#lending portfolio

[xerorao]

An unlikely pair📸🪦

[tenth-sentence]

As a result of its selldown to a 'portfolio' rather than 'strategic' investor, Lend Lease chairman Stuart Hornery resigned from the Westpac board.

"Westpac: The Bank That Broke the Bank" - Edna Carew

[kirain]

My favourite bit of BG3 lore is that Withers is legitimately responsible for the Dead Three, but he's probably too embarrassed to tell you, so every time you ask him to elaborate he just gives you a very stern, "Noooo."

I also love that the reason he's responsible for their uprising is because he got bored. He literally got bored of his position as Lord of the Dead and wanted to retire, so when these three morally questionable humans came looking for godhood he was like, "Hmmm. Yes, okay. Here. Take my portfolios. Fight over them. I don't care. I quit."

So after bowling with skulls in a friendly competition to decide who would get what portfolio, they took up his powers and wreaked havoc on the world. Only at that moment did Jergal, AKA Withers, AKA our precious Bone Daddy think, "I'm just now, internally, asking myself, in quite a worried way, whether I might've made an error."

So he joins your merry band and watches your escapades, calmly twiddling his fingers while you clean up his mess. He's happy to lend his aid, even to the point that he'll bring Durge back to life if they reject Bhaal, even though he technically shouldn't. But he's Withers. The rules don't apply to him. If Ao doesn't like it, he can descend from the Heavens and say it to his rotting face.

And the reason he saves Durge isn't necessarily because he likes them or because he's a morally good entity (though one certainly could make that argument), but because he wants to add insult to injury. He steals Bhaal's child with a big smile on his face, dubs them his Chosen, and praises them for rejecting all the power they were promised. But of course, he still doesn't tell them who he is—or rather who he was.

Then, when all is said and done, he throws Tav and their companions a cute little party. No one knows it's probably half a thank you party and half a "Withers is bored again" party. And if anyone misbehaves, he'll get irritated and whisk them away. Because how dare they? He put a lot of work into that.

And at the end of it all, he walks up to a mural of the Dead Three and basically goes, "Lmao. Thou didst fuck around, and thou didst find out." Just savagely roasting them.

And then poof!

He waves them into non-existence.

[proinvesto1234]

Innovative 10 Investment Ideas for Financial Growth

Explore 10 innovative investment ideas from peer-to-peer lending to impact investing diversify your portfolio for financial growth.

[commercialmortgageconnection]

Unlocking the Power of Portfolio Lending: A Comprehensive Guide to Portfolio Loan Mortgages

When it comes to financing real estate, traditional mortgages may not always fit the bill. This is where portfolio lending and portfolio loan mortgages come into play. In this comprehensive guide, we will delve into the world of portfolio lending, exploring what it is, how it works, and why it could be the perfect solution for your real estate financing needs.

What is Portfolio Lending?

Portfolio lending is a unique approach to mortgage lending in which a lender retains the loans they originate rather than selling them on the secondary mortgage market. This is in contrast to the more common practice of originating loans and then packaging and selling them to investors on the secondary market. Portfolio lenders, on the other hand, hold these loans in their own investment portfolio, hence the name portfolio lending.

The Benefits of Portfolio Loan Mortgages

Flexible Underwriting Criteria: Portfolio lenders have the flexibility to establish their own underwriting criteria, which can be more accommodating than the stringent requirements of government-sponsored entities like Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. This means borrowers who may not qualify for conventional loans due to unique circumstances or non-traditional income sources could find approval with a portfolio loan.

Customized Loan Structures: Portfolio loans allow for a high degree of customization. Borrowers and lenders can work together to structure loans that meet specific needs. Whether it's an interest-only loan, a longer loan term, or a loan for a unique property type, portfolio lending can provide tailored solutions.

Real Estate Investment Opportunities: For real estate investors, portfolio loans can be a game-changer. Investors often acquire multiple properties, and portfolio lenders are more inclined to work with them to finance these acquisitions. This enables investors to grow their portfolios more rapidly.

Fast Approval and Closing: Since portfolio lenders set their own lending criteria, they can often streamline the approval and closing process. This can be particularly advantageous in competitive real estate markets where speed is essential.

Consistency in Servicing: Borrowers who obtain portfolio loans benefit from dealing with the same lender throughout the life of the loan. This provides a level of consistency and familiarity that can be reassuring.

Who Benefits from Portfolio Loan Mortgages?

Portfolio loan mortgages are not limited to a specific demographic but are particularly beneficial for:

Self-Employed Individuals: Those with non-traditional income sources may find it easier to qualify for a portfolio loan.

Real Estate Investors: Portfolio loans offer flexibility and scalability for investors looking to acquire multiple properties.

Unique Property Types: If you're purchasing a property that doesn't conform to conventional lending standards, such as a fixer-upper or a mixed-use property, a portfolio loan can be a viable option.

Borrowers with Credit Challenges: While portfolio lenders still evaluate creditworthiness, they may be more lenient in their assessment, making it easier for borrowers with lower credit scores or past credit issues to secure a loan.

Potential Drawbacks of Portfolio Loans

While portfolio loans offer numerous advantages, they are not without their downsides:

Higher Interest Rates: Portfolio loans may come with slightly higher interest rates compared to conventional loans, reflecting the added risk for the lender.

Smaller Pool of Lenders: Portfolio lenders are typically smaller financial institutions, limiting your options compared to traditional lenders.

Less Regulation: With less government oversight, borrowers must exercise caution when entering into portfolio loan agreements to ensure they fully understand the terms.

Conclusion

Portfolio lending and portfolio loan mortgages can be invaluable tools in the world of real estate finance. Their flexibility and customization options make them suitable for a wide range of borrowers, from self-employed individuals to seasoned real estate investors. However, it's essential to carefully weigh the benefits against the potential drawbacks and consider your unique financial situation before pursuing a portfolio loan. If you find that it aligns with your goals and needs, it could be the key to unlocking exciting real estate opportunities.

[losangelesnewsfeed]

Untitled

[allianceportfolio23]

We all aspire to have a dream home and live a luxurious life with our loved ones, but building a home is an expensive deal and demands a huge sum of money. You might be aware that some people spend their whole life savings and some seek real estate loans to build a beautiful home for their family. Getting real estate loans are not easy as they look; it is a long process that requires multiple verification and formalities to get the much-needed finance. But, these processes and formalities are getting faster and better, thanks to some private lenders who assist in the approval of loan applications. One of the most prominent boutique lender alliances in Orange County is Alliance Portfolio which is well-recognized for services such as portfolio lending real estate loans.

For more info: https://allianceportfolio23.blogspot.com/2023/02/real-estate-investment-portfolio.html

[strangebiology]

Storytelling environmental issues through photography

I've been talking with my photo mentor (JenGuyton on IG) to help me get better at photography in the hopes of making a photo book companion to my written book, Carcass.

So I'm trying to learn visual storytelling a little better and considering these three images for my portfolio, but none of them are perfect.

The first shows a field of dead sheep, but the issue is you can only see a few in the foreground and some of the ones in the background if you zoom in. The story is striking, 51 dead sheep in a field, and the experience was striking, but I think I failed to capture an image that demonstrated the scale of the deaths.

The second image is more clearly a sheep. There is black plastic in the sheep's stomach but you can't see until you zoom in.

The third image shows the black plastic better but we're back to a less-readable image. By itself, you probably can't immediately tell what's happening.

I love this image of a dead bird filled with plastic which BBC calls "The Photo that Made the Plastics Crisis Personal." Plastic in a stomach tells a story. My mentor says a photographer doesn't want to rely on a caption to tell a story, the photo should get a lot across. I totally get that, as even though I'm a writer first, I know darn well that images capture attention a lot faster than text.

However, I don't think that there is a good way to show the viewer what likely happened to these sheep, and maybe some stories don't lend themselves visually as well as others. I don't know how to use an image to communicate what I think happened to the sheep because it's so contextual. In short, I think it was a harsh winter. Maybe the one who ate the plastic couldn't get to food and ate plastic instead, however, I don't know how often sheep do that, and I did not investigate all of their stomachs (the pictured one was just that way when I found it.) Based on the conversations I've had with sheep herders and the presence of hay and feces in this field, I think the sheep gathered there to eat supplemental feed, died in higher numbers than usual due to the cold and/or snow covering the grass, and thawed at the same time as the snow melted. Perhaps I should return next winter to photograph carcasses covered in snow (if it's another bad one?). But I think captioning is important as well, as I can't get an interview in a photo, and the meaning of the hay and feces isn't super apparent even if you can see it.

So, it's interesting that the issue of animals eating plastic might get more attention than issues of climate disasters because the plastic in the stomach is easier to communicate photographically.

[naggingatlas]

ok no im actually gonna make a post about this uh HI i've been feeling my symptoms coming up more and more lately which is a VERY unfortunate time for them to pull that number cuz 1. i have a long trip that has been in the making for like a year at the end of july and to a country where i dont know if im going to be able to get my prescriptions refilled 2. my fam has just had to pull out like 600$ out of our ass for medical expenses for 3 other family members and i just Dont wanna bother them with this. but i really need my meds. i'm slurring my speech and i can't keep track of anything that goes through my brain and it's making it really hard to finish any work that i do have (im so fucking embarrassed of how long im taking to finish comms), never mind making a portfolio and finding an actual job, which is what im supposed to be doing right now. did lend me a really interesting hallucination last week where i felt the pretzels i bought buzz like a phone in my hand for 30 seconds, that was fun i live in an a24 movie. hat man is there but he's more so just annoying

so, if you'd like to help keep me and my funny posts around, i really wouldn't mind if you. well. you know. :)

p$ypal: naggingatlas@gmail.com and not rly anything else. sorry. im moldovan.

im setting a goal of 70$ just in case i need two psych appointments to get the magic ticket and for 2 bottles of risperidone <- its kinda like estradiol it makes ur boobs grow bigger and WHO doesnt love that!!!

[fluffysminion]

Commission Info

I do digital, watercolour and beadwork commissions specialising in creature and character design and illustration. I can do fantasy, sci-fi and horror; for more examples please see my portfolio.

I am happy to work from photo or art references, writen descriptions or stick-figure drawings, and I will always send a sketch for your approval before finalising it. I ask for payment upon completion but before delivery, upon receipt of payment I'll provide high and low resolution versions of the image, as well as a version optimised for printing.

Traditional Art

Primarily watercolour paintings, my traditional art is priced by the size of the finished piece. If you want me to send you the original I will be happy to do so as long as you are happy to cover the shipping cost.

A5: Small paintings 

Normal price: £50

A4: Large paintings 

Normal price: £150

Digital Art

My digital artwork's price is more variable, as the medium lends itself to pieces epic in scale and complexity. As such I offer one option for fixed price digital commissions of a single character or subject, and anything beyond that in scope is priced on a case-by-case basis. I am always happy to give price estimates though, so please do ask if you are interested.

Simple digital piece

Normal price: £60

Complex digital piece

This can really be whatever you want it to be. A stained glass window summarising a character's emotional arc over the course of a story, an epic fight scene, a ridiculously detailed dragon? All are possible and I'm always happy to discuss what I can do and at what price, and help figure out how to achieve what you want with the budget you have available.

Beadwork

My beadwork also has a lot of scope for varriation in complexity so rather than have pages and pages of things I could do and what I'd charge for them, I think it's easier for all involved to say ask and I'll give you an estimate.

Enquiries

If you want to commission me or have some questions about what something might cost please either send me a message on here, or on discord (where my username is fluffysminion). I'm always happy to answer questions, even if it doesn't end up going anywhere.

In addition to my standard commission, I also offer time-limited discount commissions of things I'm particularly inspired by at the moment, so keep an eye out!

Patrons get discounts based on their supporter tier!

[fandomwritingbit]

Okay what about one where there reader is Michael's new (hot) art teacher and William is just "Michael you need to join the art club immediately" or "well I GUESS if the pta needs help with the spring art festival -"

Hello! This has too so long I'm sorry 😶 Uh I hope this is what kind of thing you were looking for, thank you so much for the request.

Side note it took me so long to figure out what pta was lmao

So,

art teacher (gn)reader x william afton (sfw)

"Well, I'm happy to let you know that Michael is doing really well in my class. He's an absolute pleasure to teach." You smile, looking from the father to the son. The resemblance was more than evident, but their attitudes were opposites, Michael sat as he always did, hunched forward, his hands twisted together, he was scarcely able to hold your eyes for more than a few seconds. His father though took up a lot of room in his chair, his posture reeking of easy confidence and he had no difficulty looking at you. It was moments like this that you could learn a lot about a student’s home life and it was abundantly clear that these two weren’t so close.

"But?" Mr Afton prompted, his tone jovial. He was beginning to understand why his son likes art so much. A lovely thing like you leading the class? Who could blame him? He'd expected some old lady wearing well too many scarfs, glasses on a pearled chain around her neck, not someone like you.

"But,” You can’t help but smile, heat rising to your cheeks, “as I'm sure you've learnt from his other teachers tonight, currently Michael might struggle to meet the entry requirements of universities." As you spoke, you had to work hard to keep your thoughts on track, this man was attractive in a way you didn't expect. He smirked when you paused, and you forced your gaze on Mike. "But as I said to Michael before, we've got plenty of options to boost grades."

Michael spoke up, "Need to join a club or something."

Nodding, you turn to explain why to Mr Afton. "Yeah, certain enrichments can be graded. I'm advocating the art club… He'd get the opportunity to make a portfolio, which Unis love, and I have no doubt he'd excel." The man before you looked bemused, his eyes flicking up from your lanyard to your eyes. 

"And, do you run the art club?"

You grin a little embarrassed, "Yeah, I do-"

The dad chuckles and looks to Mike offhandedly, "Then you should absolutely join." To which he rolls his eyes, partly at his father’s blatant flirting and at the lack of enthusiasm at joining your club.

Mike sighs, "Yeah okay, I'll go."

"Smashing. I'll put you on my register." You pull out the document from your lever-arch folder and quickly jot his name down. Whilst doing so, the man opposite you watches your left hand for a ring and on seeing there wasn't one, smirks from ear to ear.

Once done, you quickly put your hands out in an attempt to stop them from leaving, "Uh, before you go. I'm really sorry to ask, but we're holding an art festival next week and I'm struggling to find some help... would you be willing to lend a hand?'' You automatically feel guilty for asking. Doing so in person put a lot more pressure than a general email, but you were hoping to almost force him. Like you’d tried to with every other parent tonight. 

You catch Michael’s expression, you’d asked him the other day if he had anyone that would want to help out and he’d laughed a little, “Uh no, not really.” he’d said.  You do feel like you’ve gone behind his back a bit, but if you can’t get a few more pairs of hands this festival is going to fall on its arse.

He sat back in the chair, his feet poking out at your side of the desk, "A festival? What exactly would you have me doing?" 

You smile, pleasantly surprised that he was obliging you, "Mainly the setup, it's a lot of stuff to move out to the green. Though of course all-day help would be appreciated, I just don't want to push my luck."

"You already are," he smirks, "when is it?"

"Next Friday, the 19th." Your eyes go wide as you wait for his answer, all the other parents you’d asked tonight had told you that they were working on Friday, as people tend to do, and you have a feeling that he was about to say the same.

He hums, “Friday-” but is cut off by Michael, 

“You work Fridays.” he states, a harsh tone on the words, making you think that he really didn’t want his dad to help you out. 

Scoffing, he shoots his son a look, “Yeah I do.” Before turning his attention back to you, “But, I could skive it.” The expression on his face is hard to place, perhaps mischievous, or sly. Regardless, you panic slightly.

“Oh. No, you don’t have to do that, Mr Afton-”  

He puts his hand out to silence you and it works, you bite your tongue instantly, “I know, but I will. It’s not exactly like I help out frequently.” He’d decided already, either because his son was clearly desperate for him not to do so, or because he’d like to spend a bit of time with you. Let's face it, it was both. And so, you were left with little option but to graciously accept, and you thank him. 

As your student and his father leave, he shakes your hand. “Thank you, Mr Afton. You’ve really helped me out.” Both your hands encase his and it doesn’t occur to you that that is unusual until you do it, heat beneath your face. He flashes you a smirk that makes your blood ice, before nodding. 

“It’s fine really. Should be fun.” 

~

Friday was as manic as you had expected. The second you arrived at the college you were behind, the mass of stalls and pieces of art were absurd to move even with the three others you’d manage to recruit: the head of languages, Martin, a science teacher, Kris and of course, Mr Afton. Another parent was expected but dropped out last minute, adding to the workload. And the people in charge of the stalls and activities wouldn’t arrive until kick-off so to speak.

Surprisingly, Mr Afton was a godsend. Helping you drag the stall skeletons on to the field, well you dragged them, he rather easily picked them up, somehow managing the awkward height and weight without breaking a sweat. 

“Now, you’re just showing off, Mr Afton.” you giggle, trying not to look at the way his arms flexed whilst he carried the objects. You can’t really help it though and try to steal what glimpses you can as the two of you lug 12 stalls outside. If you’d have known he was doing the same you probably would’ve dropped everything and made a fool of yourself, so mercifully he’s much slier with his staring than you are.  

It’s only when you’re done with the moving, the two of you can start decorating, the other workers put on duty setting up the games, things like a ring toss and lucky-dip. You study him for a moment while he’s distracted tying the string of a line of bunting around a nail that probably shouldn’t be sticking out of the stalls, and good lord this man looks a lot like his son. Everything from the dark hair which probably wasn’t as neat as he’d left it this morning, to the shape of his brow, making his eyes look hooded and narrow. The difference was all attitude and experience. You have to glance away when you start thinking about his experience. 

“Ooh what are you looking at? Am I doing it wrong?” he asks, bringing heat to your cheeks at the knowledge that he’d just caught you staring for way too long. He turned his head, looking down the sting, checking to see it wasn’t coming undone or tangled. 

“No, sorry.” your smile hints at your embarrassment, “It just crossed my mind how much you look like your son, sorry.” God you hate the way you’re smiling just because he’s looking at you but it’s completely involuntary. 

He smirks at that, “Well, I am fairly certain I’m his father.” his tone was playful despite the nature of what he was joking about. “I take it you don’t have any kids?” 

“Uh no, no I don't. What gives that impression?” 

“You look well rested.” he walks over to you and crouches down to look in a box at your feet, “And you’re smiling too much.” 

You giggle, “I know.” You rub at your temples, “It’s a nervous thing.” The second you say that you question yourself why, what a weird thing- you feel so awkward. He’s just a man. An attractive man- yes. But just a tall… brooding… handsome… man. 

“And here I was thinking you were just enjoying my company.” he sniggers, bringing you out of your head, it’s been a long time since a bloke had made you all skittish like this. He properly faces you now, searching your eyes. “What’s making you nervous?”

You, you internally answer, quickly thinking of a more appropriate response, “Just uh today. I have a feeling it’s going to be an absolute nightmare.” You drop your eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

You briefly rest a hand on your forehead. “Got no choice really.”

He moves to walk past you but pauses, standing half behind you. “Well, I can stay and help out. If it’s not me that’s making you nervous?” he smirks as he moves away, his voice teasing, riling up some butterflies in your stomach. 

~

He stays, and soon after the others arrive, students flogging their wares and local crafts aficionados, though you have them actually working, you don’t mind Mr Afton drifting around doing a bit here and there. As nice as you find him, he didn’t strike you as someone that would be happy to run a stall on his own. 

Once everything has settled down and the festival is running smoothly, you allow yourself a moment of a break. He finds you sitting on a bench just off the green. There he takes a seat beside you, digging in his pocket for a packet of cigs. 

“You can’t really smoke here, you know.” you laugh as he stops mid action, his lighter half raised.

He shrugs, reasoning “I’m outside.” resuming the act though now watching you for further reaction.

You fold your arms, a grin contradicting the seriousness. You’re well-aware that you weren’t going to stop him. “Still a college… I won’t tell on you though.” 

He chuckles as he takes a drag on it. This was like a flashback to his youth, so he plays his part, “Good. No one likes a sprag.” Man, it’s been a long time since you’ve heard that.

You try to steal a glance at his left hand, wanting to triple check that he wasn’t wearing a ring. Not that you would say or do anything, you just need to know. Not seeing a wedding band wasn’t enough though and the question dances around inside your head.

You finally bite the bullet and spit it out. “You’re not married then, Mr Afton?” you gesture to his hand, to give him context to how you arrived at that. You’d tried to sound like you were making small talk but it failed miserably. 

The mean laugh he lets slip is pure reflex. “No. Not anymore.”He wanted to tease you by asking why you wanted to know, but you’re already flustered and avoiding his direct gaze. 

“So you’re uh…?” you hesitate to finish the question, realising you were jumping to a conclusion. 

Thankfully he finishes it for you, “Divorced? Yeah.” He just loved how you smiled at him in relief there, the amusement evident on his face.

You try to explain why you fumbled that so badly, talking quickly, “Well. I didn't want to say divorced and get it wrong."

“In case…?”

God, your face is hot again, why can’t you just talk normal to this guy. “In case… you know… you were uh widowed or something.” 

“Or something?” he questions again, trying not to laugh at how you were stumbling. 

You put your head in your hands, laughing self-deprecatingly at yourself, “Leave me alone - I’m…” 

“Nervous?”

“A little yeah.” you speak, your face still obscured. “I mean you’ve come and sat with me. I’m just curious why.”  

You don’t need to look to feel the smirk on his face. “Maybe cos I wanted to.” You feel his movement on the bench and look up to catch his gaze, his head cocked to meet your eye line almost perfectly. “You’re pretty, you know. Even with your head in your hands.” 

Your eyes open wide at his bluntness as you try and think of something to say in response. You’re starting to see why Michael was so desperate to keep him away.

[sgiandubh]

Whiskey, not whisky

Kentucky bourbon it is, for McTavish, as formally announced on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/reel/CvxuLwXBDgt/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA%3D%3D.

Website, here: https://mctavishspirits.com/. Very instructive: The Sassenach vs. The Warchief. How original.

With a hefty pricetag. Heh, and Mordor thought the Sassenach was a rip-off?

The similarities apparently also extend to the marketing pitch: young, struggling actor dreams big, goes to the States, finds relative critical success there, walks down memory lane. And shares with the world his real, real passion he's "been working on for a while".

Yes. I am selling it. I don't have to pay for it, but... you do. Ugh. I have no words, wow. Oh, the entitlement and the smugness. Completely expected.

Let's unpack:

This is by no means or stretch of imagination a whimsical, vanity project and is carefully differentiated from a white label, which would have meant that the guy was basically lending his beard and voice to the (generic) product, in the hopes it will sell well enough and for as long as possible. No: it is, to quote the leaflet, "meticulously hand selected". Oh.

This is also a long-shot, well prepared blow:

Sorry: the website thinks I am a robot, even if there's just one and only R2D2 in our universe, but you should be able to get more details by yourselves. It is an LLC (easy-peasy, no hassle), filed on July 27 2023.

For the moment, the SM reactions are rather glacial. Sam's crowd is not amused, and with good reason:

I saw it coming, now the elephant is on the couch in the middle of the parlor and I have to say I am still perplexed, in a way, even if I shouldn't.

Sam's project is not the only thing he copies, btw. Check this out:

Yes, it's a Scottish brand I know absolutely nothing about (all input welcome), but still (http://thespiritscompany.com/portfolio/sir-mactavish-scotch-whisky/?age-verified=4b7d1b53bb):

McTavish, Sir Mactavish... Potato, potahto. In Europe, and specifically the EU , it would go to court for trademark infringement in 4, 3, 2, 1, especially since it could cause confusion, deception, or mistake. For comparison, Sassenach's German lost legal battle was sparked by way less than that: a mere partial homophony with the (obscure?) Sasse distillery in Schoppingen, somewhere in Westphalia (https://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/entertainment/celebrity/sam-heughan-loses-legal-battle-25578518 - this is the link I found first). But McTavish is clever enough to clearly go for the US market first and foremost.

And as a reminder, in S's situation, the European Union Intellectual Property Office (EUIPO)'s position has been particularly, and might I add, gratuitously, aggressive. I am intrigued enough and might get back to this in a separate post: don't hold your breath, though.

I still need to digest that and the question asked a couple of evenings ago remains open: what prompted S's sudden change of schedule? McTavish Anon might have been onto something, perhaps.

Tu quoque, McTavish? MIK, my earasaid. Now you understand why the sudden, subtle change on S's Twitter bio? Not only related to the SAG-AFTRA strike, I bet whatever you want on it (there's only a limited number of times I can bet my farm, heh).

[Much later edit, November 2023: It turns out this is an unashamed white label project. My bad for not immediately seeing it.]

[losangelesnewsfeed]

"Silicon Valley Bank plans to sell stock to cope with cash burn"

#SiliconValleyBank #StockSale #CashBurn #StartupFinance #VentureCapital Silicon Valley Bank (SVB) is planning to sell stock in order to cope with cash burn. The bank, which provides financial services to startups and venture capitalists, has been struggling with negative cash flow due to a decrease in lending activity and increased competition.SVB has stated that it plans to raise $1 billion…

[allianceportfolio23]

At Alliance Portfolio, we provide real estate loan solutions tailored to your needs. Our experienced team works with you to identify the right loan product and ensure a seamless process. Get started today and unlock the possibilities of portfolio lending.

For more info: https://allianceportfolio.com/private-money-lenders-for-real-estate/

Contact: (949) 349-1322

[fayes-fics]

Portrait: III

Masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: An evening session causes some leaps forward.

Warnings (for this chapter): nudity, flirtation, discussion of sex.

Word Count: 2.4k

Authors Note: Things are hotting up now ;)

III

Benedict is busy with family matters for a few days, so it is almost a week before you see him again. Unable to do the usual mid-morning time you had previously agreed, he sent word via messenger that he could do that evening only. Usually, on Monday evenings, your parents are home, but conveniently today, they are both out - your father on business, your mother on her social merry-go-round. So it is just you and a few staff members when Benedict arrives after dinner. 

“I wasn't sure that evenings would work, Mr Bridgerton,” you comment as he sets up his supplies, lacking a valet today. “I thought perhaps the light would not be sufficient,” you gesture to the various sconces and candelabras flickering gently. 

The room has some light, but it is very different from the sunlight he has been painting you in until now.

“It is perhaps less than ideal, but I will do my best. I preferred not to wait any longer to see you. To continue the painting, that is,” he rushes out. “I hope you do not mind my company so late in the day.”

“Nothing gives me greater pleasure than your company.” Your answer is honest and forthright, the late hour making you say things you otherwise never might. Perhaps the couple of glasses of wine you had with dinner are also making their presence known.

His eyes flash in a way that makes you unable to look away. Like that first time your eyes met across the gallery, your gaze on each other is almost magnetic. 

“Tell me something about yourself, Mr Bridgerton,” you implore softly as he begins to work. “I find our sessions can be entirely too quiet on occasion.”

He huffs, bemused. “I find chatter when I am attempting to paint somewhat distracting, miss y/l/n,” he supplies, “hence I am perhaps a little taciturn, but if it pleases you…. I am from a large family….”

“I know the Bridgerton family,” you interrupt, “everyone does. Yours is among the most prestigious families of the Ton, after all. I am interested in you. What makes you, you? Not what makes you a Bridgerton.”

He seems lost for words, and the intensity of his gaze seems even heavier. 

“No one has ever really asked me that before…” his voice taking on an unusual tone, just like it did yesterday when you waxed lyrical about his art. “Or at least none outside of my friends. To the members of the Ton, I am usually seen as a number in the family. The second. The spare.”

“I am certain you are so much more than that,” you respond spiritedly. “I have only spent a couple of hours with you, and that is entirely lacking as a descriptor of the man I see before me,” the wine is definitely loosening your tongue. “I would like to be considered a friend if it means you will share more about who you are with me?”

“I write poetry,” he suddenly blurts out, looking temporarily surprised at his admission, but pushes on. “I collect rocks; I am a good shot; I enjoy Pall Mall. I would like to be an artist.”

“You are an artist,” you interject, “if not, I wonder what on earth you have been standing there doing during our sessions to date.”

He laughs at your joke, adorable little lines crinkling the corners of his eyes, and again you feel filled with light. “I dabble, but I fear my work will never be taken seriously.”

“You just need more of a portfolio to showcase your wonderful talent,” you argue back. “And perhaps a few portraits to balance out the landscapes,” you tease gently.

There are a few moments of silence and shared smiles, but your glances are more heated, lingering, and unapologetic in ways they have not been before. Something in the air tonight speaks of inevitability—a shift in dynamic. The lateness of the hour lends something decadent to your session. Tonight, you don't look away as he paints; you keep your eyes on him.

“When I told you I had never painted a woman’s portrait before, I wasn't being entirely truthful,” he confesses from behind the easel, bending so his face is out of sight.

“Tell me more, Mr Bridgerton,” you volley back, the gentle teasing a growing pattern with each minute you spend in each other's presence.

“That is to say, I have painted a female. But she was by no means a lady,” his voice is laden with something dark, and your heart speeds up.

“What does that mean?” your voice curious.

“It means she was a lady of pleasure. In Paris. And… she did not wear clothes when I painted her.” 

All you can hear is blood rushing in your ears. You have the strangest compulsion to expose your body to him. 

“Is that how you would prefer to paint all your female subjects?” the bold question out before you can stop yourself.

“What do you mean?” 

You know he is being intentionally obtuse, but his eyes are visible again now over the top of the easel, and you are struck by his expression. He looks hungry, but not for food or drink—you want to bathe in it.

“Would you prefer all your female subjects be without clothes?” you meet his burning gaze, your lips tingling.

“Only if that is what they wish too,” he seems to purr.

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you stand up and walk over to the door, legs feeling almost stiff, flicking the lock and removing its key. You know his eyes follow you as you cross the room again, and he looks stunned as you walk up to him and hand the key to him. You watch him place it on his easel, and then you turn your back, presenting your dress buttons to him.

“I wish it,” you murmur. 

He makes a noise that sounds like a swallowed growl. Your whole being responds. You want him to strip you nude. 

“Miss, you are promised to another,” he wavers.

“One that I do not wish to marry,” you appeal over your shoulder, “please, I wish for this. So very much,” your last words are a pleading whisper as you turn back.

Victory crests in your blood as you feel a warm gust of air stir your hair, and then warm fingers land between your shoulder blades, sliding over each button, undoing them achingly slowly. He doesn't push you further; he just touches your back gently to signify the buttons are all undone. 

You walk back to the chaise and stand facing him as you push your dress down over your arms, talking the chemise with it. Heart pounding in every cell, blood running hot, your skin alive. Your dress hits the rug, and his inhale is sharp and musical.

The heat from the fire licks your bare skin as you stand there in just stays that hold your breasts up and out. You do not wear stockings or underwear; you thought it would be an illicit thrill for yourself to forego them in his presence. Something you thought he would never know.

You bite your lip and stare at him as you pluck the criss-cross pattern of laces across the front of your stays; glad you chose one you could undo yourself today. Each movement makes your breast bounce slightly, and you see his eyes covetously watching them. When his tongue peaks out of his mouth and licks his bottom lip, you feel something happening between your legs, some wetness leaking there that you know he alone is responsible for.

As the laces give way, you pull the fabric to each side, exposing your chest, and there is a noise from the back of his throat that sounds so delicious you almost run to him and throw yourself into his arms. Instead, you let the material fall away on top of your dress. So now you stand before him utterly naked. Feeling vulnerable but so powerful all at once. His face is a maelstrom, desire writ large in his dilated eyes, a bloom of pink dusting high on his sharp cheekbones.

“Miss….” he begins, and it sounds like a harbinger.

“Sir…” you counter, and his large hand flexes visibly. 

The silence in the room is almost deafening.

“Paint me,” you offer over an exhale. “Paint me like your Parisian lady.”

He swallows audibly and reaches for a sketchpad tucked inside his portfolio. 

“Lay down,” his request is pitched low, and your knees go so weak that obeying seems the only path available.

You recline on the chaise, and although your heart pounds, you force yourself to look at him, awaiting further instruction. Your whole body feels flushed.

“Put your left hand behind your head,” he instructs, and you can do nothing but follow the command. “Beautiful,” escapes his luscious lips that you cannot look away from.

You yearn for him to cross the room, close the distance between you, touch your body, kiss your mouth. But he does not. He grabs a wingback chair, drags it next to his easel, and places his left foot on his right knee, balancing the pad on his bent leg, something in his stance so utterly masculine. He glances at you and then runs his charcoal in sweeping lines over the paper. 

“This portrait must not be hung anywhere,” you insist.

“It will be for our eyes only,” he assures. “I will happily let you keep it.”

“What if I want you to have it?” you posit and hear the charcoal slip on the page and a light curse under his breath.

“Then I would be quite the luckiest man,” he replies, his eyes fiery as he looks at your face.

“And what if I did not want to be alone in this picture?” throwing all caution to the wind, leaving no room for doubt.

“Who else do you wish to join you?” his voice cracking roughly, his gaze raking slowly down your body, so heavy you feel it.

“The door is locked, sir.”

“Don't call me that,” he hisses, more than a touch harried.

“Mr Bridgerton,” you amend, treating each syllable as a tasty morsel, letting your free hand stroke slowly down your sternum as you say it.

“Stop it,” he warns, sounding desperate.

“I don't want to,” you hiss vehemently.

“Have you laid with a man?” his voice is tremulant.

“Never,” you reply softly.

“But you know something of it?”

“Yes,” you admit.

“And you wish to know before marriage?”

“Only from you,” you confess.

“Fuck,” he mutters heavily, and it's the most arousing thing you have ever heard. “We… we should not…” he stumbles, the sketchpad very much left to languish unused in his lap now. 

“You do not strike me as one who plays by societal rules,” you appeal. 

“Indeed I am not, but...” he trails off and swallows heavily yet again.

He watches intensely as you let the hand on your sternum slip down the centre line of your body. You may not know everything about what happens between a man and a woman, but you instinctively need your fingers to quell the burning sensation at the apex of your thighs. 

“You are engaged to another,” he bites out as if he is reluctant to say it himself as he watches your hand trail over your belly.

“Do not remind me of my future,” you lament. “Let me live in this moment, for now. And if you will not touch me, teach me how to pleasure myself properly. So I may be able to keep myself at least partially satisfied in my marriage.”

The moan he makes is so carnal and wanton that your whole body shivers, your nipples pebbling, none of which escapes his notice. He bites off a curse again and closes his eyes, his hand trembling. Suddenly he tosses the sketchpad aside and rubs his hands down his face. When his eyes reopen, they blaze at you.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, y/n. But I cannot do this here, not under your parents' roof,” he answers through gritted teeth. 

You want to be impressed with his gentlemanly behaviour, but right now, you pine for him to be the opposite. To give in to the temptation that you can see him fighting.

“But….” and your breath catches with that one syllable. “...I think you should know; I will be insisting the last two portrait sessions be at my private studio—I have a scene curtain there that will make the perfect background to complete your portrait.”

You understand precisely what he is saying and not saying. The euphoric tide that races around your limbic system is better than any rush you have ever experienced.

“And I assume you cannot merely paint the background without me? My presence is very much required, is it not?” your ask is coquettish, your hand spidering circles around your belly button.

“That is indeed most correct,” a lopsided grin that causes butterflies spreading slowly and dangerously over his features.

“Then you may go,” you conclude quietly as the clock strikes 8 pm, standing and picking your clothing from the floor. “And I will see you there tomorrow morning.”

As you slip back into your chemise, he moves closer, so close you can smell his citrus and woody cologne, and he hands you a scrap of paper, your fingers brushing with a jolt of fire as he does so. It contains an address. “Ensure your parents and your fiance know this must be alone.” he intones. “After all, my very thorough artistic process demands it, does it not?” 

You are almost quaking as he moves away and picks up his supplies. You attempt to re-dress, but your fingers seemingly cannot fasten the buttons at the back, so you leave it hanging loose, praying that you don't run into any staff in such an unkempt state.

“And miss y/l/n….” he calls as he unlocks the door and leaves the key in the slot.

“Yes?” 

“...this evening, the sunset sky was scarlet red, so I expect it shall be a hot day tomorrow. I would suggest you wear your portrait dress and absolutely nothing more. I would not want you uncomfortable after all,” he rejoinders silkily with a wink as he slips through the doorway.

You know that statement had absolutely nothing to do with the weather or his concern for your comfort, and you have to grab the back of the chaise to keep yourself upright.

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