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scoutofmymind · 20 days ago

Note

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elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.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.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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nanamineedstherapy · 2 months ago

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Velvet Sin & Clandestine Vows - Getting *ahem ahemed* by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party!

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Minors DNI/Implied Cheating but not really/Shameless Smut/My First Smut

Summary: Nanami X F!Reader Porn with plot if you squint Nanami at a bougie party? Weird. Nanami getting dragged into a bathroom with a woman who isn't his wife? Even weirder. What’s hotter than luxury, mystery, and terrible decision-making? Spoiler: nothing. Let the chaos (and a closet with better taste than Gojo) ensue. Or Getting Railed by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party! This fic started as a joke & spiraled into a mix of billionaire aesthetics, deadpan sass, & unhinged party vibes. Buckle up—it’s classy, messy, & totally Nanami-approved. 💅 #Rewritten since I hated the first draft. TW: Maybe Cheating

A/N: This is my first time writing smut of any kind so let me know if it hits the spot ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) Y’all, I swear, Nanami is loyal as hell, but who doesn’t love a little tension and mystery? If you’re living for the luxury or just here for the smut, drop a comment or a kudos—your chaos feeds mine. Cheers, besties! 🍸

The road twisted like a serpent through a dense forest, the towering pines stretching skyward, their shadows merging into a dark canvas under the fading sun. As Nanami’s Aston Martin DBS Superleggera glided past the last cluster of trees, the view opened into a scene pulled from the pages of an expensive dream.

The estate stood by a tranquil lake , its surface a sheet of liquid sapphire, mirroring the golden hues of the evening. The mansion, impossibly grand, didn’t merely rise—it commanded the horizon, almost otherworldly.

Towering walls of smooth stone enclosed the property, their minimalist design interrupted by intricate wrought-iron gates that whispered exclusivity rather than screamed it. AI-quipped security cameras, seamlessly embedded into the structure, blinking like mechanical sentinels, their presence a silent testament to caution wrapped in discretion. Guards in impeccably tailored suits patrolled the perimeter, some with guns, some with drones, some with androids, some with canines, their demeanor more akin to that of secret service agents than traditional staff.

The driveway stretched before him, a sleek ribbon of obsidian stone that gleamed like polished onyx under strategically placed lighting. The circular courtyard at the end was a gallery of excess : a Koenigsegg Jesko , a Bugatti Chiron , a Maserati Folgore , a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class , a Cadillac Celestiq , and a Rolls-Royce Phantom sat gleaming among other cars, their black, forest green or electric blue flawless exteriors reflecting the golden glow of vintage lampposts.

The lawns rolled outward like an emerald sea, interrupted by marble fountains with sculptures so detailed they seemed to breathe. At the edge of the estate, a private dock cradled a yacht —a floating palace that promised indulgence on the water. Above, the faint hum of helicopter rotors signaled rooftop landings, where multiple sleek, futuristic aircrafts waited in perfect formation.

The mansion itself was a contradiction brought to life. Its towering facade bore sharp lines and elegant curves, an architectural ballet where glass and steel met aged stone and brushed brass, each material woven into a seamless tapestry of power and refinement. High ceilings soared above, the kind that made you feel small without making you feel insignificant. The structure breathed genius—an intellect so vast it had turned ambition into reality.

As Nanami pulled up, the double doors opened before he even stepped out, as though the house had been expecting him. Inside, the ambiance shifted into a warm, inviting opulence. The grand hall shimmered under crystal chandeliers that fractured light into golden rain. Polished marble floors reflected the glow, amplifying the sense of space, while floor-to-ceiling windows turned the lake into a living painting framed by midnight silk drapes.

Walking in, he adjusted his Tateossian 18K gold cufflinks out of habit, the gold gleaming briefly in the chandelier light. The fabric of his Tom Ford silk Charmeuse shirt cooled against his skin as he rolled up his sleeves neatly, a testament to effort without indulgence. His tailored Mohair trousers—his entire outfit, his wife’s suggestion—fit him perfectly, a fact he acknowledged with a silent nod to her exquisite taste.

He knew she had spent more time selecting them than he ever would. She had an eye for these things, a maddening precision that made him trust her implicitly. He'd let her spend a good amount on tonight's party outfit to blend in with his office crowd, even though price tags were the least of his concerns. His wife, however, was a different story. Her taste was so particular that she rarely found anything worth buying at a store. But once she did, if it was casual, it would likely be inexpensive. However, if it was anything work- or party-related, it would undoubtedly carry a hefty price tag

The party coursed through the mansion like a heartbeat. In one ballroom , laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses as soft jazz played from hidden speakers. A smaller, more intimate space pulsed with energy, decked out like a private nightclub , where a few couples swayed to Spanish music under the prismatic glow of lights. Staff moved seamlessly among the crowd; their movements choreographed perfection, while their uniforms—a balance of practicality and haute couture—highlighted the wealth that surrounded them.

Each corner of the estate exuded thought and precision. From the soft, ambient lighting casting shadows on minimalistic art pieces to the way every surface seemed untouched yet lived in, the house wasn’t just a home; it was a living entity—one that whispered of brilliance, extravagance, and untold secrets.

Soon, before he knew it, corporate small talk had already grated on him; he’d barely resisted the urge to check his watch. Conversations about ‘exciting’ fiscal projections felt like sandpaper on his nerves, but years of navigating boardrooms had honed his stoic armor to perfection. He tilted his head just enough to feign interest in a junior analyst’s enthusiastic recounting of how they saved 0.5% on operational costs last quarter.

“Impressive,” he muttered, his voice so flat it was unclear whether he meant it or not. The analyst beamed anyway, oblivious.

His whiskey remained mostly untouched, a mere prop for these tedious rituals. He glanced down at the gold trim of the glass and thought fleetingly about hurling it through one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows—not out of anger, but for something more stimulating than listening to Steve from Compliance recount his golf trip.

“Nanami-san!” Steve called out, loud enough to turn heads. “What’s your handicap? Bet you’re deadly on the green.”

Nanami turned slowly, blinking once as if the words needed extra time to register. “I don’t play golf, Steve,” he replied, deadpan. “I have a job.”

Steve’s laugh was loud and awkward, his ego crumpling in on itself. Nanami allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction before turning back to the entrance, silently daring someone interesting to walk in and save him.

A marketing executive drifted over, a glass of champagne precariously balanced in one hand, their other already extended for a handshake. “Nanami, old sport!” the exec crowed, as though they’d survived war trenches together instead of working in adjacent departments.

“Hardly,” Nanami said, shaking their hand briefly before folding his arms, an unmistakable signal that the conversation was over before it began.

Then the intern appeared like a fly buzzing near a fresh wound, her enthusiasm bordering on suffocation. “Nanami-san, you look great tonight,” she gushed. “Is that Tom Ford? I could tell from a mile away!”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes the moment he saw her making her way towards him from the other corner of the room. Her extremely short gold dress barely covered anything, highly inappropriate for co-worker parties. Where was HR when you needed them?

He regarded her with the kind of cool detachment that made people second-guess speaking to him in the first place. His response was little more than a nod, a gesture so dismissive it might as well have been punctuation. “Yes,” he replied curtly, sipping his whiskey for the first time just to end the interaction. The burn of alcohol was preferable to enduring another comment.

“I’ve never seen you in anything so... relaxed ,” she added, eyes wide as though he’d arrived in a Hawaiian shirt instead of a $25,000 ensemble.

Nanami considered a sarcastic remark— yes, I’m positively unhinged tonight with my gold cufflinks and tailored trousers —but decided against it. “Enjoy the party,” he said instead, his tone as warm as a January morning.

Her persistence, however, was unwavering, her enthusiasm grating on his last nerve. She was the type who delivered coffee he never asked for, lunches he didn’t need, flushed cheeks, and doe-eyed stares he couldn’t unsee. What he had initially dismissed as professional eagerness was now so obviously a crush that even the office ficus had likely noticed. He didn’t mind admirers so long as they kept their distance, but this one was suffocating. Tonight, he had a plan: feed her to his wife .

He let her ramble, tuning her out while his colleagues began their usual background drone: glowing self-praise about the last quarter’s financial performance. Occasionally, Nanami nodded, just enough to seem engaged while maintaining an expression that screamed, I’d rather be anywhere else .

Then a peer from Finance leaned in, his smirk as oily as his hair gel. “You’re quite the magnet tonight, Nanami. What’s your secret?”

“Competence,” Nanami replied, without missing a beat.

The peer’s laugh faltered into a cough as he quickly excused himself. Events like this always managed to sap what little energy he had left after work. First, they stole every waking moment with deadlines and deliverables, then they expected polite socializing in his so-called free time. It was, in his opinion, borderline sadistic. He took another sip of his whiskey, wishing—not for the first time—that he hadn’t shown up. He didn’t much care to mingle, despite appearances. These events were breeding grounds for insincerity, where pleasantries masked ulterior motives. His colleagues jumped him, juniors seeking advice on everything from office politics to investment strategies, while his peers probed for weaknesses under the guise of camaraderie.

Then, previously flanked by armed bodyguards, she walked in.

He felt it before he saw it—the slight shift in the room’s energy, the way conversations seemed to falter for half a second. When his eyes finally found her, it was like everything else dimmed in comparison.

Time didn’t stop—not in some romanticized way, but it slowed just enough to emphasize her entrance. Classy, confident, and untouchable. The sound of her heels on marble cut through the hum of conversation, subtle but commanding. The red rubies on her dress flowed like molten lava, catching the chandeliers’ light with every step. The slit revealed long, toned legs that seemed almost deliberately designed to catch the attention of every person in the room. Her movements were languid but purposeful, as though she were fully aware that the entire party had turned their focus toward her and didn’t mind in the slightest. The siren-like glint in her eyes warned anyone brave enough to approach.

Nanami’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the whiskey glass, his chest rising and falling in a controlled breath. His gaze locked on her instantly, though he couldn’t pinpoint what drew him first—the way her dress hugged her or the quiet authority in her stride. One moment, he was half-listening to his coworkers drone about quotas; the next, he was captivated .

“Who is she?” The intern whispered, her tone laced with poorly concealed jelousy.

Nanami didn’t look away, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

She didn’t need to seek attention—it sought her. Women flocked to her, showering her with warm greetings and effusive compliments. She reciprocated their affection with gracious smiles and her charm disarming even the iciest socialites. The men weren’t as brave, unsure whether to admire her or cower under her gaze—her siren-like aura daring any man to try their luck.

Except for one idiot.

Fucking Gojo.

Nanami’s jaw tightened as his white-haired colleague made a spectacle of himself, wrapping his arms around her from behind like an old friend reunited. Her face scrunched in irritation, a flash of disdain that Nanami couldn’t help but savor. But then she turned, her expression softening as she saw who it was. To his dismay, she hugged him back.

Nanami’s fingers curled harder around the glass of whiskey, the gold trim biting into his palm. Jealousy wasn’t his style— not like he wasn’t already married . But Gojo was a different story. The man had a knack for testing limits, his arrogance as boundless as his charm.

She, on the other hand, was the embodiment of contradictions: sharp yet soft, fun yet untouchable, her elegant demeanor veiling something far more dangerous. As if on cue, her eyes scanned the room lazily, not in search of anyone but allowing people to search for her.

And then their gazes locked. Her lips quirked into a knowing smirk, a silent dare.

Nanami’s breath hitched. Her smile—a challenge, a tease, a warning. His pulse quickened, a subtle betrayal against his otherwise calm exterior.

The intern beside him shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of the unspoken connection between the two. Nanami almost pitied her. Almost. Definitely not.

His focus remained on the woman; she approached the bar with the kind of confidence that made the world rearrange itself around her. Even the bartender seemed to straighten his posture, offering her a champagne flute without so much as a question. Her long fingers, adorned with a curious glove-like jewelry piece , brushed the glass as she murmured her thanks, her tone effortlessly polite but laced with disinterest.

He didn’t notice the minutes slipping by; time blurred under the soft hum of chandeliers and the muted conversations he was no longer part of. Her every movement consumed his attention, the sway of her hips in that red silk dress a calculated provocation.

When she slipped through the gilded archway leading toward the bathrooms, his decision was already made.

Keeping his drink down, Nanami barely registered the figure stepping into his path until he heard the familiar sing-song voice that grated worse than nails on glass. “Nanami! Where’s your wife? Haven’t seen her yet tonight,” his rival cooed, wearing his trademark smug grin that Nanami fantasized about erasing.

“Still at work,” Nanami replied smoothly, his tone devoid of emotion but cutting enough to silence further prying. He didn’t slow, leaving behind muttered speculations about his sudden interest in someone other than his wife .

The hallways had the richness of the place amplified. The further he moved from the party, the quieter it became, the noise receding into a distant hum. The mansion’s grandeur became starker in the silence. High ceilings arched above, their ornate crown moldings gilded with gold that caught the soft light of sconces. The black marble floors shimmered under his polished shoes, stretching endlessly toward the private quarters. Staff passed like shadows flitting through the ethereal glow of this labyrinthine estate.

He paused in front of the bathroom door, glossy black with intricate gold fixtures, left slightly ajar as though inviting him in. The faintest sliver of light spilled out against the marble.

Knock. Knock. Two taps. Firm. Purposeful.

The response was immediate. The door cracked open, and before he could utter a word, her hand shot out, grabbing his shirt and yanking him inside with a force that surprised him.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud as he was shoved against it, followed by the decisive click of the lock. Her scent lingered in the air, both grounding and intoxicating, cutting through the bathroom . Then her mouth was on his, hot and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

“Not even a hello?” He murmured against her lips, his tone low, strained, yet laced with wry humor.

“Hello,” she whispered mockingly, her voice syrupy sweet, before pulling him back down. Her nails grazed the nape of his neck, sending an electric jolt through him.

Oh, she was definitely a siren. He thought as she drew him in with effortless ease, leaving him half-convinced she could drag him into the ocean and he’d thank her for it.

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, deft yet impatient. When one refused to cooperate, she let out a soft growl, yanking hard enough to send buttons scattering across the tiled floor.

“They’re custom,” Nanami deadpanned, his voice thick with effort. “My wife chose them.”

“No wonder they’re ugly,” she shot back, her smirk as sharp as a blade. “Send me the bill.”

Her sass drew a low chuckle from him, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. She was cutting through his composure so easily, leaving him disarmed in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

In a swift motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her against the full-length mirror. Her front hit the glass with a muted thud, the chill drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. For a moment, he held her there, his gaze sweeping over her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with a mix of defiance and desire.

His reflection caught his eye in the mirror—a man undone, his hair disheveled, his usually sharp expression softened by raw hunger. He barely recognized himself, and for some reason, that didn’t bother him.

“Temptress. You’ve already got me obsessed,” his voice dark as he leaned down to press his lips to the curve of her ear.

“Stop talking,” she countered, her tone dripping with impatience. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan softly.

He obliged.

The kiss turned feral, finesse abandoned in favor of raw, unfiltered need. His hands roamed, the fabric slipping against her skin like water.

Once she turned in his arms, more of his buttons clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space as she ran her fingers on his chest then abs. The room filled with their gasps and whispered curses, the sterile luxury of the bathroom a backdrop to the pandemonium unfolding. She took off her handpiece, chucking it on the counter just to feel his skin against her fingertips unhindered.

Her scent was everywhere now, filling his lungs, embedding itself in his memory. It was familiar in a way, like déjà vu dancing on the edge of recognition. Unsettling, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Careful,” she murmured against his lips, her voice teasing. “You might just fall for me.”

Nanami pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Highly unlikely,” he replied, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk.

“Your loss,” she quipped, her voice light, but her hands circled around his shoulders, pulling him back toward her.

Whatever this was—whatever dangerous game they were playing—Nanami knew one thing: he didn’t want it to end.

The bathroom’s air carried a subtle mix of sandalwood, bergamot and cedarwood, understated yet lingering—a scent that seemed designed to make every breath feel curated, the kind of understated opulence that whispered money rather than screamed it

Yet for all its grandeur, it wasn't the decor that took center stage. It was the mess unfolding next to the countertop, where passion replaced polish.

Nanami now had her pressed against the large, mirror-backed counter, its polished surface now marred with the aftermath of their urgency—smudged fingerprints, scattered toiletries, and the faint condensation of their mingled heat. The cool marble against her back seemed to amplify the fire between them.

His grip was firm yet restrained, one hand steadying her thigh while the other trailed upward, tracing the daring slit of her dress with deliberate slowness. His fingers paused at the neckline, the silk sliding under his touch like water. His hold spoke of possession, but his eyes, half-lidded and burning, betrayed something deeper—curiosity, defiance, and a hunger he rarely let surface.

She kissed him again, her lips a demand he had no intention of denying. Teeth scraped against his lower lip, the sting pulling a soft groan from him that melted into a low chuckle. His hands roamed with precision, finding her waist, her hips, her breasts—each touch firm, unapologetic, and met with a sharp inhale or muffled moan. Every touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and disarray.

He lifted her with ease onto the countertop in one fluid motion. The chilled mirror behind her elicited a gasp as her dress slid higher at her thighs. Her legs tightened instinctively around him, pulling him closer.

“Not bad,” she teased breathlessly, her voice a mix of amusement and provocation.

Nanami’s lips quirked into a rare smirk as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “I aim to impress.”

Her laugh was soft, intoxicating, and far too knowing. “You’re getting there.”

Her scent enveloped him now—a crisp, briny ocean breeze tinged with something wild and woody, a sharp contrast to the muted, earthy warmth of the bathroom. It was a siren’s scent, designed to disarm, to enthrall, and it worked far too well.

The sounds of their frenzy filled the room, chaotic yet rhythmic. Her nails dragged along his back, leaving faint crescent imprints as if marking her territory.

Then, with a devilish smirk, he dropped to his knees, his large hands splaying across the backs of her thighs.

“On your knees already?” She started, her voice faltering as he pushed the fabric of her dress higher. His lips ghosted over her inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing.

“You talk too much,” he murmured, his tone flat but edged with mischief.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he tore through the delicate lace of her underwear with his teeth, the sound of ripping fabric punctuated by her sharp intake of breath.

His mouth found her core, hot and demanding; his tongue moved with deliberate precision, drawing broken whispers from her lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, long nails digging into his scalp as she arched into him, every nerve alight with sensation.

Each touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and chaos. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as she raised her head, her eyes wide at the sight of him.

When his fingers joined the fray—one, then two, then three—she let out a muffled cry, her hands trembling as they gripped his hair tighter. The rhythm turned torturous, each stroke a ploy to keep her teetering on the edge.

“Quiet,” he murmured against her, though the command was half-hearted at best.

Her laugh, shaky and breathless, cut through the haze. “Make me.”

He obliged, taking off his shirt & shoving it into her mouth to muffle her moans.

The room, a masterpiece of design and decadence, bore silent witness to their undoing. The perfection of its lines, the care in its curation—all of it had melted away, leaving only raw, unbridled chaos in its place.

Her body trembled, hips bucking against his mouth. His tongue and fingers were moving in perfect harmony. Her mewles grew higher in pitch, her body arching further as the tension began to pool in her belly.

Nanami’s grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady as her body trembled beneath him. Her moans, muffled by his discarded shirt, vibrated against his chest as he felt the waves of her release pulse through her. She clawed his scalp, a claim he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t enjoy.

When she finally collapsed against the mirror, her breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the glass behind her. Her flushed face, her dress still bunched at her waist, chest rising and falling as aftershocks wracked her frame left her looking like Mayhem personified. Still, he didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up every drop of her release like she was the finest wine.

Few moments passed, & Nanami stood, brushing the back of his hand against his lips, catching the faint taste of her. He was the picture of disheveled restraint—his hair tousled, his chest bare, and his trousers hanging low on his hips. The hunger in his eyes, however, was anything but restrained.

His gaze lingered on her as he reached for the straps of her dress. Tugging them down, he exposed her bare chest, the fabric sliding away like water until it pooled uselessly at her waist. Her breasts bounced with the movement, drawing a low growl from him that rumbled deep in his chest.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he leaned down. His lips closed over one breast, flicking her nipple with his toung, while his hand found the other, his touch alternating between firm and teasing. She gasped, her back arching off the mirror as he bit gently before soothing with his tongue, leaving her gasping & mumbling incoherently, her voice ragged but threaded with laughter—the kind that would have thrown a lesser man off balance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” She spoke against the fabric in her mouth.

He paused, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “You started it.”

She smirked, sharper than the edge of the counter, biting into her legs. “And I’ll finish it.” She gestured.

Her hands fumbled with his waistband, still trembling but determined. The flicker of impatience in her eyes was oddly endearing, though he’d never admit it. Nanami stepped back slightly, watching as she struggled with his belt, her fingers clumsy but relentless, then the same belt clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space.

When she finally freed his cock, her hand paused holding it, her eyes widening as her lips parted slightly.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teased, his voice dropping into that smooth, sardonic tone.

“Shut up,” she muttered, voice muffled by the shirt.

He bit down lightly on her neck, one hand busy kneading her breast, while the other left faint crescent moons in the flesh of her ass.

Despite her reservations, her hand moved, slow at first, tentative strokes exploring him with a curiosity that bordered on reverence. The low "fuck" that escaped his lips emboldened her, and her fingers became bolder—squeezing at the tip, letting her thumb tease the slit, earning sharp hisses from him.

His control, usually ironclad, wavered, catching himself before her touch unraveled him entirely.

“Enough,” he growled, his hand wrapping around hers as he guided his cock to her.

She braced herself, her legs parted further instinctively as Nanami growled, guiding his cock toward her slick entrance. She mewled softly as he deliberately didn’t push in, instead teasing her, the thick head of his cock gliding against her swollen folds. The wet slide was maddening, the tension building as he refused to give her what she wanted. Her breath coming in shallow bursts as the tension coiled between them like a spring wound too tightly. Her eyes flashed with impatience, and the look of anger made him smirk through his own restraint. Then she hissed something, muffled, her voice low and threaded with irritation.

Nanami’s smirk was infuriating. “Patience.”

That patience didn’t last long. With a sharp thrust, he pushed inside her, his jaw clenching as she clenched around him, her walls tight and pulling him deeper. He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust; the intensity of the moment mirrored in their matched gasps and muffled curses.

Once he was fully sheathed, the restraint snapped. He withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, forcing a loud, uncontrollable moan from her.

His pace turned brutal, his hips slamming against hers with a force that made the marble countertop tremble beneath them. Her cries morphed into curses, each one sharp and biting, and directed at him with a venom that only fueled his hunger.

“You—oh my God—” she let out a muffled gasp, head falling back against the mirror as he drove her higher.

Nanami leaned down, yanking the shirt from her mouth as he captured her lips in a messy, heated kiss. Her teeth immediately bite his lower lip, drawing blood, but he didn’t care. Their tongues clashed, the kiss more battle than affection, each one pushing and pulling, neither willing to yield.

Breaking away to catch his breath, Nanami's thrusts didn’t falter.

“Still talking?” he muttered against her lips.

“Shut up,” she replied, biting him again, the taste of him & herself lingering on her tongue.

His hips slammed against hers, forcing cries from her throat. Her nails raked down his back, desperate, as though she needed them to fuse on a molecular level.

Despite his relentless pace, his lips softened, trailing kisses along her jawline, down her neck, and finally to her breasts. He nipped and sucked at the delicate skin; his attention split between breaking her apart with his cock and worshipping the parts of her he loved most.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—a brutal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heartbeat. His hands roamed over her body, his nails leaving faint crescent moons in her thighs, her back, wherever he could reach.

Her body arched into him, trembling & walls tightening as another wave of pleasure threatened to overtake her. He knew she was close; his hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and circling it with a precision that left her gasping.

Her reaction was instant as she came with a sharp, keening cry, muffled when he cupped a hand over her mouth, entire body clenching around him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

“She’s sucking me in... so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse, as his control finally broke. Movements turning erratic as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against her neck. His eyes fluttered shut as his own climax surged through him, leaving him breathless and trembling. He barely managed to catch himself before collapsing onto her as the aftershocks rolled through him.

Two forces of chaos colliding. Neither of them moved, just staying for a bit; she rubbed his back as they caught their breaths, the occasional tremor running through her as she adjusted to the lingering sensitivity.

The bathroom was a battlefield of indulgence and chaos. Perfume bottles lay toppled on the black marble counter, the delicate crystal shimmering under the ambient lighting. A faint mist lingered in the air, clouding the oversized mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, capturing distorted reflections of disheveled hair, flushed skin, and heat that had yet to fully dissipate. The mingling scents of bergamot, cedar, and salt—the sharp tang of the ocean—clung to the air, layered with the undeniable intimacy of their aftermath. Despite the mess around them, the silence between them felt clean, untouched by the outside world.

Soon her fingers were idly tracing patterns on his back, grazing over faint red marks she’d left moments before. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was teasing but warm, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Your technique hasn’t changed.”

Nanami froze, the words cutting through the lingering haze like a cold blade. He pulled back just enough to study her face, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me,” she replied, her tone deliberate and light as she brushed her fingers along his jaw. Her touch was deceptively soft, almost disarming.

Before he could spiral into overthinking, she laughed—a sound both melodic and cutting, slicing through his composure with surgical precision. “Relax, Mr. Nanami,” she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. “I’m just grateful for the first million you invested in my company when no one else would even hear me out.”

The tension in his shoulders eased as realization dawned, corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “Mrs. L/N,” he said dryly, his voice laced with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Should I prepare my chequebook again?”

“Always,” she quipped, her smirk softening as she leaned up to kiss him. Her lips brushed against his with a familiarity that belied the game they’d been playing all evening.

“You’re still mine, Kento,” she murmured against his ear—almost biting them, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

Straightening himself, hand lingering at her waist, he pulled her closer to hold as the reality of her presence grounded him. When they finally pulled apart, her tone shifted. “Nice house, by the way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. L/N,” he replied, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The simple gesture felt intimate, grounding, a contrast to the disarray they’d left in their wake. He arched a brow, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Though I do have to ask—what was the dress for?”

Her smirk deepened, her silence deliberate.

“Y/N,” he pressed, his voice carrying a mix of affection and exasperation. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“I was informed that you looked miserable out there,” she said simply, shrugging with nonchalance that only made her look more self-assured. “Your coworkers are vultures. I couldn’t just stand by and watch you suffer.”

His exhale was slow, measured, but his forehead dropped against hers, his voice softening. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me plenty,” she countered, her hands sliding over his chest with a teasing confidence. “But I’m not done yet. My company just hit a billion-dollar valuation, which means—"she smirked, her tone mock-serious—"you can finally quit working for those corporate overlords. Effective immediately.”

Nanami blinked, her words settling in slowly. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with a single raised finger.

“And don’t start with the ‘backup plan’ speech,” she added, rolling her eyes in dramatic exasperation. “I’ve secured enough for the next fifteen generations to sit around and squander. You’re free, Ken. ”

He let out a long exhale, relief washing over him like a tide pulling him out to calmer seas. His hands tightened gently at her waist as he pulled her closer, his forehead brushing hers again.

“I can finally retire,” he mused, a rare chuckle breaking the steady timbre of his voice. “What a dream.”

Her grin was wicked and teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll deck you out with butlers, drivers, private pilots—the works.”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” she said, her voice lighter now, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before stepping down. She fixed her dress, the fabric shimmering under the soft lighting as if it had never been touched. After quickly rinsing & drying her hands, she shuffled for something in the drawer below the sink counter, then gestured Nanami to turn around, who obliged and then winced as she sprayed antiseptic healing spray on her nail scratches on his back. Then, putting it back with one hand while she rubbed his shoulder with the other, soon she adorned her handpiece again.

“Now, pack your bags. We’re going on a month-long vacation. We’ve barely seen each other this quarter.” Her tone practical, though the playful glint in her eyes was still sparkling while Nanami, who knelt on one knee to zip up her askew heels with a gentle touch. This was a stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor; he radiated a quiet eagerness to serve her, even if she had never asked for it—or even forbade him from kneeling—for anyone, including herself. His care for her was unwavering, as he found joy in these small devotions.

Raising up to his full height, Nanami tilted his head, arching a brow. “When do we leave?”

“An hour.” Her smirk was maddeningly smug, the kind that always made him want to both kiss her and roll his eyes. “Don’t worry about clothes—we’ll buy what we need when we get there.”

His frown deepened slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door. “The house is still full of people.”

She waved a hand dismissively, her confidence unshakable. “The white-haired menace can handle it.”

As if summoned, a sharp knock echoed against the ornate black and gold bathroom door.

“Nanami,” Gojo’s unmistakable voice called out, muffled yet infuriatingly cheerful. “I know you told me not to disturb you, but if you want to leave on time, you should probably come out now.”

Nanami groaned audibly, burying his face in her hair. “I hate that he knows us so well. Or worse, that he was probably hovering outside.”

Her laugh bubbled up, light and unrestrained, as she turned to press a soft kiss to his nose. “Good thing no one will know,” she teased, her tone laced with mischief as she nodded toward the party still raging beyond the door.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. His hand reached down, scooping up her ripped panties. He shoved them into his pocket—a gesture equal parts practical and ridiculous. Housekeeping didn’t need to discover that.

He reached for his ruined shirt & still-ok belt while his cufflinks were probably lost to the similarly colored lines in the bathroom floor’s marble. Sighing, he shrugged the shirt on. With most of the buttons broken, the fabric barely clung to him, but he managed enough to appear vaguely presentable, then did his belt & washed his hands. Before stepping out, he winked at her, his rare smirk making her laugh again as she leaned on the counter, ogling him.

Walking out of the bathroom, Nanami was immediately engulfed by the sheer scale of the mansion. The vaulted ceilings soared above him, an intricate lattice of brass and black lines reminiscent of sharp geometry. Recessed lighting cast a warm, almost ethereal glow over the polished marble floors, their obsidian surface streaked with veins of gold that seemed to shimmer with every step.

Security was seamlessly integrated into the decor—discreet cameras nestled within decorative sconces, motion sensors hidden within the intricate carvings of doorframes, and biometric panels that blended effortlessly with the black lacquered walls.

Gojo leaned casually against the wall near the bathroom door, his smirk as sharp as the lapels on his bespoke electric blue suit. “Well, well,” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Looks like someone had a productive break.”

Nanami cast him a withering glare, brushing past him without a word.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo called after him, clearly undeterred. “Your secret’s safe with me. Well Mostly .”

Nanami strode into his bedroom, its absurd luxury understated yet undeniable once he unlocked it’s door with his thumb. Warm recessed lighting bathed the space in a golden hue, highlighting the polished marble floors and the California king bed draped in silk sheets that whispered decadence with every subtle fold. The walls were a study in contrasts—one side a sweeping expanse of black glass overlooking the estate, the other adorned with minimalist art deco patterns in gold and dark maroon.

A walk-in closet occupied one corner of the room, its glossy black doors sliding open with a faint hum. Rows of designer suits, pressed shirts, and tailored trousers moved along tracks, neatly organized by color, fabric, and season. It wasn’t just a closet—it was an AI-driven sartorial fortress.

Gojo trailed behind Nanami, Martini glass in hand, his ever-present grin practically glowing under the warm light of the bedroom.

Nanami shrugged off his ruined shirt, revealing faint nail marks trailing down his back.

Gojo’s exaggerated gasp was immediate. “Knew you were freaks,” he declared, grinning like a cat who’d just discovered a fresh bowl of cream.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nanami replied, his tone dry as he waited for the first shirt the AI closet presented.

The automated system whirred softly, its sleek black panels sliding open to reveal a neatly arranged selection of tailored clothing. The closet’s AI chimed in, its voice smooth and masculine: “Good evening, Mr. Nanami. May I suggest the Maurizio Miri blue Sam Arold , double-breasted blazer for optimal sophistication?”

“No, a white shirt will be enough for now. Thank you.” Nanami replied smoothly as the closet handed him the shirt.

Gojo’s eyes lit up. “Hold up, your closet talks?”

Nanami buttoned up the crisp white shirt, the fabric molding to him like it had been made yesterday, which it probably had been. A subtle reminder of how far he—and this house—stood from anything resembling average. “Of course it talks. Everything here does. Wife is particular about it,” he muttered, casually pulling out a certain incriminating piece of fabric from his pocket & tossing it into the hidden incinerator bin while Gojo eyed the AI.

Then Gojo leaned closer to the closet; his curiosity piqued. “Hey, Mr. Closet—do you take orders? I need something that makes me look like a billionaire without actually trying. Extra points if it comes with a holographic logo of the Gojo Clan.” Gojo didn’t have such bad likes; he just enjoyed being a menace.

The AI responded without missing a beat. “My name is Winston, & I’m sorry, sir. My services are exclusive to Mr. Nanami. While I assure you, no attire could enhance perfection.”

Nanami’s lips twitched as he fought back a smirk. “Even the closet knows you’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I like this guy!” Gojo shot back, pointing at the sleek black panel like it was a long-lost friend. “At least he has taste.”

The AI, apparently more than willing to engage, added, “Taste, sir, is precisely what you lack.”

Nanami turned away, struggling to suppress his laughter, as Gojo gawked. “Traitor! I’m officially boycotting this brand,” Gojo declared, though his curiosity kept him glued to the closet. “Btw what brand are you.”

Nanami smacked his arm. “Do you forget my wife invents AIs for a living, among other things?”

Gojo shrugged, “I didn’t know it was one of hers.”

As Nanami folded his sleeves up again, Gojo shot one last look at the closet. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man, Mr. Closet-Winston. Once I babysit this house, bet you’ll miss me when I leave.”

“I highly doubt that,” the AI replied, its tone impossibly smooth.

Gojo huffed, muttering something about finding an AI closet with better taste, while Nanami finally allowed a small smirk to surface.

Once out of the closet, Gojo chirped, “Aren’t you going to thank me for organizing this amazing party?”

Nanami took the whisky glass Gojo handed him, savoring a slow sip. “Thank you, Gojo, for organizing this party,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not like we paid for it or anything.”

“Fair,” Gojo replied, recovering quickly with a shrug. “But I still expect to cash in the favor someday.”

Nanami nodded, flooding his sleeves with practiced precision before striding back toward the party.

Gojo followed on his heels like an overenthusiastic puppy, Martini in hand. Then looking back at the sentinel closet, he mused. “I need one of these. Think the wife will help me place an order?”

“She’s not your wife,” Nanami deadpanned, savouring the whisky burn as he sipped.

Once they had stepped into the grand ballroom, Nanami’s gaze swept over the room. Gojo, meanwhile, leaned in conspiratorially.

“So,” he began, his grin as infuriating as ever, “how was she?”

His gaze immediately found her. She stood along the far wall; an expansive bar carved from obsidian and gold stood like a centerpiece, its surface laden with bottles of rare vintages.

He didn’t falter in his reply, expression flat. “She’s a woman, Gojo. Not a secret.”

Gojo smirked as Nanami ignored the conspiratorial knowing smirks and whispers that seemed to surround him.

His gaze lingered as she laughed warmly, her head tilted slightly, the sound unguarded and genuine. She was speaking to two women he vaguely recognized as the CTO and CFO of her company, their expressions a mix of respect and admiration. For a moment, he simply watched. Despite himself, Nanami felt a rare sense of pride.

Just as he was about to make his way to her, a voice sliced through the moment.

“Nanami-san! There you are!”

The same intern with an unfortunate crush on him had caught sight of him again, waving over one of her equally annoying cohorts, a smug backstabbing bitch of a coworker Nanami didn’t even bother to remember the name of. They approached like vultures, the intern’s over-the-top enthusiasm clashing painfully with the coworker’s grimey smirk.

“Nanami-san!” she chirped, clasping her hands together. “This house is incredible! You must feel so inspired here.”

“I feel inspired to have another drink,” Nanami deadpanned, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

The coworker, clearly fishing for gossip, leaned in. “Yeah, no kidding. So, where’s your wife we’ve all heard so much about?” He practically sang the last part, his tone dripping with mockery. “Must be so busy to miss an event like this.”

Listening to this, Gojo moved closer to Nanami’s side like chaos incarnate, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” he asked, his grin practically weaponized. “Tsk, tsk, Nanami, keeping secrets from your best friends .”

The coworker scowled at the jab.

The intern blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Nanami bit back a smirk, swirling his whisky lazily in his glass.

When the intern finally recovered, her tone turned defensive. “Well, he’s never mentioned her to me!”

Nanami’s expression darkened, his patience stretching to its breaking point. One thing he wasn’t—had never been—was unfaithful. And this implication, no matter how cluelessly delivered, crossed a line.

Yet Gojo wasn’t finished. He turned his full attention to the intern, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “You know, he does talk about her all the time. But I guess you two must not hang out much, huh? Just acquaintances, then.”

“Excuse me?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, each syllable cutting.

The intern, oblivious to the shift in tone, pressed on. “You never mentioned you were married—”

“Please,” arching a brow, he interrupted, his expression one of detached amusement. “Do not imply that I’ve hidden my marriage. I’ve been married for years and have never avoided speaking about my wife when asked. If you’re unaware, perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.” Each word measured and sharp. It’s not like he cared to keep his job anymore anyway.

The intern blinked, stunned into silence.

Gojo erupted into laughter, clapping him on the back. “Kento, you’re killing it tonight. Who’s next on the chopping block?”

Without waiting for a response, Nanami brushed past them, his focus already shifting back to her. Gojo, naturally, wasn’t done yet. Turning back with a smirk, he delivered one final dig.

“He talks about her all the time with his friends. Trust me, I’d know since I’m his best friend. I know all his secrets ,” he said lightly. “Guess you’re just colleagues.” Nanami could hear the mockery directed at his coworkers, with a hint of possessiveness over their friendship in Gojo’s voice, along with the intern’s sputtering, behind him.

Once he approached, his hand slid around her waist, the gesture subtle yet unmistakable. It wasn’t a public claim so much as a quiet reassurance, a tether grounding him in the chaos of the room.

She turned to him, her smirk softening into something more intimate as she acknowledged the unspoken exchange.

“Hello,” he murmured, inclining his head with a faint smile toward the women she’d been speaking with. They were better than his coworkers; hence they were hired.

As Gojo approached them behind Nanami, she introduced him smoothly, her tone warm yet commanding. “Ladies, my closest friend, Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo’s professional smirk slipped into place with practiced ease. “A pleasure,” he said simply, his arm resting on Nanami’s shoulder again.

The conversation progressed for a bit before the sound of glass clinking drew their attention.

“Everyone!” Gojo’s voice rang out, cheerful and uncontainable. He was sitting atop the bar, manspreading, grin wide enough to rival the chandelier’s glow. “A toast to the lovely couple!”

Heads turned toward them, though many had already been stealing glances at her all evening while others were glaring daggers at Nanami.

Nanami cleared his throat, voice steady, effortlessly commanding the room. “Thank you all for coming to our housewarming party,” he began, his tone formal but with a warmth that felt uncharacteristic. His hand rested securely on her waist. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Y/N L/N. She’s my wife. She’s the one who bought us this house.”

A ripple of polite claps followed, though Nanami wasn’t finished.

“She hasn’t visited my office because she’s been working tirelessly on her company, Curse Cop, which, as of today, has officially reached a billion-dollar valuation.” He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at her, unguarded admiration flickering across his face. “Please, drink to your heart’s content, because starting tomorrow, I’ll be on vacation with her—and I’ll also be stepping down as Finance Director to spend more time with my wife, as I promised her.”

The room erupted in applause and a few ‘awws’ from mostly female guests, though Nanami barely noticed. His focus remained on her as she looked up at him, her expression a blend of amusement and affection.

From somewhere behind them, he heard whispers, envy poorly concealed.

“How’d he even get with her?” one muttered.

“It makes sense,” another replied begrudgingly. “He’s the kind of man every woman wants.”

But none of it mattered. Nanami leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as if the room around them didn’t exist.

For him, in that moment, it didn’t.

Soon the evening had progressed—Nanami was comfortably leaning against the bar, whisky in hand, Gojo, still on top of the bar, flanking him as usual, when the intern caught sight of Y/N between them.

She stumbled her way toward her, clearly drunk, with newfound boldness, her barely-there dress doing little to enhance her sense of professionalism. Nanami’s lips twitched as he watched the scene unfold, hiding his amusement behind his glass. He wasn’t much for unnecessary public fights, but he was waiting for this one since she had really become a nuisance for him over the months, hence the reason she was invited today.

“Y/N,” Gojo whispered, sidling closer to her as she inquired about the launch of their latest multiplayer game with the COO of her company. “See that girl over there?”

Pausing, she glanced over, her brow arching slightly as she clocked the intern making a beeline toward her.

“That one’s been after Kento for months,” Gojo murmured, his grin wicked. “Unrequited coffee deliveries, surprise lunches... the works. You’re about to have front-row seats to her grand finale.” He had noticed it all while visiting Nanami’s office, along with Nanami’s look of frustration when she wouldn’t take the hint and leave him alone.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat, her expression remaining poised as she turned fully to face the intern. The air around her seemed to shift, her unapproachable aura sharpening to something razor-edged.

The intern, blissfully unaware, extended a hand, her confidence teetering on arrogance. “Hi! I’m Nat. I work closely with Nanami-san in finance. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked briefly to the outstretched hand before returning to the intern’s face, her expression neutral but distinctly unimpressed. “Oh?” she said coolly. “And what are you to him?”

The intern faltered, her hand dropping slightly. “I... like I said, I work with Nanami-san! He’s been so helpful to me in the office. Such a great mentor.”

Turning his head from his vantage point, Nanami’s smirk widened as he took another slow sip of whisky. He had actively avoided helping her since he discovered her hidden agenda.

“Is that so?” Y/N replied, tilting her head slightly. “And what exactly have you learned from him?”

The intern brightened, eager to elaborate. “Oh, just... everything, really! He’s so dedicated and focused. I can see why you married him.”

There was a pause—a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Y/N smiled, and it wasn’t kind.

“I see,” she said, her tone dripping with polite venom. “And yet, here you are, at a party in our house, introducing yourself to me like you’re a stranger. How odd for someone who claims to work so ‘closely’ with my husband.”

The intern’s expression wavered, a flicker of panic breaking through her confident facade. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Y/N interrupted smoothly, her smile widening. “To sound presumptuous? To overstep? Or to assume familiarity where there is none?”

Gojo, now openly laughing, gestured to Nanami, “Remind me never to piss your wife off.”

The intern stammered something unintelligible before finally scoffing & retreating, her confidence crumbling as she melted back into the crowd.

Y/N turned back to the COO, now flanked by CTO and CFO without so much as a backward glance as they dragged her off to introduce a potential investor, the conversation resuming as if nothing had happened.

Turning straight, Nanami finally let his smirk show, raising his glass toward Y/N in a silent toast.

She caught his eye, the faintest curve of her lips betraying her amusement, before she returned her attention to her companions.

“Worth every penny,” Gojo muttered under his breath, clinking his glass against Nanami’s.

“Agreed,” Nanami replied, his tone calm but his eyes glinting with mirth.

A/N: You thought Kento would cheat huh ☜(ˆ▿ˆc) Thanks for diving into this tangled mess of lust & love. If you caught the twist & liked it (or even hated it), drop a comment. I live for your chaos & crave your feedback like Nanami craves his wife. 🖤

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