change (for me it’s the same dragon I use for my ko-fi header) and my business name in big letters at the top to say who you’re paying and then it’s the checkout/payment setup for the client (looks like any other online shopping checkout thing rly) - I haven’t been able to Confirm confirm that this all shows up properly on receipts as I don’t rly have a way to run a test with it with actual payment but it shows you what all the graphics are set to show up as in your account (under Branding in settings, same Business Settings box as Public Details is in) and you can change all of it any time (I do think you can also send blank test receipts to yourself)

hopefully this helps clarify things? at this point of using it for a couple months I would say I’d recommend Stripe- I’ve been rly pleased with it so far, especially with this specific topic :]

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I hate being right.

[aptechvisaglobalimmigration]

[digital-arnav2019]

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[townpostin]

Aditya Institute of Technology Inaugurates New Session

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[oldmannapping]

HC: The Batfam’s secret identities keep nearly being exposed through dumb mistakes, and citizens all over Gotham are constantly signing NDAs printed on ridiculously formal Bat insignia letterhead.

Tim: Used his Coffee Club rewards card for a free espresso as Red Robin, forgetting it was linked to his civilian identity because it was 3am and he was running on 42 hours without sleep.

Steph: Used her personal phone to tap-and-pay at Batburger with Cass. Bruce got pissy but she’s like, “Who accepts cash in a post-pandemic world, Mr Out Of Touch?” Used the experience to bargain a work phone out of Bruce.

Dick: Poses the exact same way in selfies with fans as both Nightwing and Dick Grayson. “What? Is it a crime to know my angles? I’m not apologising for having a good side!”

Damian: Constantly threatening people in League dialect as Robin and at school. It’s like a super niche language. People notice.

Jason: Grabbed one of his Red Hood jackets because it was cold and accidentally pulled out two grenades and a gun when asked for ID at the bar.

Duke: Straight up used his Signal powers to find something at the back of his locker at school. Like just lit up the hallway. “I thought I was alone!”

Cass: Took out cash from the ATM as a civilian for Batburgers with Steph, and paid as Black Bat. Someone at the bank traced the serial number of the bill and ATM surveillance footage. Batman declared that this wasn’t Cass’s fault and gave her another $50.

Alfred: Outsourced some of the superhero suit laundering to a professional company because he’s ONLY ONE MAN for god’s sake, and sometimes he needs an afternoon off.

Bruce: Literally just keeps adopting kids who look exactly like all the new crimefighters who help Batman. Has a massive public profile and just. Keeps syncing up families with Batman? People are like uhhh is he expecting us not to notice, or?

And all of them have accidentally posted to the wrong social media account at some point.

[wileys-russo]

regular visitor II m.león

regular visitor II m.león

you exhaled shakily as you flashed your ID badge and peeled into the training complex, almost running over several pigeons pecking at the ground on your designated parking spot as your engine cut off and your head thumped against the steering wheel.

heart rate refusing to slow down from the various road rules you broke this morning you hustled to grab your things out of the car and hurry inside, well aware that due to some awful morning traffic you were running almost over an hour and a half late now.

yes it was definitely the traffics fault and not the fact you'd accidentally set your alarm for 6pm and not 6am, and considering you'd like to think of yourself as quite the punctual and professional person being on time was late for you, so this situation was something new and you loathed it beyond belief.

it wasn't a game day thankfully but you knew this would set you back dreadfully as you had appointments lined up all morning back to back, jona wanting almost all of the girls to have a quick check up and check in since most of them had only just returned from international break.

with a groan you shifted uncomfortably trying not to drop anything with your arms more than full, attempting to kick your car door shut behind you as your one free finger probed at your hips where your keys hung trying to find the lock button.

"oh hijo de puta!" you cursed as you struggled to hold everything, finally kicking your door shut but dropping your coffee and jumping back as it narrowly missed soiling your brand new white sneakers.

"un lenguaje tan grosero." you jolted in shock and almost fell over at the unexpected voice, a tattooed hand hurrying over to grab your bag right before it hit the ground as the other pressed against the small of your back to stop you toppling over.

"mapi." you exhaled with relief at the familiar face, the girl making sure you were steady on your feet before handing you back your bag, ignoring your protests as she took a few of the medical books stacked in your arms into her own.

"está bien, déjame ayudarte. quiero hacerlo!" the defender dismissed your concerns with a flick of her hand, sending you a dazzlingly white toothed smile as you took a moment to collect yourself.

"you are a little late today, no?" the girl questioned, the two of you falling into step as you smiled at her accented english.

despite the fact you did speak and understand most spanish you appreciated that a lot of the girls who spoke english did their best to do so around you, knowing you did get homesick every now and then having been born and raised in england up until around a year ago when you'd made the move to spain from manchester.

"i could say the same for you león." you quipped back making the defender send you a grin and knock her shoulder into yours. "i was allowed to sleep in. no fitness testing when you have been here training all summer." mapi smiled but you recognised it didn't quite meet her eyes as your features softened, not knowing the whole story but enough to know there were reasons she no longer played for spain.

"did you go to the library first chica?" the zaragozan teased quickly changing subject, jostling the heavy textbooks in her arms and reveling in the laughter it pulled from you as the pair of you made your way inside making small talk.

"gracias por su ayuda!" you exhaled gratefully, shifting your bag on your shoulder and holding out your arms for the books which mapi carefully placed down into them as you reached where you'd be parting ways.

"anytime." if mapi had planned to say more she didn't get the chance as you shot her another grateful smile and hurried away, the girl exhaling with an annoyed grumble at herself and wandering off toward the locker rooms.

"bon dia!" you sang out with a rushed smile, swiping your card at reception and practically sprinting toward the physio's wing, arriving to your office with a sigh of relief seeing there wasn't a line of disgruntled players yet.

"jona called a captains meeting to get everyone on the same page so everything's been pushed back, i took care of the younger girls who had the first appointments and rearranged the rest to come in after breakfast, you're fine amiga. breathe!" carmen the other physio on today assured as you collapsed at your desk with a groan, a thump sounding as you dropped everything and your limbs burned from the effort.

"thank you!" you gestured up to the sky making the woman laugh and sit down across from you, running you through the schedule for the day as you hurried to tidy everything up, grabbing out your diary and scribbling down the changes.

"so andrés and peter are in for the afternoon too?" you clarified, the tests for the girls hoping to be returning from injury this weekend having been moved to after lunch as carmen nodded and you were relieved to hear you'd be sharing the load.

"sí. makes it smoother to go through everyone on the list without having to rush anything or hold anyone back later than needed." the woman explained as you nodded in agreement.

a knock at the door gained your attention as you looked up to see a familiar face hovering in the doorway. "bon dia mapi!" carmen greeted her, taking her copy of the schedule and promising she'd be back soon for your upcoming meeting with a few of the other staff, and with a coffee in hand for you as you blew her a kiss with a grateful sigh.

"long time no see león." you teased as the defender gave you a grin. "i had to make sure nobody moved my chair." mapi huffed nodding to the padded massage chair she'd gotten all too familiar with during her rehab the last few months which you'd headed.

"moved it since you were sat in it...yesterday? you know maybe i should just get you your own personal bench at this point, with your initials and everything." you continued with a wink as mapi perked up and your gaze dropped back to your diary in front of you.

"are you here for help or for a chat maps?" you asked, half serious and half joking as you did have a busy day ahead, the defender rolling her eyes playfully.

"it is a professional visit, but we will chat anyway." mapi nodded confidently which you couldn't deny, but the footballer also had no leg to stand on as she did often find herself hanging about in your office in little bubbles of free time with no real reason bar wanting to talk to you.

though if you knew the real reasons why she seemed to hover, and if you'd caught on at all to the way she often shamelessly flirted with you, you'd made no move to show her so.

"tape time?" you laughed knowingly, a flurry of nods greeting you as you gestured for her to take a seat.

"so how was being back home?" mapi questioned with a smile, grabbing out what you needed as she hauled herself up onto the bench.

"like, overnight? it was fine!" you chuckled with a shake of your head. "no! during the break. you were gone for a week." mapi blushed slightly and hoped you hadn't heard the shake in her voice as you hunted around for another roll of tape.

she'd wanted to speak to you about it yesterday but all of this week you'd been busy preparing for everyone returning and the impending season, not having had much time to sit and talk with her like you normally would.

"oh that, it was nice." you smiled politely, not giving much away. "so whats troubling you today then?" you asked moving to stand over her as a panicked look crossed her face.

"qué? what do you mean?" mapi frowned in confusion, shuffling back a little to give you more room. "with the tape. what do you need taped mapi? your knee?" you chuckled, the girl exhaling with a noise of understanding.

"oh! sí. the knee, i went for a run last night and it has been a little...tight since." mapi shrugged as you nodded in understanding, the defender cleared for mostly everything now since her initial recovery and rehab.

"mm yeah there is a little tension. have you done much in the way of hard cardio outside of training since we cleared you?" you asked, massaging her knee and thigh expertly in your hands as mapi opened and closed her mouth, distracted temporarily by the way you were touching and squeezing her.

the girl loathed how around you her tongue and her words seemed to fail her, confidence not something she had ever ever struggled with but for some reason all it took was a bright eyed smile and a laugh from you and her mind would go blank.

"mapi?" you asked with a concerned frown when she didn't answer, the defender shaking her head for a moment. "oh! sí a little. i have been trying to fix my sleep schedule but when i cannot sleep, i try to go for a run." the girl admitted with a small smile and you pretended not to already know she was in therapy given it was part of her rehab program anyway, but you knew better than to every question any of the girls on things outside your realm of qualifications.

"that makes the nap you took yesterday make more sense." you teased with a grin as she scoffed. "i did not sleep! i was uh...how do you say? resting my eyes." mapi defended herself with a scowl making you laugh.

"oh? i did not know people snored when they rest their eyes." you smiled, the knot in her knee a little less prominent mapi tried to pretend she didn't miss the feelings of your hands on her as you backed off to measure out the tape.

"i do not snore!" mapi huffed, crossing her arms. "sure." you drawled sarcastically with a smile, gesturing for her to stretch out her leg as you wrapped the tape around expertly.

"vamos! off you go. if you are late for strength training carlos will have my head on a platter." you chuckled as she hopped down and you sat back at your desk. "head on a platter?" the girl gave you a face of confusion as you smiled.

"i would get the blame." you explained, shooing your hands at her and nodding at the door as you opened your laptop, fingers clicking away against the keys and mapi paused in the doorway for a moment.

"oye. would you want to-" you looked up with a quirked eyebrow and the eye contact seemed to suck the question from her as the spaniard shook her head, mumbling something and hurrying out of the room.

you'd just finished your check ups with a few more of the girls later in the day when you the familiar face poped back in only a few hours after you'd already seen her.

"again! what can i do for you this time maría?" you chucked, turning around and missing the way pina shot her a knowing look on her way out, shoving the girl and muttering something in her ear as she left the room.

"my calves are locked up." mapi pulled herself to sit up on the bench again as you hummed, grabbing out a bottle of massage oil and gesturing for her to lay down.

"did you overload the leg press again?" you sighed as she gave you a guilty smile and you shook your head. "mapi you know that if-" you started to lecture as she groaned.

"sí, lo sé! i have to be careful even if i am cleared. there are still risks." mapi parroted the words she'd heard from you time and time again. "then use these to listen!" you warned, tugging playfully at her ear as she chuckled.

the girl breathed a sigh of relief as you began to massage out the knots and tension in her lower legs, and though that wasn't the reason she'd really come here, it was a bonus.

"so how was your time back home?" mapi questioned again, propping herself up on one arm to look at you over her shoulder. "you already asked me that, it was nice!" you reminded with a laugh, the midfielders face flushing bright red in embarrassment.

"gah! more than nice. what did you do?" mapi asked, persistent to get a little more out of you which amused you. "saw family, spent time with my friends, caught up on all my paperwork because my patients don't listen to instructions about not overdoing it!" you answered with a wink, mapi's head thumping back down onto the bench as she looked to the floor.

"i do not always overdo it." you heard her grumble and merely smiled, the defender seemingly giving up on her questions as a comfortable silence fell between the pair of you.

"vale! all done." you squeezed her ankle and moved to wash your hands. "esperet! my uh, my shoulder is a little tight. we were doing...throw ins!" mapi quickly sat up as you narrowed your eyes.

"mm well we can't have that." you gestured for her to turn around as you gave her shoulder a squeeze. "higher or lower?" you asked, the spaniard guiding you to where her 'pain' was.

"okay, shirt off." you instructed as mapi quickly stripped off her training top leaving her in only a sports bra, and you ever so briefly caught the pink tint which coated her cheeks before her head faced the wall.

"so...what are you doing after work today?" mapi asked, wincing at the awkwardness in her tone, again never finding herself so tongue tied around anyone else.

"going home." you chuckled with a smile, working through the basically non existent knot in her shoulder but choosing not to say anything. "oh! cool." mapi nodded, pulling a face which she was grateful you couldn't see.

"you know, if you have something to ask me mapi, you can just ask." you encouraged, unsure if you were misreading the situation but having a feeling she was dancing around her true intentions and had been for awhile now.

"because you know if you wanted to ask me out you can just do it. instead of making up all of these injuries and excuses to come and hang out with me in here during work hours." you spoke casually but the words caused mapi to choke on air as she spun around and pulled her shirt back on.

you watched with amusement as the footballer opened and closed her mouth clearly in shock, causing a grin to curl into your features not used to seeing her so flustered.

"you're cute mapi, but we gotta work on your confidence!" you patted her leg with a smile, stepping back a little. "i have confidence, lots of it!" she blurted out with a frown as you hummed, waiting a moment for her to say anything else and chuckling when nothing followed.

"i'm free tonight, if you were wondering." you sat down at your desk and pulled out alexia's file, seeing her for a one on one next. "oh. oh!" things clicked for mapi as you raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to add some more on with a subtle wave of your hands.

"dinner. would you like to go and eat dinner, with me. a date! will you go on a date with me por favor?" mapi finally managed out, the pink flush creeping up her neck causing her to tug uncomfortably at the collar of her training top.

"sí, i'd love to." you answered softly, watching as her face lit up like that of a kid on christmas morning.

"vale. bien! genial!" mapi nodded happily, making a beeline for the door as you cleared your throat and she came to a halt. "would you like my number so we can make a plan for dinner?" you asked, her face perking up even further as she nodded.

you held your hand out for her phone, saving your number in it and handing it back to her. "you better text me león." you warned playfully as she backed out of the room. "i will! promesa." you melted at the dopey grin on her face as she left, hearing her footsteps thud away.

"estás muy guapa hoy!" your head lifted up as hers popped back in, sending you a charming grin before disappearing again, racing off away to the gym as you let out a laugh and focused back on your laptop in front of you, smile unable to be wiped from your lips the rest of the day.

[shapenprint]

Id Card Designing

[namebadgesindia]

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[cheriladycl01]

Would you write a Carlos or Max x reader please where she’s a driver too. They’re always worried about her when she races but they’re not prepared when she gets into a serious crash just running errands to the store. They get a call from her caller ID expecting her to have forgotten something but it’s a police officer or paramedic telling them she’s been in an accident. Thank you!

Is this Mr Sainz? - Carlos Sainz x Driver! Verstappen Reader x (Brother) Max Verstappen

Plot: You get into a car crash when shopping for the first food shop before a race weekend.

You were used to driving, it was literally your job at a professional level as a driver in Formula One driver. And you were good too, having 3 wins under your belt in only your third year in the sport.

Sometimes it felt like you only had your seat because you were a Verstappen, but racing was in your blood and you were becoming just as much of a menance as your brother on track.

You also had your boyfriend Carlos who you’d been dating since you were in F2. You never thoughtyou’d make it as far as F1, but after proving yourself in your F2 season, and not struggling too much without power steering, you were promoted.

Having Carlos and Max on track with you was so fun as you were always teasing and making jokes with each other especially in interviews and on Thursday media days.

Carlos and Max however hated the fact that they had to race you and track an that you were good enough to actually fight for position with the pair of them. They were both pretty worried about you before they got into the car. Once they were on track they both tried to consider you as just another car, but admitidly that was pretty hard.

They never thought about you normally driving… it was such a mundane thing compared to driving round tracks at around 250mph.

“Hello is this Mr Sainz?” the call came through whilst Carlos, Max, Lando, Oscar, Charles and Pierre were all in the hotel lobby just waiting around having drinks and talking. It was your caller ID so Carlos didnt think anything off it when he picked it up to here … well not you on the other end.

You were out, getting some snacks for in the hotel room. Everyone had sent you their orders and you’d gone out by yourself wanting some time alone ahead of the race weekend.

You were walking around the large shop, picking out what was given from the list before heading to the checkout. It was getting kind of late, and it was media day tomorrow so you wanted to go back as soon as possible.

“Hi, how are you?” You smile at check out lady who looks shocked to see you before starting to scan your items.

“I’m okay! How are you?” she asks back still looking over you in shock and you try not to chuckle at her reaction.

“I’m pretty good, just shopping for some snacks for my friends. This was the nearest place, its really nice in here” you smile as you take the items off her and pack them into one of your reusable bags.

“That’s gonna set you back $82.52” she says, her American accent coming through. You smile and shake your head.

“On snacks, my god I forgot how many people I was buying for” you chuckle handing over your black card and putting the food back into the trolley.

“Thank you so much! You’ve been so helpful!” you smile before you walk outside going to the car you had rented and loading up the boot of the car.

“Yes this is he” he says with a confused look, furrowing across his brows as he glances a the group who are also looking over to him.

“You are listed here as the emerency contact for a Y/N Verstappen yes?” the voice asks and Carlos feels his heart skip a beat. He looked over to Max, who was now chatting and joking around with Lando.

“Hold for one second please” he says before muting the call.

“Max, come outside. Now…” Carlos says gruffy, before walking outside to a quiet area where there arent any people to interrupt.

“Yes I am the emergency contact for Y/N Verstappen” Carlos sighs and Max freezes.

“She’s been in an accident and we are requesting you and a Max Vertsappen, her second emergency contact at he hospital immedielty” he explains and Max and Carlos share a look.

“What happened?” Max asks, a pause from the officer slighty confused at the different accent change.

“Whos this?”

“I’m her brother Max Vertsappen” he says, his tone cold.

“Well, it looks like she was coming back from the shops and a drunk driver ran through a red light and went into the side of her car crossing the road. She’s in surgery right now but that’s all i can confirm right now” he offers and tears build up in Carlos’ eyes. Max is sort of frozen in shock before he shakes himself out of it.

“We’ll be there as soon as possible, St David’s I’m guessing?” he asks and gets cofirmation from the officer before hanging up Carlos’ phone for him.

“Carlos come on” Max says pulling at his fellow drivers wrist who is now the frozen one with a blank look on his face.

“I-“ he starts but cant say anything.

“Carlos come on, this cant wait!” Max exclaims before the older man wakes himself up from his daze and follows Max to the lobby where their friends are waiting.

“Can one of you drive us to the hospital, we’re both to irratic to be behind the wheel right now” Max asks, looking at everyone who’d stopped their convrsations the minute the absent duo had come back in.

“What? What’s happened are you. okay?” Charles asks standing up.

“It’s Y/N she got into a car crash, drunk driver or something and she’s in the hospital right now” Carlos explains to the group.

“I’ll drive!” Lando agrees quickly, before taking them out to his McLaren, Carlos sat next to him while Max sat in the back.

“Whoever did this is going to pay” Max spits out angrily, tapping against the back of Lando’s seat.

“She’ll be okay, she’s like the strongest person i know” Lando replies looking in the rear view mirror at Max before concentrating back on the road.

They get to the hospital in record time running into the emergency department trying to look for Y/N.

“I’m going to go get some flowers and chocolate for her, you guys let me know the room shes in yeah?” Lando says knowing that they just want to ask and see how she is.

They nod the younger driver off before hounding the receptionist with questions.

“Is Y/N Verstappen here?” Carlos asks.

“She was in a car crash, an officer said she was in surgery?” Max asks.

“She’s an F1 Driver has her team been informed about the accident, what about her family?” Carlos asks.

“Slow down. I unfortunaltley dont have the answer to any of those questions but the first. She’s here, I’m not sure if she’s out of surgry yet but I will. page her doctor to come see you both. Please in the meantime take a seat” she directs them to the smaller and more privte waiting area.

Carlos takes a seat first his head in his hands while Max starts to make calls to his mum and dad and ther sister letting them know what was going on and telling them the limited knowlege he had on the situation.

In the time they’d been waiting, it had gotten out to h general public that you’d been in a car crash and articles and posts had been made online regarding the situation.

“For Y/N Verstappen?” a lady calls in a longwhite coat clipbaord in hand. Carlos’ head lifts up from his hands and he steps up towards the lady as Max hangs up.

“Yes?” Max asks looking over to the doctor.

“Your sister Y/N is out of surgery, it was hard work but she’ll make a full recovery in time. She’s a fighter and we really thought we’d lost her for a second. She’s asleep right now but you can visit” she smiles offering to guide them through the area.

“Thank you” Carlos’ cries pulling Max in for a hug, leaning agaisnt his shoulder before they follow the doctor through to your room.

You were asleep on the hospital bed, some wires and other medical tech strapped up to you and Max never thought he’d see you like this, he’s prayed you’d never ever be in this situation. He hated seeing you, looking so fragile and vulnerable.

Eventually your anesthetic wore off and you were woken up to voices lightly talking and rays of sun bursting through the window. The first thing you notice is how relaxed your body is. Not that you knew right now but the morphine you were on for pain was making you very woozy.

“Mmmmmm” you groan as you try to move.

“Hey baby” you hear lightly from next to you, your eyes fluttering open to meet your boyfriends.

“Hi Carlos” you smile soflty looking at him and the worried look on his face.

That’s when yourmind becomes a little less fuzzy and you realsise you are neither at home or in the hotel.

“You were in a car crash, you had us worried” you hear your brother admit.

“Mmmm Max?” you asklooking around the room seeing the various flowers and cards and noticing it was a hospital room.

“We’re here” he smiles coming to stand the other side of the bed.

“We’ll always be here for you” Carlos adds, holding your hand.

Taglist:

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[clawsdevour]

how many floors left

wc: 1.7k content warning: public sex, smut, fingering, kissing, established relationship, not proofread, multi-fandom x reader

•°. *࿐

Entering your workplace which is a big tall glass building with about 70 floors, you come in your professional attire daily. Hair and makeup nicely done, wearing your pencil skirt, an ironed blouse and black stockings which matched with your shiny black heels. The jewelry you picked today complemented your eyes and matched the rest with your outfit. You worked under the CEO of the company, as his assistant. Little did the whole company know that you were secretly dating him.

Dating at work was strictly prohibited to ensure that the work environment is productive, and not filled with gossip and toxicity. You crossed over a few rules with this. One, you started dating one of the people you have to engage with on a daily basis at your workplace. And two, the person you were dating is the CEO, the person you work the most with. It was like he was bending the work rules for you. However, you both were able to put up a front where you’re both completely professional on work grounds. But not whenever you were in his office with him alone.

You scan your ID card to clock in before heading to the elevators. You noticed how unusually empty it was that day. Am I late, or am I just way too early for today’s scheduled meeting? You pondered to yourself for a moment. Usually to prepare for meetings you decide to come at least 20 minutes earlier than when the gathering is held. It’s normally bustling at that time, with some people here asking to clarify the documents and some people still finishing up their papers. About to press the call button for the elevator, you hear a clicking sound coming from behind. A male figure was walking towards you and the elevator you’ve chosen to use even though there were plenty available. His finger touches the button before you could hit it. Looking up with a stern look on your face to see who beat you to the race, it was no one else other than your boyfriend who you’ve been dating in secret.

“Good morning, Miss. I see you’ve come earlier for today’s meeting,” extra emphasis on the Miss to toy with you. He’s holding himself back from smirking to keep it professional in case anyone's around. He cleared his throat, turning his attention to watch the number of floors race down to your level.

“Morning Mr. CEO. I see you also came early but what for? I’m the one who’s preparing the meeting for you,” you’re looking at him like he’s got something up his sleeve. Typically he comes to the meeting right when it’s starting, you never see him come early because you actually do your job right.

“Just wanted to help. I’m your boss overall, I’m here to help you submit your work to me,” he chuckled. Rolling your eyes, the elevator stops at floor one. Smoothly opening its doors upon entry, you both step in. 

About to click the same floor, he exchanges a look that says You can press it. Returning the favor, you press it for him. The meeting was located on one of the top floors of the whole building, floor sixty-nine. The doors closed, creating that gravitational pull as the elevator is about to take off into the air. You stood shoulder length apart with your boss.

“Sooo… now that we’re alone would you mind telling me why you’re such a tease this early morning? What did you do before getting here..?” Naturally you’re curious why he was in such a good mood, this early. Usually he’s the grumpiest and coldest person alive in the morning. You pondered, He must’ve done something devious, but what would he do before even getting to work besides eating and getting dressed? Catching his attention with your words, he looks down at you, practically beaming with joy. 

“Because I wanted to come early to.. I don’t know.. get some alone time with you, since you know.. the rules, even though I’m basically running this company” he’s stepping towards you, making you walk into the wall backwards. Your ass touches the handrail of the elevator leaving you nowhere else to run. His actions have your mouth parted in surprise. You always thought he didn’t even know his own rules, he’s just a man living carefree while running a big company. 

Finger on your chin, tilting your head up so you’d look at him. His sinful eyes narrowed looking into your eyes. You’re starting to turn a light pink hue as you grasped onto the handrail, as if it was gonna help you achieve anything. 

“Do you really want to do this.. at work?” Both of you are very aware that there’s just a one in a million chance of getting caught this early in the office. You just have to pray that no one’s already on one of the floors pressing the button for their departure. 

His lips lightly brush against yours, a simple peck that you wanted more of. He knew that of course. Noticing that you’re currently at floor 17, it was gonna be a long ride up and you both had time to waste while you stood in the traveling structure. Pulling his head down to meet yours with your hands, your lips meet once more. His hands tightly gripped your waist to draw your body closer to his as you two shared a long passionate kiss. Sliding your hands down to his shoulders, you held onto him as you sloppily fought with tongue for dominance.

His right knee gradually started to come in between the soaring heat your legs produced. Slamming you down against the wall for support as he started to rub his knee harshly against your stiff pencil skirt, getting it to scrunch up at your waist. Enough to edge you on, he’s grinding his knee against your damp and sensitive clothed clit. You can’t help but moan into the kiss, sparking more arousal to catch onto your panties. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you part from the kiss, head laying on his shoulder feeling the sensations he’s creating from under. He’s kissing the crook of your neck. Fluttering your hazed eyes, you were currently at floor 24. Getting a lot of fun before prepping the company meeting in a timely manner that’s worth the same time as traveling seven floors up, not bad. 

Your worries and concerns dissolved when he put two fingers on your clothed cunt. Feeling your wetness increase due to the thrill, he snickers at you.

“How many floors have we got left baby?” Whispering in your ear, his hot breath makes your skin flinch. You squint back at the small digital screen displayed above the buttons. 

“Umm.. 39. Wait no, 36 floors. Well it’s moving up,” enjoying the adrenaline he plants another kiss on your lips. 

“Haha, that’s so much time to let us get down.” Looking down, you feel a slight tug on the sides of your panties. His hands were at work pulling them down just enough to have your bare cunt exposed, leaving you to quiver as the chilled office air touched your wet pussy. His fingers on your clit, you’re holding on to his biceps covered by his blazer as he moves his digits in slow small circles. Breathing out whimpers of pleasure, he kisses your collarbone, inhaling your scent. 

“I love the smell of your perfume. How do you smell and look so good every morning? I know I don’t show it, but whenever I see you running around the office I can’t help but stare. You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He cooed, increasing the pace of his fingers that traced your clit multiple times with no end. You’re whining, trying to push his right arm off your clit, overstimulated. 

“We’re nearing.. floor 50 M-Mr. CEO” stuttering, high off the pleasure. You can’t help your legs as they start to twitch and shake from him teasing your swollen clit.

“Oh, please.” Resisting your hands that try to push him back, he plunges his fingers into you. His left hand takes your weak grip off him, leading you close to his freshly shaven jawline, landing a kiss on your knuckles. 

“I’ll make you finish before we arrive,” giving you a defiant look, he finds your sweet spot. Your back arches against the traveling elevator wall as he pokes and curls his fingers inside you. Secreting more fluids that started to drip down onto his knuckles, the squelching noises grew audibly. His head was slightly glancing over his shoulder to count down how many floors were left. Currently, at the 59th floor of the building. Feeling the sparks grow unignorable down there, the build up from the pleasure started to occur, your orgasm was awaiting to be unleashed. 

“I.. I’m gonna.. gonna, cum..!” Pulling your head back as you surrender yourself to the pleasure, soft kisses being planted on your jawline. His speed increases rapidly probing at your incoming release, creating a line of milky white froth on his fingers. 

“Cum for me, Miss. On my fingers. I want to feel you clench tightly around my fingers when you cum,” were the words you heard come from his mouth when you orgasmed. Your legs twitched as you felt the gravity in the elevator shift, coming to a halt. Shit. Why did the elevator come to a stop? Your mind was blank, trying to recover from the slightly numb sensation and regain your composure. 

Looking at the floor number, you were only on floor 66. Did someone come in earlier than you to also prepare for the company meeting? He’s looking back with a shocked look of worry flashing in his eyes. Covering your body and exposed bottom with his big build, he puts both his hands at the sides of your head, against the wall as if he’s shielding you from the door. His face screamed out, It’s gonna be okay, you’re not to be blamed. You’re breathlessly trying to look behind him, gazing at the elevator buttons, then with the floor number trying to figure out why it stopped moving. 

You see the elevator doors open where you make eye contact with your coworkers as they peer back at you, as well as the imitating male figure that’s facing towards you, the CEO.

*.༄ TETSUROU KUROO, MIYA OSAMU, TOORU OIKAWA, SATORU GOJO, SUKUNA, KAMO CHOSO, SUNA RINTARO, HAWKS, TARTAGLIA, WRIOTHESLEY, TENGEN UZUI (ALL AGED UP/POST-TIME SKIP), and of course any of your favorite characters!!!

masterlist here

[scoutofmymind]

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”