#private lake estate

[primofate]

Where he would propose and how it happens [Genshin Men]

Warnings: haven’t written in a while please excuse and tell me about pronoun slips, I’m sleep deprived, not proofread (this will be my fixed disclaimer as a writing parent, haha)

Notes: All of these were captured by me in game. I just felt like exploring the beauty of Genshin more and this was a great way to do it while mixing it with writing. Note that you may not agree with some of these, and that's totally fine, these are my thoughts and ideas :)

Characters: Aether, Albedo, Alhaitham, Ayato, Baizhu, Cyno, Dainsleif, Diluc, Gorou, Heizou, Itto, Kaeya, Kaveh, Kazuha, Lyney, Neuvillette, Scaramouche, Tartaglia, Thoma, Tighnari, Venti, Wriothesley, Xiao, Zhongli, gn!reader

Aether

Aether is a simple man, and though he plans his proposal he doesn't really think much of the place, somewhere where the two of you frequent, maybe on your daily/nightly walks.

It happens just as the two of you are about to go back, this is where you sit and relax for a while as the sun sets. You can see Mondstadt in the distance and the beautiful orange sky.

As you're about to turn and walk away he catches your wrist and pulls you back into the middle of those tiny pink flowers.

Now that he thinks about it... This is where his journey really started: Starfell Lake, and how perfect would it be to start a new one with you?

"Y/N, I...want you to stay. I mean, forever," the words are simple but it gets across.

Albedo

Also a simple person. You might think Dragonspine when you think Albedo and I agree that all that snow could be romantic but I went for Starsnatch Cliff. It's a good place to see Mondstadt, and he takes you there after the sun has set.

He would probably comment about how you can see a lot of things from here, and how the world is such a great, vast place, full of things to explore and discover.

"...and yet I find myself thinking... how all that I want is right next to me. Would you do me the honour of being my lifelong partner?"

Alhaitham

Something's up and you can tell, this isn't your usual route home, and honestly you've never stopped in these parts of the city. You've passed by it sure, but never with Alhaitham.

You ask him where the two of you are going and if there are some extra errands to run before going home. He only shakes his head and ends up leading you over right next to the glowing Padisarah flower.

He HAS planned this, so why does it feel like he hasn't? Even has a ring in his pocket (granted it is the SIMPLEST ring one could ever imagine, that's just how he is)

Ends up just taking the ring box out and showing it to you while trying to speak "I..." doesn't speak much of his emotions so has a hard time, but feels pathetic afterwards so meets your eyes straight on. "...A promise... That what I feel for you... is everlasting,"

Ayato

That small shrine/garden/sitting area just outside the Kamisato Estate. It's just a bit more private than the sitting area INSIDE the estate.

You wouldn't think anything of it because you do hang out here from time to time.

Ayato might seem like a grand person but in the end he doesn't want to stray far from home.

"I'm...sorry if this is a bit abrupt," fishes out a ring box from his long sleeve. "I've been meaning to ask for a while now, will you share your life with me as my beloved?"

Baizhu

That nice little hill just outside of Bubu Pharmacy, where you can find Glaze Lilies strewn about and the night view is quite nice. It's a place the two of you go just to get some quick, fresh air if Baizhu isn't feeling too well. Changsheng is left at the pharmacy from time to time, this is one of those times.

"I've been thinking...how precious time really is," he looks at you with tenderness in his eyes, yet a lot of uncertainty shrouded in them. "I don't know where this road will lead me... but you alone are my lifelong remedy. Would you accompany me on this journey?"

Cyno

Cyno often comes here to watch the sun set, since he was a student, but he does think it's more beautiful at night.

The two of you are leaning over the railway and looking at Sumeru, just talking about the day.

Cyno doesn't really plan it. He seems to be the type to but when he feels that it's the right time, specially when he feels it strongly, there's no better time than the present.

It's while he's watching you talk enthusiastically about your day, that there's a sudden twist in his heart. This is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.

"Y/N--" he cuts you off successfully, wonder in his eyes. "What do you say to being intertwined for life?"

Dainsleif

Anywhere where there is an unobstructed view of the stars and night sky, but particularly at the hill of Cape Oath, where the two of you lie side by side on the grass, staring up at the stars.

At this point the two of you have been travelling together for a while, looking for answers to his curse. To Dainsleif, the two of you are pretty much married already, but just to confirm it, every night, he asks "Is this the path that you choose? To bind your fate with mine?"

And every night, like a promise, you say yes.

Diluc

Diluc doesn't stray far from home too. He prefers to stay close to his memories, no matter how painful they are.

He HAS planned it, but ends up proposing at an unexpected time.

It's when he's on the road home and you're waiting right by the lamp post for him. It's late. Later than usual and here you are worrying about how it's a cold night and that he should've worn more.

It's at that moment that it hits him, "Y/N, the thought of being separated...it's not something I'd want to imagine" he grips your hand tightly. "...For the rest of my life, it's you that I want to spend it with,"

Doesn't even have the planned ring on him and apologizes about the word vomit he just did. He was just overcome with emotions right then and there.

Gorou

That small spot next to Bourou Village. Watatsumi Island is beautiful in general, but Gorou knows the good spots.

Is nervous but tries not to show it, but you can totally tell because he's way too stiff.

"Wh-What do you mean? Nothing's wrong!" When asked if everything's fine.

When standing at this spot though, his nervousness seems to go away and for a minute everything is normal until... "H-Hey, Y/N, so..." you look at him and he's fumbling with his hands, unable to meet your gaze. "Y-You, and I--We've been...You know--"

Seems to panic. He is SO uncool right now. Closes his eyes and just blurts it out when he realizes this isn't working out "With all my heart, will you marry me?!"

Heizou

Little secret garden just next to Inazuma city. Quiet place yet you can hear a bit of the hustle and bustle in the city.

Heizou is the type to get on one knee and confidently, directly say it.

He's planned it, and gets you right in the middle of the bridge (has probably asked someone to take a photo as well)

"Y/N, beloved," grins "would you unravel the mysteries of life with me?" (thinks it was such a cool line, then hands you the ring in a box)

Itto

Does not think about it nor plans it. Just happens and it happens because he talks about it casually. You can't really tell if he's serious.

He has this conversation with you in Chinjuu Forest, which is a naturally beautiful place, but he's really only there with you to look for onikabuto.

"You know, it'd be really cool if we could keep doing this huh?"

You ask what he means cause you don't really have any idea. You guys have been doing this for ages. Why would it stop now, is what you think.

"I mean, like, you know, forever," he says this while looking under a rock. "Like if we were just onikabuto fightin' partners forever, get it?"

You stall for a moment and wonder if he knows what he's saying, and you ask if he specifically means he just wants you as an onikabuto fighting partner.

"Oh, well, yea it's ONE of the things I like about you, but I like your kisses too. Hehe," scratches the back of his head then looks like he gets a bright idea. "Oh hey that's an idea! How 'bout we just become partners for life, Y/N?"

Yeah, that's how it happens.

Kaeya

Kaeya keeps it simple, but also romantic. He gets that spot above the gate of Mondstadt, where you can see Barbatos' statue from a distance. He knows how much you love the city and he has a special place in his heart for it too.

The two of you pretty much keep each other warm up there, with him behind you and his arms wrapped around your shoulders.

At some point, as the two of you have been talking for ages and when the perfect silence descends, he leans into your ear and asks you to close your eyes. When you do, you feel him slip something onto your ring finger as he says "A thousand words wouldn't be enough to tell you how I really feel...Would you want to create a thousand and more memories together instead?"

Kaveh

Kaveh thinks its only appropriate to propose at his masterpiece, but he thinks you're even more of a masterpiece than anything he's made or encountered before.

Plus the place just holds a lot of meaning and memories for him. It's beautiful too and you've always said that you're proud of him for completing it.

His is a pretty simple proposal. "I've always thought that something's been missing in my life...I think I've figured out that it's you, Y/N. It's only going to be you,"

Kazuha

Inazuma holds a lot of memories for Kazuha, some that are rather unpleasant. But home is still home and perhaps he wanted to create more good memories there.

Truth be told he could have proposed to you anywhere, and I don't think he had really planned it. It was just something heartfelt that he wanted to say as he sees you climbing up the stairs to the shrine. The sunlight hitting you perfectly and the sakura blossoms just cascading around your form. It's perfect, he thought.

You're a few steps further up from him and it makes him look up at you the slightest bit. With a shine in his eyes and a smile on his face he asks, quite sincerely "Have you ever felt like home was right next to you, Y/N?"

and before you could answer he answers his own question first. "I have, despite the storms and catastrophes I've gone through...Y/N, you're the home that my heart forever needs,"

Lyney

Lyney plans it, but doesn't do it in a grand way. He just wants it to be sincere and special. He thinks this place is cute, what with the little sort of gazebo with a small sitting space to just sit and drink tea.

He proposes to you as the two of you sit, you've never been here before and wonder why the two of you are out here, actually.

"Oh, is it strange? Haha, I just wanted a bit of a change," Rubs the back of his neck and starts to feel nervous.

You explain that you're not complaining, just curious, but you like it!

"Oh, that's a relief. I'm...Uh..." sort of fumbles with something in his coat, really funny seeing as he's a magician and is supposed to be nimble with his fingers. Recovers quite fast and manages to do his classic "flower-behind-your-ear" trick and hands it over to you.

He does the same trick, but this time takes a ring out. "Y/N, you complete me in ways words can't express...will you..." gulps before he continues "marry me?"

Neuvillette

Seems very posh but prefers to keep it simple. He thinks its more special rather than making a super grand gesture. He could of easily proposed in front of the Opera Epiclese, but instead did it at one of the small fountains in Marcotte Station.

The two of you are out on a nightly stroll and this is just where the two of you ended up.

Clears his throat before starting, takes your hand in his, but its his eyes that really do the talking. "I may not be the best in expressing my deepest thoughts and emotions...but there is one single thing that I am quite sure about," he stalls here and seems to look into your soul.

"And it's you, my love. As I take my next steps into this life I lead, I would be honoured if I take them with you by my side,"

Scaramouche

Has it on his mind but doesn't particularly plans when or where he's going to say it. Just knows that he wants to.

While out on an assignment the two of you pass by Mawtiyima Forest. You've always thought it looked like such a magical place. You request to sit on a hill for a bit before moving on.

Scaramouche, as usual, grumbles about this but relents and ends up plopping next to you as well. Truth be told he also liked this particular forest and how quiet yet vibrant it was.

No words are exchanged for a while, just the two of you looking at the view. Scaramouche sneaks a glance at you and you have that stupid, wide eyed look on your face, the glowing blue mushrooms reflecting off of your eyes.

He secretly thinks its cute.

He shows that by aggressively saying. "I don't know what you had in mind when you agreed to come with me, but you're stuck with me till the end now, got it?"

Yes. That's pretty much his proposal.

Tartaglia

Is one who would take you on a vacation off on an isolated, quaint and cute island like Petrichor with wonderful views of Fontaine's waterfalls.

Is the type to get down on one knee while this beautiful background is in sight. Totally plans it and is the cliche, basic proposal. Would totally love the townspeople to clap and cheer while this is happening too.

"Y/N, every day spent with you is a treasure, and I want it to continue for the rest of my life, will you marry me?"

Thoma

Has planned it. Makes sure you have a good time beforehand, probably at some festival and it's when the two of you are winding down, sitting on that rock with the lamp on it that he asks.

"Isn't it magical?" he asks as a starter and you ask what exactly he's talking about. "How it's always a good time and how easy life seems when I'm with you,"

You tell him that's because he always takes good care of you and he laughs heartily at that. "I'm glad to hear it," kisses your forehead and smiles down at you.

"Every day, Y/N, I just fall deeper in love with you...Do you think, maybe, we could spend our whole lives together?"

Tighnari

Plans it and is calm about it. Has everything under control. He chose Pardis Dhyai specifically for its aesthetics and specifically the inside in case it rains. (He doesn't want you to get wet as he proposes, but also doesn't want his ears and tail wet as it happens.)

Clears his throat before he starts, doesn't have a ring because he just doesn't seem the type, for him its more of a pact.

"Rather than talk about emotions alone, I'd want to highlight that you've been quite the mind-stimulating study partner," coughs into his hand "but of course, that's only one aspect of you that I like...it's safe to say that I like you enough to propose the pact of marriage...would that be alright with you?"

Venti

Where else would he think was a good place to propose? Of course he would do it here.

No roundabout way of saying it. Confident in all aspects, partly because he's a God but partly because...what has he got to lose, really?

Doesn't really propose marriage cause...he's not a mortal. Forever might be a thing for him but maybe not for you.

"It's been a while since I've felt really at ease with someone, you know?"

You jokingly say he seems to be at ease with everyone, specially after a few bottles of wine. He laughs out loud at that, and remarks back that no one can make him laugh the way you do.

"It's blossomed into something more beautiful than I thought it would be, Y/N. You, me, and us. Can we stay like this till the end?"

Wriothesley

Has planned it and has stuck to his plan. At a little vacation home at the Southeast of the Beryl Region. The two of you spent a few days relaxing there, under the guise that Wriothesley needed a break.

On the last day he surprised you by revealing that he had asked your family and friends, both from faraway regions and nearby towns to come and celebrate with the two of you.

Celebrate what, you ask.

That's when he gets down on one knee and pops the question "You know, I could still be mistaken," he grins at this but is clearly joking. "but I don't think I am and seeing as you've put up with me, Y/N, I think it's safe to say you're my forever person,"

It was days after when you realize how confident he is of this whole thing when you think about the fact that he had pre planned to invite all your friends and family over to "celebrate"

Xiao

Also a person who doesn't stray far from home. The rooftop of Wangshu Inn is actually quite romantic on quiet nights, with a view of Liyue and a gentle breeze.

To Xiao, marriage isn't really about a ring and signing papers. It's a contract and a promise to each other.

On one of the nights, he just thinks it's the right time to say it.

He's more quiet than usual and you ask if something's wrong.

He pauses for a while before answering. "...Apologies, there's a lot on my mind..."

Xiao has become a lot more open with you through the years.

"...I... just wanted to propose the prospect of being...binded together," you ask what that means cause you're not really familiar, you end up asking if that's the same as marriage.

"M-Marriage? Uh... Yes... I suppose that's what mortals call it... but being binded together is more..." stops talking and gets red in the face. "Let's... just leave it at that,"

I like to think that the process of binding is just that your souls are entwined together...So when one of you passes, you still remember them in your next life, type of thing. Cause if you're a mortal, chances are, you'll die earlier than Xiao. Anyhow, that's a completely different story.

Zhongli

Zhongli prefers the quiet and the nature. This is probably part of your occasional stroll when the two of you need some quiet time.

Zhongli, with how long he has lived, also doesn't see marriage as the normal get-down-on-one-knee-with-a-ring-thing, but for him, it's a contract. It's more binding than anything in the world.

"Y/N, we've walked this path countless of times before," he starts as the two of you continue to stroll. You reply saying that you like this particular area where the bamboos are.

"Is that so?" suddenly stops and looks at you. "In that case, would you care to listen to a proposal I have?"

Clears his throat when you give the approval. "As I've said, we've walked this path countless of times before..." he takes your hand in his "but for me, who has lived longer than you, I've traversed this path for even more times," he closes his eyes. "Yet, with you by my side, this path changes. It transforms into something resplendent. As if...every time had been the first time I've walked through it. It is with you, Y/N, that I discover life anew, despite the thousands of years I've lived. Would you consider forming a contract of lifelong partnership with me, and only me?"

End

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[antlersatdegray]

[natalievoncatte]

1. Leaves

Lena was, in all honesty, having the time of her life. Since they’d arrived here, she had finally relaxed. Really relaxed. Lex was gone. Capital-G Gone. The last of Cadmus had been mopped up. The Conpany was no longer a problem- L-Corp was being sold off, from entire divisions down to sales of old office chairs. The Estate and nine-tenths of the family holdings were all being sold off, and the money quietly funneled into a holding company. Sam Arias would manage Lena’s wealth.

Lena had nothing to do anymore, and it was glorious. She’d done what she’d never done in her entire life: rest. She ate when was hungry, slept when she was tired. She stayed up late finishing a thriller novel she’d grabbed off one of Kara’s tables and slept it off the following day. She could do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, so one day she said, “Let’s go watch the leaves change.”

“Not much of that in National City,” Kara had said, not looking up from her laptop.

Lena was flipping channels when she made the suggestion, another pedestrian activity that had been too far beneath her to ever indulge during her CEO days.

“I’m serious,” said Lena. “I’ll rent us a cabin, book a flight, and we’ll be there by tomorrow morning. Vermont, or maybe New Hampshire.”

Kara looked up. “I could just fly us.”

“Short distances only,” said Lena.

Kara weighed it for a moment. She looked at Lena for a drawn out instant, eyes darting this way and that. Lena knew she had a deadline; she had become privy to the details of Kara’s life ever since she started couch surfing at Kara’s place after dumping her chic penthouse on some petroleum heir from the Emirates.

She had been “crashing” at Kara’s place for three months and had her own key, but they weren’t talking about it. Lena had remained on the couch, falling asleep to YouTube videos of molten lava and cat purring sounds, while Kara puttered around the house.

There were moments of tension. Pauses during shared meals. Moments when they pressed closed on sofa, times when Kara got up to go to bed and Lena felt this yearning to follow that she never quite obeyed.

Kara was thinking. Hard.

“Rent a cabin?”

“Yeah, someplace remote. So you can take a break. You’ve been working harder than ever, Darling. It almost feels like you’re avoiding me.”

Kara swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll fly. The regular way.”

They did, arriving in Maine less than a day later. Lena rented a Land Rover (because they were on an Adventure) and did all the driving, three hours from the airport to the cabin.

Kara rode in silence, though Lena heard her gasp.

The trees were beautiful. They were alive with color, as if an impressionist master had made the world a canvas and run riot. It was more than a mass of reds and yellows and oranges. It was astonishing.

It was dark when they arrived at the cabin. Lena had chosen one with two bedrooms, though she hesitated when she did. It had a full kitchen with a gas stove and all the amenities but also a fire pit and picnic table and gazebo, and overlooked a private swath of a small lake. It was like something out of a Bob Ross painting.

They were both tired from the flight, or at least Lena was, and turned in right away. When she rose the next day, she cheerily told her cabin-mate she was headed into town to get some supplies.

Kara went out to chop wood. Lena, of course, watched a few swings before leaving. Kara didn’t really need an axe but Lena didn’t care; she was preoccupied watching the muscles of Kara’s shoulders and back as she swung the splitting maul.

Lena got back before noon and carried the groceries inside, enough for her to use the fancy kitchen to prepare a mighty feast for her companion.

She didn’t hear the sobs until she had most of it put away. Lena bolted to the back door and stopped.

Kara was sitting on the picnic table, feet resting on the long board that acted as a seat. She was holding a single golden leaf on her hand, studying it and sobbing softly to herself.

“Kara?”

She looked up, soft blue eyes wet with tears. Lena felt a wave of grief but also panic, rushing to the table.

“Kara, what’s wrong?”

“I,” Kara started. “Lena, I’m scared.”

Lena swallowed hard. “Why?”

Kara looked at the leaf. “Another year past. The leaves turn colors and fall, school starts, things change.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Alex is married now. They’ve got a kid to raise. Nia and Brainy will probably get married soon. We hadn’t had a game night in two months.”

Lena swallowed. Kara was right. When Lena had first joined, then rejoined, this wonderful found family had been aggressively social, and now they forgot to text as often as not. They all spent more time at home or at their real jobs than at the Tower. The world had just started moving on. Kara didn’t even wear the cape every day anymore.

“I know,” said Lena, her voice thick. “But you’ve got me.”

Lena felt her pulse start to race. Kara had been so distant, she couldn’t help wonder if she was enough. If boring, retired Lena wasn’t enough. Oh God, what if Kara was thinking about going to Argo? Or the future?

“Not forever,” said Kara, her voice cracking like glass. She let the leaf drop from her fingers. “Eventually you’ll go. All of you. Brainy, Nia, Alex, Clark if he doesn’t come back from Argo. You.”

“Oh,” Lena said, softly. “Oh, Kara.”

“I think I might be immortal,” Kara whispered. “I don’t feel any aches or pains. Nothing about me changes. I don’t forget things like people do. My body just keeps repairing itself and it never makes any mistakes. What if I’m just like this forever? Or even a thousand years? What if everyone is gone and their kids are gone and no one knows who I am anymore?!” she was frantic now, the words coming too fast.

Lena reached out, tentatively. She put her hands on Kara’s shoulders and pulled herself in, wrapping her best friend in a hug.

Birds chirped, the waters of the lake made soft glug-glugs, and all around them was the soft tapping sound of the leaves, already letting go.

“I won’t leave you,” Lena whispered. “Kara, I won’t. If I have to live forever I will. I’ll find a way. Tech, magic, fifth dimensional imps. I’ll find a way.”

Kara sighed, arms firmly around her.

“Do you need space?” Lena asked. “I could leave you alone for a bit. Look for a place when we get back, so I’m not on the couch all the time.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Kara blurted, almost cutting her off. “I know I’ve been distant, it’s just… I keep looking at you and thinking about all the time I’ve lost and all the mistakes I’ve made and how I’ll regret it forever. We have so little time and I’m so scared I’ll lose you.”

Lena pulled back to look at her. “We have a long time to make more memories. As many as we can.”

“I’ll lose you too,” said Kara. “I know you want more. A family, a partner. You’ll start to have less time for me. You’ll all just fall away and I’ll be stuck here alone.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“How can you say that?”

Kara started to pull away. Lena stopped her with a tug on her arms. It stunned her, sometimes, how she could overpower a god with her tiny human hands. How she could stun the other whirlwind or a touch.

“Kara,” said Lena. “I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

“Me?” Kara squeaked.

Lena cleared her throat. “I wanted to tell you at the wedding. I mean, I didn’t dress like that and go stag for the hell of it. I just lost my nerve and you seemed so overwhelmed.”

Kara blinked a few times.

“You want me?” said Kara.

Lena felt a cold rush of terror. She’d just blurted it out, artlessly, unplanned.

“Like want me want me? Like kissing want me?”

Lena licked her lips. “Yes. I’d like to kiss you right now, if you let me.”

Kara settled back into the table, leaning forward. Lena leaned in, pushing her back slightly, moving her hands from shoulders to hips, scoring the way Kara tensed and trembled. She was hardly inexperienced, Lena knew, but something about this felt like a first kiss, even for her. It tasted like one, too, down to the quivery way their lips met.

Kissing quickly became something more. Lena didn’t know if she was pulling or Kara pushing. It didn’t much matter; the path led to the bed in Kara’s room, marked by a trail of shed clothing.

Years of anticipation overwhelmed them both; dinner was forgotten, and they didn’t even emerge until the next day.

It was in the morning sun, the light turning Kara’s skin gold, that Lena saw it. Twisted within one of the curling locks of hair, splayed around Kara’s head on the pillow, was a faintly visible thread of purest silver, chased through the gold like an engraver’s masterpiece. Lena couldn’t help but twirl the errant strands around her finger.

As Kara slept, she looked up through the window and watched the wind as it caressed the leaves.

[fayes-fics]

Ingénu

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: On his eighteenth birthday, Benedict loses his virginity with you on a warm summer's night...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Loss of male and female virginity. Sex education (sort of, mostly innocent leading innocent), vaginal sex, alfresco sex, withdrawal method, orgasms (them lucky kids). Childhood friends to lovers.

Word Count: 4.0k

Author’s Note: A fic I started more than two years ago, from THIS anon suggestion. Please note, the age of sexual consent in the UK is currently 16, so everyone is legal, although, in Regency, it was 10 (yikes). Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Err, enjoy! <3

Benedict Bridgerton.

If you were to give yourself to anyone before marriage, you know it would only ever be him. 

You grew up as neighbours, your family estate bordering his family’s in Kent. Born five months apart, it’s like destiny that you would be close. You shared your first chaste kiss when you were both twelve and then a French kiss at sixteen. And now, well, perhaps a lot more.

It’s his eighteenth birthday party when, while Colin draws attention to himself, Benedict grabs your hand and whisks you away without anyone noticing. Perhaps the brotherly distraction was by design. 

Wordlessly, he leads you far from the house into a small clearing in the woods around Aubrey Hall. There is a blanket, some pillows, and even some candle lanterns that he now lights. It appears he has something planned, and it causes a flutter in your stomach.

“Benedict, what is this?” you enquire sotto voce, his hand so large wrapped around yours. So safe.

“A quiet spot just for us,” he smiles back.

“To do what?”.

“To celebrate my birthday privately. In a manner that I know we are both so keen to,” he proclaims at first enigmatic, before clarifying: “You said you wanted to know a man before you are married, and I wish to know a woman.”

“But….” 

Beyond that, words fail.

You had indeed said as such just the other day. It was an idle, throwaway comment as you lay together in the long grass by the lake, squinting at the sun and enjoying the summer heat on your face. A languidness in your being had made you carefree with your words.

“It may be fine for you, Benedict, but I must be a maiden when I marry,” you point out.

“Well, what if you were to marry me someday?” he contends matter of fact.

“Is that a proposal?” you splutter. “Because I find it to be severely lacking.”

He chuckles at your affront. “No, you shall receive a ring when I propose,” he affirms.

“So, it is a when now, is it? “ you volley back, a smile tweaking your lips, unable to be anything but playful with him, as you have been for many a year now.

“Of that, you can be certain.”

There is a seductive edge to his voice, which seems so much older than his eighteen years; it’s quite captivating.

“But how can you be certain my answer will be yes?”

“I cannot,” he admits, seeming bemused by your quirked brow. “But I hope it will be after tonight.”

“And how can you be sure of my answer about tonight?” So much fun to toy with him.

“Again, I cannot,” he replies with a slight shrug but a soft, crooked smile. “I can only hope you deem me worthy,” he adds, gesturing around you.

“It is rather romantic,” you allow, watching in the lantern glow as he breaks into a much bigger grin that reaches his eyes. Candle reflections dance in his enlarged pupils. 

“I am so pleased you think so,” he beams. “I rather suspect Anthony plans to take me to a brothel this weekend. He did as such for his eighteenth and is of the firm opinion that I should follow suit. But in truth, I, well… “ he hesitates and takes a step forward, grabbing both of your hands in his. “...I want my first experience to be with you.”

The heartfelt, almost bashful admission has you squeezing his hands reassuringly, hoping it silently telegraphs how much you want the same, despite your reservations about preserving your honour.

“May I kiss you?” His tone is so sweet you don't want to say no.

Instead of answering with words, you push up onto tiptoes and land your lips on his. It’s familiar and exciting all at once. You’ve kissed secretly a few times now, and on each occasion, it has been incredible—like a live wire sparking between you. You push into his tall frame as your mouths open and your tongues gently touch. He tastes of peaty scotch and the smoky tinge of cigars, both likely birthday indulgences. 

His hold around your waist tightens as your kisses get more insistent and probing, tongues parrying. This time feels different—portending something more profound. Only breaking apart to take a breath, then, after a fleeting exchange of shy smiles, your lips smashing back together urgently, exploring anew.

As you cling to his waistcoat, his hands slide down your dress to grab your bottom, making you squeak into his mouth. You've never been grasped there before, and his fingers seem to span the whole of your cheeks. You stutter his name as your lips part, his aromatic breath gusting over your face as he flexes his fingers. He observes your face closely, the material of your dress bunching between his knuckles. 

“I like the feel of your bottom,” he declares with tender honesty.

You beam up at him and trace your hand down his back, running over the crisscross pattern of laces on his waistcoat before landing on his behind. His eyebrows raise as you splay your fingers over rounded, taut muscle.

“I like yours too,” you respond in kind, emboldened by how his pupils dilate and his mouth falls open at your pluckiness.

One of his hands moves to cup your jaw, diving in for another kiss, more demanding than before, your boldness catalysing a new urgency in him. His fingers trail down your neck, skating over your pulse point that you know is hammering hard, then sweeping lower over your shoulder.

“Is… is this alright for you?” His voice is full of awe as those fingers slip inside your dress, the heel of his palm resting lightly on your collarbone.

“Y… yes, it’s… wonderful, actually.”

It seems like he is mapping your skin, the contours of bone and muscle across your chest, sinking lower until his hand is resting on the swell of your breast. He worms inside your neckline, and two fingertips catch against your nipple. It pebbles hard at the slightest brush, your breath catching. You meet his blistering stare as he slowly swipes a finger over the puckered skin again. Heat prickles through you, a heavy tingle between your legs.

“Does that feel good?” 

His timbre is a beguiling mix of tease and hope as his fingertips gently swirl a circle around your areola. You nod, your lower lip snagging under your top tooth as a new tide of sensation washes through you.

“Where did you learn such things?” You marvel, your hands still on his bottom, flexing slightly, a mirror of his movements.

“My brother has told me some things,” he elucidates with a slight smirk, “including that if I touch your breasts, you will be excited for more.”

“I am,” you confess as intrigue steals your tongue: “What did he tell you to do next?” 

“That I should remove your dress and kiss your naked body, especially here.” he counsels, sliding over your nipple again.

“What else?” you pant, the thought of it making you lightheaded.

“I should feel between your legs for wetness that shows you are ready for me,” he intones as if recalling a verbatim conversation, even as his fingers spider across to your other nipple. You gasp again, a shiver running down your spine.

“Ready for you?” You echo, mildly embarrassed that you do not know any detail of what happens between a man and a woman. You have only a vague notion from the overheard gossip of people in your family’s employ. 

He grabs your right hand from his bottom and guides it to the front of his trousers. There is a hardness straining the material that you swear wasn't there before.

“What is that?” Your breath catches as its warmth seeps through the material into your palm.

“That is my cock, and if you wish to know a man, it is an essential part of the process,” he smiles winningly.

You squeeze gently on instinct, the resulting low growl in the back of his throat enthralling you.

“I think we should take off our clothes now,” he proposes, and you nod your acceptance.

His hand slips from inside your neckline and lands on the buttons between your shoulder blades as yours slide up from his trousers to his waistcoat, popping its buttons as those on your dress also relent.

“Is it alright to undress each other, or should we undress ourselves?”

“Either is acceptable, but I am rather enjoying this,” he divulges as you push his waistcoat off his shoulders.

“So am I…” 

He pulls off your dress, the silk pooling around your feet, a yen to crowd into him as the cool night air seeps through your gauzy chemise.

“You do not wear stays?” he seems taken aback, his gaze now intent upon your nipples, jutting out against the thin cotton.

“No, not yet. Mama says I am but young, and my bosom is still perky,” you explain, aroused by how his breath becomes a little laboured as you voice it.

“I like it when you say such words,” he rags, pulling you into him with a firm grip, his hands so hot through the thin cotton of your chemise. You have a sudden tart need to be naked with him, a tingle between your legs that can only be excitement.

“Take off my chemise, Benedict,” you encourage, guiding him to the ties at your neckline. You pull the bow loose, the material bunching in his hands as you both tug either side down, exposing your breasts. 

He groans as your nipples instantly pebble in the cool air. He tilts you backwards in his arms, his face descending. You rasp his name, your hand flying into his hair, twisting his chestnut waves between your fingers as the contrasting heat, suction and wetness of his lips enclose your nub. It's exquisite, and you never want this loop of pleasure coursing through you to end, pushing your breast further into his mouth.

While he lathes with his tongue, you slacken the neckline further and shimmy out of the chemise, keen for more, already addicted to this wondrous feeling coursing in your bloodstream. 

He takes a step back to look at you as the last scrap of fabric flutters to the ground.

You see the quiver in his hands and the tented outline in his trousers as his eyes drink in your naked form, lingering on your nipples, wet with his saliva, and the patch of hair between your legs that is also damp now, a slickness between your thighs that has you wanting to squirm. 

His pupils are blown wide, his lips glisten, his cheeks are rosy, and his hair is wild from your tussling as he suddenly whips off his shirt. It sails through the air in a puffed arc. The captivating sight of his pale skin glowing like sculpted marble in the moonlight ties your tongue.

But your admiration is short-lived as he is on you again, propelling you into his arms. Your mind buffers as his broad, smooth chest collides with your dampened breasts, his kiss plundering your mouth. 

It feels like you are both drunk on a fascinating cocktail of urgency and nerves, navigating new territory with a bumbling, innocent, but innate excitement. 

“Lay down,” he whispers delicately into your mouth as you emerge for air.

You do as bidden, holding his hand as he assists you onto the blanket and laying back to stare up at him, towering over you now. His hands fall to the buttons on his britches, and you can't help but bite your lip, a shiver of anticipation to see how he looks naked.

He seems almost nervous as he pops the buttons and then shuffles the woollen material downwards over his thighs. But you only have eyes for what lies between his legs. Like yourself, there is a patch of hair there, but also something entirely other that makes your thighs clench together reflexively. This must be his cock. It is a rigid mass, reddened at the flared tip, jutting out from his body at least half a foot and beneath are adjoined sacs that droop a little.

“Do not be afraid,” he murmurs, perhaps misinterpreting your curiosity for fear.

“I know you will not hurt me, Benedict,” you placate, your eyes flitting up to his face and reaching for his hands to bring him to lay down with you on the blanket.

He sighs as he kneels beside you, his hand cradling your cheek. “That is the thing, my sweet; my brother says it might hurt for a lady on her first time.”

Your breath catches at the term of endearment he employs, placing your hand over his. “I know you will do everything to mitigate such.”

His eyes go soft, and he rolls on top of you; so much warm skin. An all-consuming sensation as you lay together naked, that cock branding your inner thigh as he settles atop you.

“Indeed ‘tis true…” he confirms, then hesitates before continuing in an ardent intonation: “I meant what I said. I wish for you to be my wife one day. I do believe I love you, y/n.”

Your heart soars at his tender confession. “And I believe I love you too, Benedict.”

His responding smile lights up his whole face. 

You may only be seventeen, but you know the contents of your heart. There is no man you have met whom you trust as much as this wondrous boy, now man, you have grown up alongside. You sincerely hope to have the privilege to grow up and, indeed, old with him.

“Are you certain?” he checks sweetly, and you can only nod as his touch trails down over the ticklish skin of your belly, leaving little lines of fire that sear in his wake.

There is a jolt to your entire being as his fingers slide into your most intimate area, somewhere only you have touched before. You keen and press up into him, quite certain nothing has ever felt like this before. 

“Oh, you are very wet,” he stutters, almost stunned. “But that is good,” he quickly appends before you can become self-conscious. “It means you desire me as much as I desire you.”

“I do desire you, Benedict,” you are at pains to express, a restlessness fizzling under your skin and a clawing need for him in your bones, knowing this can only be of his doing and wanting to burn so much more. “What happens now?”

He guides your hand gently between his legs. He moans as your hand instinctively curls around it, the skin so silky even over a mass so rigid. “I put my cock inside you,” he stumbles. “Into the place you are leaking from…”

“Will it fit?” You frown, unsure you have a place within yourself to accommodate it.

“Yes.. well, at least, that is what I have been told.” 

His slightly vulnerable admission makes you release his cock and grab his face, tilting his gaze to meet yours.

“We shall find out together,” you assure, smiling when he nods gently.

This is just another adventure you will embark on together, much as you have since you were children. 

He kisses your knuckles and guides you to hold onto his shoulders as he shifts above you. Butterflies behind your ribs as he looks down at what he is doing, a slightly anxious expression as he grabs his cock and manoeuvres it between your legs. 

You spread your feet wider to the edges of the blanket, its threads scrunching between your toes as you feel blunt pressure between your damp folds. You can't help the noise you make from the intensity of it. 

Benedict’s head shoots up to scrutinise your face, concern flooding his handsome features.

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes, I think so, just nothing I have experienced before…”

Then his eyes go as wide as yours as just his tip slips into your leaking channel.

“You are so hot and tight,” he stumbles, floored by what he is experiencing as much as you are.

“You are so hot and large,” you answer in kind, gripping his bicep as he presses deeper and an odd pinch of pain flares; it makes you hiss and bite your lip. 

He mumbles an apology, pausing. “I assume that is what they were referring to. Sh-should I continue?”

“Yes, I am alright now,” you reassure him, briefly touching his cheek, curiosity outweighing the fading, dull ache. 

You are slack-jawed in astonishment as your channel stretches wider to accommodate his push forward. He is panting, and his eyes are almost like saucers as he stares down upon you, neither of you blinking.

“Oh my goodness,” he mutters enraptured. “Please tell me this feels as good for you…”

“It’s wonderful, Benedict,” you promise breathily, a warmth unfurling behind your ribs that he would care as such. “Intense, yet wonderful.”

“Same,” he exhales shakily, a vein throbbing rhythmically on his neck as he sinks deeper.

Each fractional inch has you surprised anew, a captivating gradual invasion. Just as you think you could not be any fuller, he stops.

“I am entirely within you now.”

You try to catalogue all the feelings at once, to savour them, but it's impossible. The sense of him inside and surrounding you, flesh entwined, is all-consuming; defies words or descriptions.

“I shall move when you are ready,” he whispers into your cheek before kissing you softly. 

With your nodded consent, he withdraws and then surges back in, your channel clinging to him—a sensation unlike anything you have ever experienced before, so intimate and powerful. Your fingernails claw into him, hugging him down onto you, wanting his skin upon yours.

“Oh Benedict….”

It’s all you can voice. 

A tremble all over as you share this moment, tentatively moving with him in a complementary rhythm, almost a dance like that in a ballroom. Give and take, push and pull. And there is no one you would rather be dancing with. Your bodies meld together perfectly as if designed to be joined as such. You certainly don’t understand why some women dislike relations with a man—you would happily do this anytime.

Benedict's motions speed up, your folds swelling around his plunging cock, your heart hammering against your ribs, watching the ripples of ecstasy wash over his expression, a dew gathering in his hairline.

“It’s.. it’s overwhelming,” Benedict shudders. 

Indeed, there is a quake in his being, like he is a simmering pot about to boil over, even as his face appears anxious, like he does not yet want that to happen but is powerless to stop it. You quell his movement, clutching the belt of muscle above his hips.

“Rest within me a while,” you suggest, and he stills, a staccato exhale into your hair as his cock twitches inside you.

It is wonderful to be pinned under his weight. You run a soothing touch over his skin, the soft cotton of the blanket rubbing your shoulder blades as you shift under him, wrapping your ankles around the back of his knees. Your toes tease his fuzzy calves in soothing strokes as his breathing returns closer to normal. You know, somehow you should not kiss him, an incitement he does not need.

“I do not wish this to be over too soon,” he laments quietly into your hair—a swell of emotion within you at his honest admission.

“Neither do I, but it is our first time. We cannot expect to know or be good at everything, Benedict,” you rationalise, pausing for him to meet your gaze. A sheepish mien that makes him look so adorable. “We can learn to get better together.” 

The knit on his brow loosens a fraction as he hums in agreement.

“I have heard that should I finish before I want to, there are other ways I may ensure your satisfaction,” he offers humbly.

“What does that entail?” Enchanted by the idea he would be concerned for your pleasure as much as his.

“I may touch a nub between your legs that is like a freshwater pearl nestled within folds of dewy flesh,” he states, a poetic description you are sure must be from some book.

When he pulls up to glance at where you are joined, it makes his cock prod a new spot inside you. An incredible bloom of novel sensation that has you gasping and grabbing his arms. Your channel ripples around him, and he groans heavily, collapsing back upon you inelegantly.

“Holy fuck,” he curses, sounding winded.

And you know the time for talking is over. You are impatient for him to move again, for his cock to graze that spot once more.

“Bring your legs up higher,” he tutors, intuiting your needs. 

Just as your heels curl around the shapely curve of his bottom, he moves again, making you cry out in pleasure as he hits that exact target, your nails digging into his back.

“Don’t stop Benedict,” you appeal over a ragged gasp as he grazes it again, your eyes rolling, clinging to him.

His motions are jerkier now but rougher in just the way you need. He holds nothing back, both of you fumbling towards the ecstasy growing inside. Hands grabbing, moaning into dewy cheeks, wetness matting into the downy hair below, the most debauched of sounds from where your bodies meet as he pushes into you over and over.

All your muscles start to tense, a delirium washing over you that makes you impulsive. One of your hands worming between you to strum an engorged nub just above where he fucks you, knowing on some instinctual level it is key to your pleasure. You cry out, and your pussy clamps hard onto him. Benedict groans his approval as he takes a final harsh snap, you falling over an edge, fluttering hard around his now rippling cock.

He growls and wrenches himself out of your channel rapidly. But you are barely cognizant of a milky liquid spurting over your belly as you writhe under him, body febrile mind a thousand miles above amongst the summer stars

When you return to yourself, you feel him collapse onto the blanket next to you, pulling you into his arms as if there is a compulsion to always have your naked skin on his.

“No one warned me your body would do that,” he pants, astounded. “It took all of my strength to withdraw…”

“Why did you?” You crane your neck to pout at him, believing it would feel so much better to reach that peak wrapped around his cock.

“I thought it unwise to leave you with child…” he frowns as if his reasoning were obvious.

You buffer for a few seconds, then sit up and twist to look down at him, shock flooding your already overloaded senses.

“This?!” You splutter, “This is how babies are made?”

He chuckles at first, then tempers his face when he realises you are serious. 

“I… I thought you knew…”

”No! I have not been told a thing!” you bemoan, only now realising how much of adulthood you have yet to navigate.

He delicately pulls you down to rest on top of him, nuzzling your cheek. 

“I am sorry that is the case. One day, we shall have children, I am certain. But perhaps tis not a good idea just yet. We are still young, not even yet engaged.” 

You vehemently nod in agreement, flooded with gratitude that, even as he was in the throes of his first sex, too, he had the respect and forethought to care for the consequences for you both. 

“Thank you, Benedict,” you sigh, burrowing into his embrace as a gentle waft of breeze cools your flushed skin.

“‘Tis me who should be thanking you.” he insists, caressing your shoulder. “That was amazing. I am so glad we did this together.”

“As am I,” you return, as you lay entwined together, knowing already this will be the first of many.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette

[classicpixels]

White Oak Residence, Hartford CT

Nestled in Hartford, Conneticut, this residence exudes timeless elegance with its classic georgian architecture. Set amidst lush, manicured grounds, the property boasts a private tennis court and acreage for privacy. Behind this residence, a pristine lake offers a tranquil escape, perfect for contemplative strolls or leisurely boating. Whether hosting elegant soirées, enjoying family gatherings, or seeking solitude in its expansive grounds, this estate is a perfect blend of classic beauty and sophistication.

Inspired by this pin on Pinterest.

[schemmentigfs]

Sweetening The Deal. (part 9.)

Summary: Teresa Schemmenti suffers from the consequences of her past while dealing with dementia and Kristin Marie reflects about the complex relationship between her mom and sister. Meanwhile, the redhead and you are in your own private paradise in Lake Como.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

(this chapter is 5k words, but I promise that is worth it.)

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8.

The Schemmentis estate was quieter than it had ever been before. The massive mansion, with its towering columns and intricate ironwork, seemed to hold its breath under the weight of time. The once-stately grandeur of the place now felt more like an imposing relic, a monument to an era long past. Dust motes swirled lazily in the light that escaped through the heavy curtains, casting shadows that seemed to stretch for miles. Every creaking floorboard and distant echo of silence told the story of forgotten years, of once-bustling rooms now swallowed by the weight of solitude. The scent of aged wood and leather lingered in the house, combined with the faint, musty smell of a property that had been left to rot at the edges.

The grand staircase, with its polished banister and spiraling ascent, was the heart of the mansion, but now it stood like a sentinel—silent, unyielding, and uninviting. It had once been a symbol of privilege and power, a place where the Schemmenti name had been proudly carried up to the highest floors, where the echoes of laughter and conversation had filled every hallway. Now, it was little more than a reminder of what had been lost. Melissa, the only decent member of the Schemmenti line, couldn’t help but feel the weight of it every time she looked at it—its grandeur mocking her as she tried to escape the suffocating legacy her family had left behind.

In the well furnitured living room, Teresa Schemmenti, the once-feared matriarch of the family, sat in her ornate armchair, which seemed far too large for her now. Her frail, shaking hands rested in her lap, the skin on her wrists thin and translucent, as if life had been drained from her body over the years. The chair itself, a fine piece of antique furniture with carvings of roses and vines, seemed out of place in the room—too elegant, too alive for the hollow shell of the woman who occupied it. Her posture was slumped, her back once proud and erect now curved with the weight of age and illness.

Her once cared short brown hair, carefully styled to frame her sharp features, now hung in disarray around her face, bangs falling out of place as though even her hair had begun to lose its battle against time. The icy, piercing eyes that had once intimidated businessmen, rivals, husbands and even her own children were now clouded and unfocused, betraying the mental fog that had long since taken hold of her. The sharpness, the venomous gleam that had made her a force to be reckoned with, was gone—replaced with confusion and vacant stares.

She didn’t recognize the faces of her eight children, nor did she remember the names of her last husband’s business partners—the people who had once kissed her rings and bowed to her will. The very ones who had once feared the power of the Schemmenti name now seemed like distant ghosts in her mind. But there was one thing that Teresa still clung to with surprising clarity—the taste of bitterness. It lingered in her mouth like an old wound, and she remembered it well. The resentment that had once fueled her, the sharp tongue that had torn people apart with a mere word—these memories refused to fade. They clung to her like a poison, an embittered truth she could never forget, no matter how much the rest of her mind deteriorated.

In a moment of clarity, she would sometimes try to speak, her words coming out garbled and confused, a jumbled mix of frustration and desperation. But more often than not, she would simply sit in silence, her hands trembling and her eyes far away, as though waiting for something—or someone—to remind her of who she had been. But no one did, and slowly, the mansion that had once been filled with her commanding presence felt more and more like a mausoleum.

Her caretaker, a soft-spoken woman named Elena, stood nearby, her posture tense with the weight of the responsibility she carried. The matriarch had been slipping further into the grip of her dementia, and the youngest did her best to keep the old woman calm, though it was often a losing battle. She adjusted the blanket over Teresa’s frail legs, trying to soothe her, but a sharp voice broke the silence.

“I know what you’re doing,” the eldest hissed, her eyes narrowing at her caretaker as she leaned forward, her trembling fingers gripping the armrest. “You think you can trick me, huh? You think I don’t know what’s going on?

Elena’s face was a mask of patience, but her lips tightened slightly. “Mrs. Schemmenti, you’re just feeling a bit confused today. It’s alright, I’m here with you.”

The gaze sharpened, even if it didn’t quite reach clarity. She blinked several times, as if trying to force her mind to settle into something more tangible, but the moment passed. “Where’s Melissa Ann? Where is that girl? I need to talk to her.”

Elena exhaled softly, glancing at the door. “Your daughter isn’t here right now, Mrs. Schemmenti. She’s probably at work, but she visited you weeks ago. See that flower over there?” she pointed to the coffee table. “Melissa brought it to you and held your hand while asking about your week.”

“No, no... She’s always gone,” Teresa mumbled, her voice quivering with hysteria. “Always gone, leaving me to rot in this damn chair!” She slammed her palm onto the armrest with surprising force for someone so frail, her eyes wild. “She’s hiding from me. What’s she hiding? What’s she been doing?”

The caretaker stepped closer, trying to calm her down before she could escalate further. But it was clear Teresa wasn’t listening. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” the old woman muttered under her breath, as if trying to convince herself, her hands clutching the arms of the chair tightly.

At that moment, the door to the sitting room creaked open. Teresa’s eyes snapped up, her expression full of expectation and longing, but it was Kristin Marie who stepped through the threshold, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

“Ciao, Ma,” the blonde started, her tone heavy with the weight of her disapproval. She was younger than Melissa, but her presence felt equally commanding and terrifying. As she walked into the room, she took a long look at her mother before her eyes flicked to Elena. “How’s she today?”

The girl sighed, clearly relieved to see someone else taking charge. “She’s been upset, but it’s the usual. She’s confused.”

Kristin nodded curtly, then turned her focus entirely on Teresa, who was still muttering to herself, her frail hands twisting the fabric of her dress in agitation. “Ma, are you... okay?”

Brown eyes snapped to her daughter’s, recognition flickering in and out. “You—Kristin, right?” The voice held a sharp edge, but it was fleeting. "Where’s Melissa? Why is she always gone? I need to speak to her. Where is she? Tell me where she is!”

Kristin Marie’s lips pressed together, and for a moment, there was a flicker of irritation that passed through her expression before she masked it. “She’s not here, Ma. You’ve already asked that.”

Elena moved to ease the tension, but the blonde held up a hand. “Let her speak,” she interrupted. “Let’s see if she remembers anything.”

The Schemmentis matriarch’s eyes clouded again, her head tilting in confusion. “I don’t remember...I don’t... remember where my baby is. What did I do... wrong?”

Kristin’s gaze hardened, and she gave a glance that could’ve cut glass. “I just don’t get it. How did she end up like this? You’d think with all that business smarts she’d have been able to avoid this...”

Teresa’s confusion deepened. She looked at her daughter, a flicker of recognition crossing her face before fading. “Business?” she asked faintly. “What business?”

The blonde’s expression twisted with something less than sympathy. “Right. You don’t remember.” She sighed and crossed her arms, her eyes never leaving her mother. “I heard something. A rumor, actually,” Kristin said, her voice lowering as she stepped closer. “People are saying Melissa’s got herself a... sugar mommy situation going on. Some young girl—what’s her name, hmm? Doesn’t even know how to do the basics, apparently. That’s the gossip.”

The eldest blinked, her expression as blank as a piece of paper. “Melly...?”

“Yeah. I can’t believe it. What has she been doing with her life? First, she lets her mother fall apart, and now she’s... running around with some young woman. I heard all about it.”

Teresa’s head jerked back as though struck. “No... No, that’s not Melissa. She would never... She’s my daughter,” she muttered, her voice breaking.

Elena stepped forward quickly, concerned. “Mrs. Schemmenti, you’re getting upset. You need to relax.”

Brown eyes flashed with a sudden burst of clarity, or perhaps it was just anger. “No... she’s not like that. She is my daughter. She would never...”

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and her expression went blank again, the panic returning as she gripped her caretaker’s arm. “Where’s she? Where’s my Melissa? Where’s my baby?” she whimpered, the words almost indistinguishable as they came out in a helpless wail.

Kristin stood there, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment. She was used to this—used to the brokenness of her family, the way her mother’s mind slowly slipped further away, leaving behind nothing but the remnants of the woman who had once commanded so much respect. The fact that her sister wasn’t there didn’t surprise her; she’d always known that Melissa was the one who would eventually leave.

Elena took a deep breath, trying to soothe the fragile figure once more. “She’s coming back, Mrs. Schemmenti. She’s just not here right now.”

Kristin’s gaze was fixed with a certain hardness, her eyes sharp as she took in the scene before her. The contrast between the two women could not have been more stark. Her mother, Teresa, sat in her ornate armchair, her frail body swallowed by the heavy fabric, while the caretaker, stood nearby, a picture of quiet exhaustion, trying to hold the fragile thread of normalcy in place. It was an impossible task—no one could fix what had been shattered over the years. Not Elena, who had taken on the heavy responsibility of taking care of her, and certainly not Kristin herself, or any of her siblings. She had long since learned that some things couldn’t be mended, no matter how much you wished for them to be.

As Teresa whimpered softly, her frail hands shaking in her lap, the blonde’s eyes narrowed, her sharp mind turning over thoughts she had long buried. She watched as her mother’s eyes wandered around the room, her gaze flicking between her and the girl with a confusion that seemed to grow by the day. It was the kind of confusion that made the air heavy with the past—the kind that made Kristin wonder just how much of the woman sitting before her was truly still there.

Despite everything, there was something that made her stomach churn. For all the cruelty Teresa had shown Melissa over the years, there was something else now—something that couldn’t be ignored. The brunette, in her fragile state, seemed to be searching for something—someone. And that someone was Melissa. Despite the venomous words she had spat at her daughter throughout their lives, Teresa was now yearning for the one person she had so often pushed away.

It was almost as if she didn’t recognize how deeply the words she had said to the redhead had cut, how the sharp criticisms and disdain had driven a wedge between them that could never fully be repaired. In these moments of clarity, Teresa seemed to regret it all—the sharp remarks, the cold detachment, the times she had made Melissa feel less than. Now, with her mind fraying at the edges, all that remained was a deep and painful longing for the daughter who had once been her pride, her heir apparent, the one who carried the family name with such precision.

Yet even as that longing flickered in her eyes, there was no way to bridge the chasm between them. Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti was gone. And even if she were to return, Kristin Marie knew there would be no easy fix. The damage had been done long ago, and the years had made it only worse.

As the sound of Teresa’s whimpers filled the room, an air of helplessness seemed to hang over the estate. The bustling house, the meetings and dinners that once carried the weight of Schemmenti influence, was now still. The walls that had been filled with the loud voices of family members, the clinking of glasses, the sound of laughter, were now almost oppressive in their silence.

If the rumors about Melissa were true, if she had indeed become involved with someone younger, someone she was supporting financially—then there was far more at play here than just a simple scandal. A part of Kristin had always believed Melissa was trying to escape. Escape from the family, from the legacy, from the prison they had all been trapped in for so long. But now, as the thought of Melissa hiding away with this young woman stirred in her mind, a more unsettling question emerged. What if this wasn’t just about money? What if there was something deeper? Something that made her sister want to distance herself from everything that had once been her world.

And then there was the inevitable truth that no one dared to speak aloud: The moment Teresa passed, Melissa would be removed from the heart of the family. It was the unspoken agreement that had loomed over the estate for years, ever since the deep rift had opened between mother and daughter. She had already distanced herself from the family, choosing to carve out her own life far away from the Schemmenti legacy. But when Teresa died—if that day ever came—Melissa Schemmenti would be completely cut off.

Kristin Marie, though she resented her mother’s harshness, knew that this moment, this slow unraveling was only the beginning of something darker. And yet, the thought of the estate without Melissa at its center left a hollow ache in her chest. Despite everything—despite the bitterness and the years of bad blood—Melissa was still the last Schemmenti who carried any spark of what the family used to be. The estate, without her, would feel empty. Like a ghost of itself.

And as the woman looked back at her matriarch, who had slipped into another wave of confusion, her tears quietly falling, She couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t too late for a reconciliation, or if that was simply a fantasy too far gone to reach.

Meanwhile, the days passed in a blur of boxes, sorting, and new routines for you. The moving truck had come and gone again and again, leaving a trail of cardboard and plastic wrapping in its wake. Melissa’s penthouse, already filled with luxury and elegance, was now marked by the presence of your things—your clothes, your collection of books, a few framed photographs of family—you and your mother, and a small stack of your favorite records. It was strange, after almost months of living in her shadow, both physically and emotionally.

But now, you were here—permanently, it seemed—and it felt like a step into a new chapter. You stood in the bedroom that now belonged to you, folding clothes into the closet while Melissa supervised from the bed, flipping through her phone with a glass of wine in hand. Her robe hung loosely around her, and she hadn’t yet bothered to change from her earlier errands. Despite her busy schedule, she always made sure to be there, making decisions about where things would go, though she never overtly tried to control the process. She let you settle in on your own terms.

The scent of a lavender perfume lingered in the space, mixing with the fresh smell of new furniture and cardboard boxes. You glanced up from the clothes you were folding, the sight of her lounging so effortlessly beautiful in her silk robe catching your attention. Her auburn hair cascaded in loose waves, and her lips, painted a soft shade of pink, barely parted as she scrolled through her iphone. The glass of wine in her hand shimmered in the clear light, the clink of the ice cubes a gentle reminder of the evening that was settling in.

“Everything alright?“ she asked without looking up.

You nodded, trying to shake off the strange feeling of being an intruder in her space, even though the space was now yours too. The penthouse, with its sprawling windows and sleek furniture, had always been an embodiment of Melissa herself—elegant, sophisticated, and polished. It was surreal to be here, unpacking your life into her world, but it felt like it was meant to be.

“I think I’m almost done here,” you sigh, folding a pair of jeans and adding them to the closet. “How’s work going?”

The redheaded woman finally looked up from her phone, giving you a lazy smile. “Busy bullshit, as always.” She paused, taking a sip of the glass. “But I think I’m ready for the night. I’ll just need a shower, and we can order dinner. Then cuddle.”

You felt a flicker of excitement at the thought of being with her, just the two of you in the quiet of the penthouse. The idea of slipping into something more comfortable and enjoying her company felt like the escape you both needed from the busyness of moving and settling in.

“Sounds perfect,” you replied, glancing at her as she stretched lazily, her robe shifting to reveal a hint of her toned freckled legs.

Olive eyes sparkled. There was something comforting about the way she always seemed to look at you, like you were the most important person in the room, no matter who else was around. You had come to love that about her—her attention, her presence. It was intoxicating.

“Come here dolcezza,” she said suddenly, setting the wine glass aside on the nightstand.

You walked over to the bed, standing beside her. She reached for your hand, pulling you closer. Her fingers brushed against yours, warm and inviting, and for a moment, you could forget about the outside world. You were here, at this moment, with her.

Melissa looked up at you with a smirk that could melt steel. She pulled you down onto the bed beside her, the silk of her robe brushing against your arm. Her gaze traveled over your face, lingering just a beat too long, her hand never letting go of yours. “You know, thank goodness this moving business is done, we’ll finally be able to enjoy a little… peace.” She trailed her white nails along your forearm, her touch as light as a whisper.

“Peace, huh?” you replied, tilting your head at her, though your pulse quickened under her touch. “Is that what you’re calling our trip to Lake Como tomorrow? I heard peace and you don’t exactly go hand in hand.”

The older woman chuckled, leaning back on her elbows, the red robe slipping just enough to reveal a hint of her collarbone. “I prefer luxury, but sure, we’ll call it peace if that helps you sleep at night.”

“Luxury,” you repeated with a snort, leaning against the pillows. “You mean the private villa that belongs to you?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, bambina,” she drawled, her Philly accent curling around the word like a caress. “The Schemmentis have been dealing in real estate for years. Lake Como just happens to be a little... perk.”

“A perk. You’re insufferable.”

Melissa reached out, catching your chin between her fingers. “And yet, you’re still here,” she murmured, her eyes darkening with something you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same—a pull, magnetic and undeniable.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. Her thumb brushed your jawline, and for a moment, all the stress of the day, the unpacking, the lingering awkwardness of moving into her world, disappeared. All you could think about was the way her lips parted ever so slightly, the way her green eyes locked on yours, unrelenting.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“Like you’re thinking something inappropriate,” you sighed softly, though your body betrayed you, leaning closer to her without even realizing it.

Her fingers moved to your waist, pulling you just close enough for her breath to ghost against your mouth. ”Whatever.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the city hum beyond the penthouse windows and the distant clink of the wine glass on the nightstand. You wanted to kiss her, and you knew she wanted it too.

But then your lover pulled back with a groan, running a hand through her auburn waves. “Dammit, Y/N. If we start making out now, we’ll never finish packing.”

You laughed breathlessly, sitting up and shaking your head. “You’re the one who started this.”

“And I’m the one stopping it,” she finished, though the way her gaze flicked to your lips betrayed how difficult it was for her to stick to her own rule. “I promised myself I’d make you wait until we’re in Como.”

“Wait for what?”

Melissa rolled her eyes but smirked, standing from the bed and tying her robe tighter around her waist. “You’ll find out soon enough, cara mia. Now, finish packing before I change my mind.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched her head for the kitchen, the sway of her hips unmistakably deliberate. “This trip better be worth it,” you called after her.

She glanced back. “Oh, trust me, it will be.”

The drive from the airport to the villa was long, but the anticipation was enough to make the journey feel like it passed in an instant. As the car wound through the narrow streets of Lake Como, the view outside the window grew more breathtaking with each passing second. The rolling hills, dotted with lush greenery, eventually gave way to the shimmering expanse of the lake. It was beautiful beyond words, a place where time seemed to stand still.

The villa itself was tucked away, hidden from the road by a stretch of perfectly manicured trees. As the car pulled up, the grandeur of the place took you by surprise. Stone walls, ivy creeping along the sides, and windows that overlooked the sparkling lake gave it an air of timeless elegance. It was exactly what you imagined—luxurious and imposing, but warm in its own quiet way.

Melissa’s hand never left yours as you both stepped out of the car, her fingers curling around yours in a silent promise that this trip, this moment, was all for you two. The cool Italian air brushed against your skin, carrying the faint scent of the lake and the earth beneath it.

“Welcome to paradise,” the redhead announced with a grin, smooth as velvet. You looked at her, her pupils glinting with mischief, and nodded. The moment you stepped onto the grounds, you felt like you were in a dream.

The inside of the villa was just as stunning. High ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and a large, open kitchen that spilled into a cozy living area. The large glass doors opened out onto a terrace, where you could see the entire lake spread out before you, its surface shimmering in the afternoon sun.

After a brief tour, you and her dropped your bags in one of the bedrooms, but you didn’t waste time. You both knew what came next.

“Let’s jump in,” Melissa suggested, with excitement and something else—something more daring. You looked at her, surprised.

“Jump in?” you prompted, eyes widening.

“Into the lake, pretty girl,” she said with a smirk, already pulling off her jacket. She tossed it aside before turning toward the terrace, where a stone stairway led down to the water's edge. “Come on, let’s do it.”

You hesitated, but her body language was all the encouragement you needed. You followed her outside, your feet pressing into the warm stone as you made your way down. The water looked inviting, but you knew it would be a shock to the system once you jumped in.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you stopped for a moment, your heart thumping in your chest. The lake, though beautiful, had an undeniable depth to it, both literally and figuratively. It was vast, and the stillness of it felt almost... intimidating. But you couldn’t back out now.

“Ready?” she asked, standing at the edge of the dock with a mischievous grin on her face. Her body was already poised, her arms spread out in anticipation. You took a deep breath.

“Let’s do this,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat, and stepped up beside her. You were no longer hesitant. This moment was too perfect to waste, and you weren’t going to let fear stop you from enjoying it.

The two of you took a quick glance at each other, silently agreeing. Without another word, Melissa leapt first, her body disappearing into the cool water below with a splash so loud it echoed through the air. The ripples spread across the surface, sending a chill through the air, but you followed almost immediately, throwing yourself into the lake after her.

The cold water enveloped you instantly, a shock to your system that stole your breath for a second. You surfaced, gasping for air as you wiped the droplets from your face. The redhead was already gigglin, her head breaking the surface not far from you. She tossed her wet hair back, looking every bit the beautiful, carefree woman you’d fallen in love with.

“See? Nothing to it. You okay, though?”

You looked at her, a laugh bubbling out of you as you felt the tension from the day, from the move, melt away in the cool embrace of the lake. “I think I’m fine,” you answer, taking in the beauty around you. “This is beautiful.”

The sound of your laughter echoed across the water, and Melissa swam closer, her body cutting through the lake with ease. She reached out, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward her. The closeness of her, her warmth even in the cold water, was everything you needed. You leaned into her, your bodies pressed together as you both floated for a while, the world fading around you.

Swollen lips were just inches from yours, and you felt the weight of the moment, heavy with desire and unspoken words. You could feel the pulse of attraction in the way your bodies moved together, and the heat that remained even though you were immersed in the cool water. It was like a slow dance in the most intimate sense—no rush, no words needed.

“I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you... here. With me. Like this.”

You could feel your heart racing again, not from the water, but from the weight of her words. You didn’t need anything else.

And then, as if there was no longer any reason to hold back, you kissed her with all the hunger in the world. The coolness of the water seemed to heighten everything—the touch of her mouth, the taste of her, the way she pulled you in just a little closer.

There was no past, no future. Just the here and now. You and Melissa Schemmenti, in the lake, in this perfect, stolen moment.

The lake stretched out before you, its serene surface reflecting the fading glow of the setting sun, but the redheaded woman’s mind was racing in an entirely different direction. Your body pressed so close to hers, the heat between you both, the way your breath hitched as your lips met hers—it was intoxicating. The cool water lapped against your skin, but all she could focus on was the fire burning inside her, an ache that pulsed through her with every subtle move of your body against hers.

As Melissa kissed you deeper, her hands gripping your waist underwater, she felt it—a gush in her own panties, unmistakable and entirely because of you. It caught her off guard for a moment, the intensity of her own arousal startling her.

She wanted you. Desperately. The villa was hers. The lake was hers. There was no one to hear you, no one to interrupt if she let herself give in. The thought of pressing you against the smooth stones at the water’s edge, of her hands sliding up your wet skin while her lips claimed every inch of you, sent another wave of heat through her. Her breath caught in her throat as she shifted her legs slightly, the damp fabric of her panties clinging to her in a way that made her bite back a moan.

The older woman pulled away from the kiss just enough to catch her breath, her green eyes dark and hooded as she gazed at you. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her body alive. The way your eyes lingered on her, heavy with want, only added fuel to the fire. She was barely keeping herself together, the intensity of her need for you threatening to overwhelm her.

Her sharp fingers traced down your back, lingering at the curve of your hips as she fought the urge to do more, to let her hands roam to places she knew would unravel you completely. The cool water did nothing to dampen the heat between you. Her thoughts betrayed her—flashes of you writhing against her, of her hands gripping your thighs while the water splashed around you, of the quiet, unrestrained moans and screams she wanted to pull from you.

She swallowed hard, trying to focus, but her body wasn’t letting her forget. She felt another gush of cum, the damp heat between her thighs now unbearable. Melissa clenched her jaw.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, her breath hot against your skin as her lips brushed against your ear. Her words carried more weight than you realized—she wasn’t just talking about you. She was thinking about the power you had over her, how you could make her lose herself entirely with just a look or a touch.

You smiled at her and Melissa could see it—the way your body shifted toward hers, the silent invitation written all over you. She wanted to take you right here, in this quiet sanctuary, where nothing else mattered but the two of you. But she held back, forcing herself to savor the moment, to let the tension build.

Her grip on your waist tightened slightly as she leaned in again, her lips brushing against yours, teasing, though every nerve in her body screamed for more. And though she didn’t say it out loud, the thought was there, burning in her mind: Soon. Very soon.

(Next Chapter.)

[distant--shadow]

The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake

Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.

Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-

all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe

so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:

Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.

The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.

Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-

(it.)

Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.

and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there

but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy

statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns

rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.

Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.

Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.

Deadly nightshade.

She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through. 

It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)

and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.

shit.

She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)

The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.

The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.

The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.

“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.

She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.

The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.

The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.

and sharp

especially in comparison to how soft-

“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”

shit, fuck-

“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”

God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-

The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.

“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”

“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”

“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”

Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.

“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”

“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”

The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.

“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”

Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.

She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties

At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen

She smells like sage and gunpowder

On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-

“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”

Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.

“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”

Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.

Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside

But it doesn’t happen.

The Lady smiles (again)

“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”

Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-

“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.

“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”

Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.

~

The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.

It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.

As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.

She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin

Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.

A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-

Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.

That would only lead to questions.

‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time

They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.

She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs

Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark

After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

~

The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.

Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.

She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.

It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.

Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.

~

Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.

“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”

“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”

“Well, yes, certainly…”

Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras’, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”

“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.

“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”

The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.

The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.

“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”

Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.

“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”

Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.

“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”

“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”

“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”

“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.

“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”

“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are y’not?”

The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.

“Have you ever eaten horse?”

“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”

“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”

“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”

“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.

“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”

She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.

“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”

“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”

“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”

~

The lake is beautiful.

Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.

The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.

It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.

The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.

It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.

Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”

“And will you be as such on your return?”

“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”

“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”

Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.

“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”

For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.

“They take better care of me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”

“It would be the very least I could do.”

“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”

“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”

“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”

Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.

“Funny thing, perspective…”

Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.

On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.

The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.

Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless. 

“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”

Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.

“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”

She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.

She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.

Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.

Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.

Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.

[hrrtshape]

insane, dream-like things that were normal in my better cr . . . in other words, what it was like being part of the 1%

i never carried cash : i didn’t need to. if i ever found myself in a situation where cash was required, idk, a farmer’s market or bribing someone, i’d just apple pay!?

i never waited for anything : reservations were booked months in advance. lines were always skipped. at clubs we just walked right in. theme parks? VIP passes only. i have never stood in a queue longer than 90 seconds in my life...or...in my better cr.

my closet was bigger than a new york apartment : and everything was colour-coded. yep. yep !!!

i never read price tags : not because i was being reckless, because i simply did not need to know. it was always fine.

if i wanted something, i got it : saw a dress in a magazine? had it by the next morning. craved a specific croissant from a bakery in paris? it was flown in. life had no delays.

luxury was so normal i had to actively remind myself it wasn’t : by the 13th day, i would have moments, small ones, where i’d be like, " wait, not everyone has their own perfume custom-blended by a french artisan? " and then i’d move on.

the ‘poor kid’ still had a trust fund. . . they just had less in it.

errands? what errands? dry cleaning, post office, buying toothpaste. these were not my problems.

skincare was medical : not just a ‘good moisturiser’ situation, i mean dermatologist-designed, prescription-only, lab-created serums. my facials involved lasers. my face was someone’s full-time job.

my mom had a florist on retainer : fresh-cut flowers appeared in my room like magic. i never asked for them. they just were.

celebrity run-ins were painfully normal : “oh yeah, we had dinner next to tilda swinton last night.” “who?” WHO?

we never parked our own cars : valet, always. i had a friend who didn’t even know how to use a parking metre.

there was no such thing as ‘saving up’. in those two weeks i never thought, “hmm, should i buy this now or wait till christmas when i get 50 euros from my grandma?” PFTTTTT.

everyone had a ‘family office’ : financial advisers, lawyers, accountants. my money was managed. someone in my school had three.

coffee orders were wildly specific : not ‘latte with oat milk’ specific. i mean custom-roasted beans, flown in from a single farm in costa rica, brewed at a precise temperature, delivered in a monogrammed cup.

doctors made house calls : i have not seen the inside of a waiting room. ever. feeling sick? someone arrived.

vacation homes weren’t a flex, they were a given : there’s the paris apartment (1st arrondissement, obviously), the villa in lake como, the chalet in gstaad. the only real estate question was, “are we summering in capri or st. barths?

your signature scent is impossible to buy : it’s either a discontinued hermès perfume from the ’70s that you miraculously still source, or a custom blend from a perfumer who only takes five clients a year.

flying commercial is a horror story, not an option : tsa? baggage claim? delays? these are foreign concepts. you had a netjets membership at the very least, but most likely, you have a family jet with an interior designed by someone who also did a yacht.

your tastebuds have standards : your daily coffee comes from a faema e61, your eggs are from a private farm, and your idea of a snack is burrata flown in from puglia that morning. did i mention my private school had michelin chefs?? yea.

you own art. like, real art : not prints. not posters. actual, museum-worthy pieces that are either inherited or sourced through galleries that don’t even have websites.

most people don’t know what anything costs : a gallon of milk? no idea. a metro ticket? couldn’t tell you. you swipe, tap, sign, and never check.

you don’t shop in stores like normal people : you go to private showrooms, have pieces sent to your home, or shop off-runway. waiting in line… horrendous.

i’ve had a ‘house account’ somewhere : a boutique, a jeweller, a tailor. places where you don’t pay on the spot, just ‘put it on the account’ and settle later.

i was taught how to eat properly : which fork for what course, how to use a butter knife, the correct way to hold a wine glass. it’s not something i learned. it’s something i absorbed from watching adults at endless dinners, benefits, and polo events.

i don’t remember learning how to ski or ride horses : because i was doing it before i was fully conscious. i have childhood photos in full equestrian gear, little skis strapped to my feet in gstaad or zermatt. it’s just something i always did.

an art education by osmosis : grew up hearing adults talk about rothko, basquiat, and duchamp in casual conversation. dragged to the louvre and the tate before i could even read. instinctively know the difference between an original and a print.

i have a family lawyer on retainer : and not because i ever committed a crime. they exist to handle things. NDAs, reputation management, keeping your name out of the papers. they know where the bodies are buried, metaphorically (or not).

most families’ wealth is so old and so layered in offshore accounts that even they don’t fully understand it : trust funds? sure, but also shell companies in the caymans, art holdings in geneva, real estate portfolios under LLCs. money isn’t in banks. it’s spread across continents.

most parents’ have had affairs with each other for decades, and it’s not even a scandal anymore : it’s just part of the ecosystem. marriages aren’t about love, they’re alliances. the wives turn a blind eye, the husbands keep it discreet, and the real betrayal is talking about it.

i’ve been name-dropped in a deposition : it was a divorce case. i was never involved, but my name was adjacent to power, so it got dragged in. the case was settled out of court, of course.

most families has multiple passports : not for fun, not for aesthetics. because sometimes you need an exit strategy. a villa in capri, a château in france, a penthouse in dubai. doors are always open, should you ever need to disappear.

i’ve seen actual generational feuds play out in real time : my parents have enemies. their parents had enemies. the grudges go back decades, and nobody even remembers what started it.

i grew up around people who have gotten away with actual crimes : white-collar, mostly. insider trading, fraud, tax evasion. but sometimes things darker. people go to rehab, people “retire early,” people take extended trips to monaco until things cool down.

i’ve seen billionaires (and their kids) break down over the pettiest things : a bad seat at a gala, a misplaced monogram on their jet, a slight from someone whose family has less money than theirs. the richer they are, the more fragile they get.

my family has a pr strategy : this is largely because my mom is a ceo of a billion dollar company. and everything is managed. what photos are released, what stories are planted, which journalists are “friendly.” nothing is random.

i know that philanthropy is often just money laundering with better optics : charities set up for tax reasons, “foundations” that quietly funnel wealth back into the family, billionaire donations that conveniently coincide with favourable legislation.

i’ve seen people lose their fortunes overnight : one wrong deal, one lawsuit, one scandal that sticks, and suddenly, the private jets are getting repossessed. the real old money…they watch from a distance. they never risk everything.

i know that some billionaires don’t actually have liquid cash : they’re over-leveraged, playing financial gymnastics with their own net worth. yachts, art, mansions. but the second they need actual money? suddenly, things get complicated. this is why everyone in my school donated possessions instead of actual money.

met people who don’t own their clothes : couture is loaned, jewellery is borrowed, yachts are rented to themselves through shell companies. it’s all about optics. they don’t need to own when they can access.

heard rich kids joke about things that would make normal people physically ill : laughing about tax evasion, casually mentioning private rehabs like summer camp, making bets on stocks that could ruin lives.

met billionaires who are bored of being rich : the thrill is gone. the yachts, the jets, the parties. it’s routine. they start chasing danger. high-stakes gambling, extreme sports, secret societies. anything to feel something.

[littlestarlightseverywhere]

Sunkissed

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: The inner circle goes on holiday and Azzie is just allllll over his girl <3

Warnings: None

Notes: Thank you so much for all the love on my last story!

Image Credit: Pinterest

“It’s my pleasure,” Helion smirked, addressing the crowd with his words yet focusing his eyes on her. His brown skin reflected golden in the sun, the white cloth of his draped garment seeming to glow with it.

“Ever the generous host you are, Helion,” She played along for fun, the nature– and limits– of their flirty yet friendly relationship barely a secret.

“I wouldn’t dare displease you,” Helion purred. “You shouldn’t want for anything here. Just say the words, darling, and I’ll personally take care of it.”

Azriel was not the jealous type. He knew the effect he had on her, even all this time, and knew even better the effect she still had on him. It was like no time had passed since they’d been newly mated. His skin flushed as he recalled that initial period, how love-drunk he’d been, truly sated for the first time in his life by her burning affection, having his fill of her taste, and touch, and beautiful mind yet never getting enough of it at the same time.

He was a fool when it came to her, his brothers knew it, she knew it, and Azriel himself would not deny it either.

Yet his skin tightened over his bones and his shirt collar constricted the base of his thick neck ever so slightly as he walked behind her, watching Helion’s eyes trace her form, catching at her collarbones. The thought of him, another male, trying to provide for her, meet her every need, giving her anything… Azriel’s blood boiled. That was his place. He watched as his mate laughed dismissively, unobservant of Helion’s intense gaze.

She was beautiful, charming, and witty. No one could deny it. Rhys did not make her his foreign advisor for no reason. Azriel was quite used to people staring and trying to win her affections, but usually it never bothered him. Because at the end of the day, it was his ears that heard her thoughts and secrets, his eyes that watched her take on the world with grace and strength, and it was his bed they shared every night. He felt secure in their bond and she only had eyes for him, despite the entire world trying to court her at any given moment.

Mor and Feyre shared an amused, knowing glance at each other, studying the three as Rhys took over the conversation.

Helion led the group to his private lake just behind his palace. He was gracious in allowing the Inner Circle to have their summer holiday at his place in the Day Court, granting them access to his entire estate and anything on it for as long as they wished. “There are no such things as debts or favors when it comes to friends,” he said when he offered the location to Rhys in the first place.

The lake was downright gorgeous. Velaris was beautiful, but the Sidra could not compare to the Day Court’s waters even on its best day, a truth Azriel had kept to himself and Cassian had no problem voicing to Rhys. Its turquoise waters stretched for miles and miles, the sandy floor, algae, and tiny native fish visible through the watery looking glass. The palace sat behind them, watching protectively over its best-kept secret, and a vast expanse of green mountains rose on either side, their jagged edges softened by the lush native trees and vegetation. They curved around the lake the same way the gold of a crown hugs its jewel, enclosing it tightly in its earthy palm. Flowers trailed from the balcony down to the beach, the mud and sand padding the rock where the water met the earth. Blankets and a large wicker picnic basket lay ready on the beach.

Mor grabbed her and Feyre in her either of hands and dragged them down to the beach in a giddy, childish run. Azriel’s guiding, protective hand that had been poised at the small of her back suddenly felt cold at the fingertips as she was whisked away, her warm skin no longer close enough to soothe his skin like a balm.

He watched as she shed her clothes, throwing them haphazardly across the blankets. She laughed as Mor threw her dress over the picnic basket and picked out the gold pins in her hair, one by one, letting them land where they wanted to.

Azriel’s cheeks burned and his heart hammered with desire as he watched her shimmy out of her clothing, exposing her soft skin to the touch of the sun. The two-piece swimming slip adorned her curves so perfectly, like the garment was in love with its wearer. He’d picked it out for her. Her hair caught the breeze like something out of a novel and he swore he could smell her soap on the breeze even from all the way over where he was. Everytime he looked at her he felt like he was taking her in for the first time all over again. Part of him almost wanted to turn away with how difficult he suddenly found it to breathe, but he reminded himself with giddy disbelief, she’s mine.

“Easy,” Cassian muttered with a smirk, scenting him.

Azriel cleared his throat and Rhys sent him a boyish smile while continuing his conversation with Helion. Nesta and Amren joined the girls getting ready to get into the water while Elain and Varian settled on the blankets, books in each of their laps.

Mor was the first in the water, squealing at the sensation of it, cold at first, but warming to a luxurious temperature almost immediately. She laced her fingers with Feyre’s and they immediately followed Mor, throwing their heads back and laughing.

She savored the feel of the water against her skin, letting herself melt into its grasp and flow, letting it spread her hair behind her back and thread its liquid fingers through her strands. She submerged herself, gliding through the water until she was further out than anyone else. She’d waited for this holiday even before she knew they were going. She adored swimming, but there weren’t too many spots to do so in Velaris. In the water like this, enveloped in the lapping, balmy embrace of its ripples, she was at peace. Squealing, she beckoned the rest of the girls towards her, waving to Azriel from where he stood smiling like an idiot at her on the beach. He was shirtless now, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

Azriel thought the sun complemented her skin, but in her eyes, it downright worshiped his. A glow even brighter than Helion’s overly-dramatic gold crown beamed from every inch of his body, tan and beautiful, broad and strong. She needed him in the water now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a splash of water to her face. She gasped and laughed at the unexpected sensation, Mor and Feyre giggling like schoolgirls at their mischief.

Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel settled back into the blankets, supporting themselves with elbows that dug divots in the sand.

“Did you ever imagine this life for us?” Cassian asked his brothers as each of them watched their mates in the water.

They rarely got a holiday, and it was even more rare that they allowed themselves to take one if they had the time. Of course, it was Rhys that encouraged this outing in the first place. When Azriel and Amren refused, he required it, as their High Lord, to take the holiday with everyone else.

That wasn’t what convinced Azriel, though. It was his mate's excited chatter about the prospect of the holiday at Helion’s lake with all of their friends, getting to spend time with each other outside of Velaris, visiting another court without the prospect of war hovering over them, being able to swim for the first time in so long. She could hardly wait to feel the water on her skin, to feel the sun on her face, and to spend time with Azriel, experience a new place together. He couldn’t say no as he sat back on their bed and watched her try on her new swimming slips for him, as she packed their bags so early in advance because she could hardly wait.

No, Azriel would not take this vacation because of Rhys’ orders as High Lord of the Night Court, but because it made his soulmate so unbelievably happy. That was all the reason he needed.

Azriel shook his head. “I never would have expected it to be this good. Every day feels like I’m waking up in a dream when she’s next to me.”

His brothers could not even ridicule him for his uncharacteristic sappiness. None of them expected to have mates, let alone be so loved by them, when they were just three boys in a war camp deep in the Illyrian mountains. They did not dare to imagine anything about their future for fear of never seeing it. An rough-and-ready lordling and two bastards. What odds.

Life wasn’t always perfect– there would always be Hybern and their human sympathizers, and probably a hundred other things, to worry about. But with their loves in their lives and talks of starting families, they supposed it was as close to perfect as the Cauldron would allow.

The women spent some time in the water, swimming, splashing, lounging, and talking with their mates watching them as they talked amongst themselves. When they decided to get out to eat, Feyre challenged them all to a race.

“You’re going to regret that.”

Feyre raised her brows at Azriel’s mate, her closest friend out of them all, with mischief in her eyes. “Just because you’ve bested me in two other races doesn’t mean you’ll have this one too.”

“I think it does,” she smirked devilishly.

Feyre broke into a swim for the shore to the dismay of the other women. Amidst shouts of protest at Feyre’s unfair start, everyone else began their dash to the shore.

She sliced through the water like a knife through butter, already ahead of Mor, Nesta, and Amren, the latter of which refused to participate. Surpassing Feyre like a born nymph, she barely had to try as her body fell into the familiar motion of cutting through the soft waves of the lake until she felt the water shallow beneath her belly and she was able to stand.

The water swished at her ankles as her feet touched land once again, running up the beach. At the sight of Azriel waiting a little ways down with her towel in his hand, she all but forgot about the race. She ran toward him, blushing at his gaze. He immediately rolled the towel open and wrapped it around her as she ran into him, securing the towel with strong arms that wrapped around her body and swayed her gently with the momentum of her sprint. His strong presence was enough to halt her and she savored the feeling of his body at her back, his warmth seeping through he towel and caressing her water-frozen skin.

She was breathing deeply now, chest rising and falling under his arm. Azriel reveled in the thrum of her heart under his hold, willing it to ease.

Azriel nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck and she giggled, ticklish and giddy at his proximity.

“Did you see the race, Az? I wooon,” she sang, reaching an arm out of the towel to hold his face behind her. She leaned back against his chest, craning her neck up to meet his eyes, eyes that were absolutely drunk on watching her high. She was naturally competitive, much like he was during his snowball fights with his brothers. Watching her in her element filled him with pride to an extent she would never fully know.

“I did, I’m so proud of you, honey,” he smiled, sliding one of his arms up until it was slung across her chest, connecting his lips with hers. She tasted like the water, sweet and fresh. Azriel couldn’t help himself as he grabbed her waist. It was like drinking from a fountain with an eternal thirst he couldn’t quench. More, more, more. He didn’t care who was around.

She pulled away, flustered. “You sure don’t mind putting on a show,” she turned around fully in his arms so that she was facing him now. The towel had fallen slightly, now hung loosely around the crooks of her elbows. Her wet hair fell in waves around her face and to him, she looked like a goddess of the water. He was barely religious, the furthest thing from it really, but he’d devote himself to her for nothing in return.

After the food had been brought out, the Inner Circle enjoyed the lunchtime feast of bread, wine, fruit, and meats. After everyone had eaten their fill, namely Cassian who was half passed out on his back, they lounged on the beach. Nesta nestled into Cassian’s broad side with her book, speaking to Elain quietly. Amren and Varian had rattled off somewhere right after they were done eating– insatiable those two were. Mor was laying on her back, facing the sun, catching a tan.

“I’m so happy we did this,” Feyre said softly, addressing the group. “It feels like lately our joy has come from short-lived bursts of happiness or quiet. I can’t tell you all what it means to me that we can have this time without preparing for the worst.”

Rhys rubbed a soothing thumb over her shoulder. Everyone raised their glasses to that.

Azriel leaned back into the sand, one arm folded under his head and the other extended as his mate rested her head on the inside of his bicep. Tired from swimming and full from their meal, she curled into his side, draping a leg across his.

“I’m so happy to be here with you,” She murmured into the side of his chest, peppering kisses there on his warm, tan skin. Azriel brought his arm around her, pulling her closer and resting a hand over her hip, enjoying the heat of her sun-kissed skin beneath it.

He rested his mouth at the top of his forehead as she drifted in and out of sleep. He was like her sleeping drug. Whenever they sat back together to watch a movie, read their books, or on nights in with their friends for some wine and card games, she could hardly stay awake beside him.

His heart swelled. She felt so comfortable around him that her guards collapsed to dust in his presence. She gave herself fully to him, to his care, and he wasn’t sure if he could hold her any tighter at that moment.

Helion came out to check on his guests. “Like a litter of babes, the lot of you,” He chuckled as he took in his friends, exhausted and full, lazing about his private beach. His eyes floated over to her, to her dozing form beside her mate, beautiful and soft. Peaceful. Azriel was aware of his gaze– he always was aware of anyone perceiving his mate. He only opened his book and continued skimming his fingers on her hips above the waistband of her swimsuit. She was blissfully unaware, half awake, half dreaming, lulled into a world of dreams and darkness by the steadiness of Azriel’s breath and light touch.

After the group of friends were well rested, everyone made their way into the water again. Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel raced out to the middle of the lake, Azriel the obvious winner and it wasn’t even close. Cassian batted a wave of water over Az with his wing in tantrum and Rhys only laughed until his stomach throbbed. They played chicken, Nesta on Cassian’s shoulders and she on Azriel’s. Mor wanted to pretend-play mermaids and they dragged the males in on their fun. They begrudgingly played along, yet were silently more than happy to oblige them. Nesta placed a crown of algae on Cassian’s head and he fully committed to his part as King of the Plankton. They floated on their backs, swam in circles, and splashed waves at each other.

Climbing the jagged, rocky cliffs on either side of the lake, they jumped off of their ledges into the water below, in flips and turns, nosedives and backflips. The setting sun cooled the water, a pink and purple sky above their heads melting into an inky blue that lined the horizon.

A perfect day.

Everyone grew tired again. From the beach music began to play. Light and upbeat, but beautiful and soft– distinctly Day Court.

Azriel gently grabbed her hand, leading her behind one of the cliffs they had jumped off of. It was the largest cliff jutting out of the lake and provided complete privacy when they were on the other side of it.

“I’ve been waiting to get you alone all day,” Azriel said, removing a hand from under the surface of the water and moving a lock of her hair behind her shoulder. He took in her tanned skin and sun-blushed shoulders and cheeks.

“All you had to do was ask,” She replied, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Azriel’s self control snapped like a rubber band and he pushed his body through the water against her, pinning her to the rock behind them. His hand cradled the back of her head against the jagged cuts of the cliff. He needed more, but he paced himself, letting himself savor the feel of her skin under the water. Azriel ran his hand up and down the side of her stomach, his fingertips trailing the skin as he moved. Her skin pebbled in the wake of his touch, sending a shiver down her spine. Even in his frenzy he took his time. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he slanted his lips over hers, water sloshing between their bodies in whatever space was left.

She sighed into his mouth and it drove him crazy. Pressing her chest to his, she needed to be as close as could, within his very being if it was possible.

“If I could just crawl into your skin and live inside your heart I would,” She told him one drunken night when she’d gotten so trashed with Nesta and Mor that he needed to fly her back home rather than walk like they always did after a night out. Azriel never forgot those words, and everytime they kissed or hugged he was reminded of them with an intensity that made his chest squeeze.

“Az,” She whispered into his mouth. His hands lowered from her waist to her hips, thumbs skimming the waistband of her bottoms again.

She couldn’t get enough of him. No matter how much time passed, he drove her absolutely mad. They’d only stopped for air once they absolutely could not breathe anymore, and even then, Azriel didn’t pull too far away, needing to feel her breath on him.

“What has gotten into you today?” She laughed lightly, though definitely not complaining. It was not like him to be so risky, to be so passionate when they weren’t completely alone.

“I just love you,” was all he said.

Night fell over the Day Court slowly but surely. The day had gone on forever. By the time it was dark enough, some of Helion’s housekeepers started a bonfire and replenished the beach with more food and wine.

She laid down on the blankets again with Azriel beside her, propped up on his elbow and leaning on his side so he was looking directly down at her. Their legs were intertwined and they laughed and spoke softly, a bit away from the rest of the group.

Azriel’s free hand rested on the plane of her soft belly, listening more than he spoke. Of course he was a man of few words, but around her, he enjoyed letting her speak. It was one of his favorite things, learning more and more about the way her brilliant mind worked with the things she said.

With her thoughts, ideas, and opinions, he thought she was incredibly intelligent– the smartest person he knew. He learned so much from her eloquent tongue, adoration filling him from head to toe when she went on her tangents.

The first time she even went on one of her rants in front of him, even before the bond had snapped into place, she was flustered and apologized to Azriel. At the time, she didn’t know Azriel liked her back and dread filled her veins at the idea that she possibly scared him away for good. But he simply shook his head and encouraged her, asking questions and helping her carry the conversation when he felt it start to falter with her hesitation.

They rejoined their friends at some point– he couldn’t remember when, or how long they’d been lost in each other. When she said she wanted to go sit with everyone else for a bit, he agreed. He’d always follow her wherever she led, no questions asked. Back up the beach, up to their room, to the ends of the earth, even.

[sophistication-as]

SEX ON FIRE 🔥 WILLIAM JAMES MORIARTY X F!READER

CAR SEX WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND

❤️‍🔥🌡️all rights reserved to the artist @ogata69 on twitter (x)

❤️‍🔥🌡️inspired by the king of leon's song, sex on fire

❤️‍🔥🌡️wc: 4.5 k

❤️‍🔥🌡️contains sexual tension, pussy eating, sex (p in v), edging, unprotected sex, pull out method, mutual pining and cursing

❤️‍🔥🌡️thank you all for the support, especially @elicypher and @ayaswrld

edit: i am still traveling, so if you want a continuation, please tell me (i've not completely finished it correctly). sorry if it's not my best work 😭

The rush of velocity coursed through your veins, matching the pulse of the city lights streaking past. Driving at night always felt different—there was an undeniable thrill to it, a spark that broke through the monotony, offering an exhilarating contrast to the otherwise predictable routine of your life.

The car glided through winding roads, past blurred signs and landmarks, each one a marker of a potential destination for some distant future. Tonight, though, the journey wasn’t about where you were headed, but about surrendering to the soft pull of the past. A fleeting sense of nostalgia washed over you, dragging your thoughts back to childhood. You remembered sitting in the passenger seat, watching adult hands move gracefully over the gearshift. Back then, freedom had felt like a distant promise, carried on the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of practiced fingers.

Now, you were the one at the wheel, your gaze locked on the road ahead. The city had dissolved behind you, leaving only the open countryside, the outline of a secluded manor just visible on the horizon. But even with the adventure unfolding before you, something felt off. Like a gap that you couldn’t quite fill.

The soundtrack.

Your eyes flicked sideways, catching a glimpse of William’s profile, half-illuminated by the passing neon glow. His expression was focused, lips tugging into that mischievous smile of his. There was a silent contest between you, one neither of you had fully acknowledged yet. Would it be his soulful classics, or your less-than-subtle dad playlist that would define this moment?

"Let me guess," he broke the silence, voice teasing but soft. "You want something dramatic."

A laugh escaped you, breaking the tension, but your hand was already reaching for the console. "Only if it fits the mood."

"Keep driving," he replied, his fingers dancing over the screen. "I’ll find something you’ll like."

The hum of the car filled the air, the steady rhythm matching your pulse as you focused back on the road. The traffic was light, but the hours ahead would stretch into the quiet of the night before you reached your destination. William had suggested this trip—a blend of relaxation and intellectual curiosity. The Lake District’s ties to Romantic poets intrigued you both, and you were both curious about rare manuscripts housed in a private collection near the estate.

You were reluctant to take a break. You and William were always so caught up in your work, but maybe this would give you both the pause you needed. Yet, as the city lights faded behind you, and the peaceful countryside opened up before you, there was something about the sudden shift that made you question if you were being impulsive—or if William had more influence over you than you cared to admit.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed his calm concentration as he scrolled through the playlist. His golden hair, darker in the dim light, tousled slightly—a rare but not unexpected sight. With one hand steady on the wheel, you grabbed his water bottle from the compartment and took a quick sip.

"You could’ve told me you were thirsty," he said, his tone light, his attention still on the screen. "It’s my job as co-pilot."

The car hummed around you as he found a playlist he seemed to approve of. The music started, and he turned to you, his expression unreadable, though the teasing edge in his voice was unmistakable.

"A playlist for driving at night, huh?" he asked, tilting his head. "Why do most of these songs sound like they’re... about sex? Feeling a bit needy, darling?"

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him only briefly. "You’re intelligent, William," you replied smoothly, your tone casual. "Stop asking questions you already know the answer to."

He chuckled softly, but his gaze was still fixed on the screen. His hand rested warm and steady on the wheel, the quiet intensity of the night deepening around you.

"There’s nothing wrong with not having a boyfriend, or having a healthy imagination," he said, voice lowering a little, almost softer now. His fingers brushed lightly against your shoulder before resting there, a touch that lingered. "It surprised me, that’s all. You’re brilliant, desirable... anyone would be lucky to have you."

You glanced at him for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at your lips, but your voice carried the faintest edge. "Finding someone worth your time? It’s like searching for gold in a river. You know it’s out there, but you’re going to waste a lot of time looking."

Your gaze flicked to his face, studying his reaction. "Most men are scum, William. Honestly, I couldn’t care less to try."

He was quiet for a moment, gaze still on the screen as though measuring his words. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened. "I wouldn’t call it wasting time. You just have to find the one worth keeping."

You shot him a sideways glance. "And where, exactly, do I find this mythical man?" you teased, voice light but with an underlying curiosity.

"Maybe closer than you think," he said quietly, the weight of his words lingering longer than you expected.

A faint smile tugged at your lips as you glanced at him. "I still think he should fall straight into my lap. Like an angel."

"So, you want a demon, then?" William shot back, grinning. "I remember you were obsessed with Sebastian from Black Butler. Your room was basically a shrine—pictures, drawings, all over the walls. Good times."

A groan escaped you, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "I was a teenager, William. That doesn’t count."

"Doesn’t it?" he teased, his grin widening. "The evidence was pretty damning."

But it wasn’t his teasing that had you biting your lip, barely able to focus on the road. It was the way his hand had settled on your thigh—warm, steady, but there with an undeniable intensity. The air around you shifted, thickened, as though the car itself was holding its breath.

"Stop teasing me," you muttered, your voice playful but edged with something else. "Or I’ll make you drive instead."

His eyes flicked over to you, amusement dancing there. "But, darling, I’m terrible with GPS."

"Exactly," you said, the words slipping out with a knowing edge. A wicked thrill ran through you as you imagined him fumbling with directions. A slight shiver passed through him.

The corner of his lips twitched, betraying the conflict inside him as he looked away, watching the road ahead. His body language was tense, the heat rising inside him not entirely from the car’s temperature. The break with you had been everything he needed, but there was still a part of him that burned for more. Every teasing word, every playful exchange, only left him wanting more.

Would he try again?

He cared for you—no, he craved you. The thought of you consumed him, haunted him, until even the silence between you felt charged. He’d come up with this whole trip as an excuse to spend time with you, a reckless move, but when you agreed, it felt like everything had clicked into place.

William wanted to see the moment you let your guard down. He wanted to feel your lips pressed to his, your body against his as the heat of your connection filled the space between you. His thoughts drifted, pulling him into an imagined reality where you were finally his, where you melted into his touch. His chest tightened, the longing almost unbearable.

"William?"

Your voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, your hand waving in front of his face. His eyes snapped back to you, the moment broken, but the heat still simmering beneath the surface.

"You okay?" you asked, voice soft but insistent. "I asked if you'd like to stop for a bit."

"Yes," he replied quickly, his voice a little tighter than usual. "A break sounds good. Is there an inn around here?"

You studied him for a moment, a little too aware of the tension that had built between you both. "A break? Or are you just avoiding something?"

He looked away, his fingers absently smoothing the coat in his lap. "Something like that."

And then, his gaze met yours again, lingering just a little too long. "We all need a moment to breathe, don't we?"

You smirked. "Maybe, but I'm not sure it’s just a bathroom break you need."

You shifted closer, your words soft but charged. "You think you’re the only one holding back? The way you move, the way your hands grip the chalk when you’re writing, the way your body—lean, strong—gets so close when you explain things. The way you smell... how I can feel the heat radiating from you. It’s maddening."

The words hung between you, thick and undeniable.

"It’s maddening to realize that you don’t desire me truly, but want a distraction from your rational world. I see the glances and the whispering when we are together, it seems I am too basic to be with you – the hot young professor – don’t you think?"

Her words stung, sharper than he had anticipated. The casualness with which she dropped them, as if they were nothing more than another playful observation, made them all the more cutting.

He turned to her, his jaw tight, the words caught in his throat for a brief, strained moment. A part of him wanted to deny it—wanted to push the whole subject away. But the raw honesty in her eyes made it impossible to lie.

"Is that what you think?" His voice was lower now, the teasing edge gone. It wasn’t the frustration he was used to hearing in his own voice, but something quieter, something far more dangerous. "You think I’m just trying to escape the confines of my ‘rational world’?"

She shrugged, her lips curling into a half-smile, but there was a softness in her gaze now, a vulnerability he hadn’t seen before. She was playing a dangerous game, one she knew all too well.

"You don't have to admit it," she said softly, eyes flickering to the road ahead, though she could feel his gaze lingering on her. "You just have to look at the way you act around me. When you’re close, it's like you're holding your breath, like you're scared to let yourself... want anything. But you're drawn in anyway, aren't you?"

William shifted in his seat, the tension tightening further. He didn’t need to admit it; he could feel it—a pull he couldn’t explain, yet couldn’t ignore.

"You don’t know anything about what I want," he muttered, though his words lacked the usual confidence, tinged with something far more uncertain.

Her laugh was soft, almost like a sigh. "Isn’t it always the way? You never want what you think you need, but you can’t stop yourself from wanting it. It's easy to convince yourself it's a distraction, a game. But it’s not, William. It never has been."

The silence between them grew, thick with unspoken truths and unacknowledged desire. She didn’t look at him again, but she didn’t need to. The tension was palpable, the space between them charged with the words they hadn’t yet said but both knew were there.

"You think I’m just playing games?" he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t answer at first, instead letting the question hang in the air, drifting between them like the road stretching out in front of them. And when she did speak, her voice was low, steady, and undeniably certain.

"Maybe you’re the one playing games, William. But if you’re trying to keep me at arm’s length, you’re losing."

"Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop this fucking car, darling." He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was sharp, different from all you had seem before, with a malicious glint that reminded you of blood. Sighing, you obeyed, steering the car into a small parking lot at a gas station by the side of the road.

You put the car in neutral and pulled the handbrake, unaware of when he kissed you. His voice was a low mutter, and your eyes widened as you saw a tear fall from his eye. "Why can't you understand anything I say? Do you really think I'm just a filthy womanizer, name?"

You tried to speak, but he cut you off again. "How could I even sleep with anyone when you're the only one in my mind?" He placed his hand on your cheek. "I... I even dedicated an entire thesis to you."

"Does that make you understand?" he groaned as he pulled you into an embrace, the feel of your hands on his back almost unbearable. "I love you."

His hands roamed over your body with an urgency that matched the pounding of his heart. Every touch, every breath felt like a claim, marking you as his. You could feel the heat of his body, his breath shallow against your skin as his lips traced the curve of your neck – nibbling it incessantly.

"Do you feel it?" he whispered, his voice low and raw. "The way I need you... the way you're the only thing that matters now?" He pressed closer, his cock hard against your hand, and you could already taste the tension, thick and unrelenting. "Tell me you feel it too. Tell me you understand."

"I want you, William. I always have."

Aren’t you afraid of being seen?" you murmured, confusion evident in your voice as your back pressed against the leather of the car’s backseat—the car you had only recently bought and that wouldn’t remain so clean after this. Your gaze darted from side to side, searching for anyone who might intrude on your fragile sense of privacy.

"Who cares?" he muttered, shifting awkwardly on his knees against the carpet, his face now level with your hips. "I almost lost you because I was too scared to feel anything real—let them watch if they want."

His patience was wearing thin, but he forced himself to move carefully. He unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down your legs slowly before tossing them aside. His hands lingered, firm, his touch more certain than hesitant, as if grounding himself in the moment. His gaze burned into you, full of need and desperation, like you were the only thing in his mind.

"Open your legs for me, sweetheart." He rested his head on your thigh, his eyes almost pleading as he gazed up at you. "Let me make you forget everything that's troubling you."

You parted your legs, and the sight before him – oh, the sight – was enough to make him cum undone. The hardness in his pants throbbed painfully, barely restrained. A glistening patch of your arousal darkened your simple nude panties, the wetness trailing all the way to your clit. He swore he could almost catch the faint, intoxicating hint of your sweet scent.

Would you taste as good as he imagined?

He moved closer to your core, pausing just long enough for your consent. When you nodded, his fingers slid your panties to the side. He started with a slow lick, savoring your taste as he traced the length of your slit. Then came a single, lingering suck on your clit that drew a gasp and a moan from your lips. He was definitely pussydrunk.

How could he not be? You tasted divine, and the sight of your walls fluttering around nothing, desperate to be filled, drove him to the brink. It was maddening. His hand pressed firmly against your lower back, pulling you closer to his mouth. He wanted more, he wanted everything. Every drop of you.

William slid his index finger inside you, curling it eagerly toward the spot he had studied so meticulously in his anatomy books—the one that promised to bring unparalleled pleasure to a partner. "S-Shit, this feels so good," you stammered, biting your lip as you struggled to steady your breath.

He chuckled, unable to resist the allure of your soft, vulnerable expressions. His finger curled in a deliberate come-hither motion, coaxing pleasure from deep within as he continued to suck the very breath from your lungs. Adding a second finger, he watched you unravel before him, utterly lost in the rapture he so skillfully provided.

"Ngh…s-so close." The pulsing sensation in your gut tightened, drawing a sharp tremble from your legs as you clenched around his fingers. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping, and your thoughts dissolved into a haze of pleasure. William's tongue moved with calculated precision, circling and teasing until the world around you blurred, leaving only him and the dizzying waves he adored.

"I won't let you cum yet," his gaze held a spark, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to tease without revealing too much. "I want you on my cock."

Before you could respond, he grabbed your arms and pushed you onto all fours. His grip was firm, immobilizing you without effort. You gritted your teeth, frustration bubbling over as the sensation of being so close yet denied coursed through you. He didn't react to your hissing protest, simply adjusting his hold to keep you steady.

"I won't stop once I start," he said, leaning close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Just fuck me already," you snapped, your patience gone. "Stop teasing, you bastard."

"If you insist," he said, the words laced with heat that sent a shiver down your spine.

Snap.

The sound of his belt being undone broke the air between you, deliberate and unhurried. His movements were calculated, a stark contrast to the rush of tension that gripped you both. With a flick of his wrist, he loosened the leather, casting aside the composure he wore like a mask. The William you thought you knew—refined, restrained, untouchable—was gone, replaced by a man consumed by need.

His pants slid down to his knees, and he freed his cock,

letting it press firmly against your ass. You gasped as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck, his voice a low growl that seemed to echo in your chest.

"Do you feel that?" he murmured, his hand gripping your hip, pulling you back just enough to make his intentions clear. "This is what you’ve been driving me to."

Your body tensed as he guided you into position, his hand pressing firmly against your back to arch you just the way he wanted. The cool air hit your exposed skin, heightening every sensation as his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hips to keep you still.

The tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and unyielding, sending a jolt through your body. He leaned over, his chest brushing against your back as his lips hovered by your ear.

"I’m not holding back this time," he said, his tone commanding yet heavy with affection. His voice trembled slightly, giving away the tension coiled in his body. "Do you want me to fill you up?"

The weight of his body pinned you in place, but you managed to look back at him, meeting his gaze. The hunger in his eyes was unrelenting, blazing with need, but there was something deeper there—a silent plea, almost vulnerable, as if he were asking for more than just permission.

"Yes," you breathed, the word spilling out before you could second-guess yourself. "I want you to, please."

The corner of his mouth lifted, satisfied with your answer, before his lips claimed the back of your neck in a kiss that left you trembling. Then, without waiting for a response, he pushed forward, filling you inch by inch, the stretch forcing a gasp from your lips. He didn’t stop, didn’t pause, until he was buried deep inside you, his body flush against yours.

His hand slipped from your back to your jaw, turning your face just enough for his lips to brush the corner of your mouth. "You keep pretending you're in charge," he murmured, his tone low, almost teasing. "But look where you are now."

Your breath hitched, and you opened your mouth to snap back, but the slow pull of him moving inside you wiped the thought clean from your mind. He pulled back slightly, letting you feel the drag of every inch, before slamming his hips forward, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"Liam!"

His name spilled out before you could stop it, your voice trembling as he moved inside you with deliberate intent. A rich, low laugh escaped him, warm yet tinged with a smugness that made your cheeks flush hotter. "That’s it," he murmured, his grip on your hips tightening. He adjusted his stance, his thighs bracketing yours, keeping you steady against the rhythm he was setting. "Say it again. I want to hear exactly what I do to you."

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his weight pressed you deeper into the worn leather of the back seat. The windows had long since fogged, heat radiating from where your bodies met, filling the car with your scents. "You’re insufferable," you managed to hiss, though the words wavered as your body betrayed you, arching instinctively into his sex every movement.

His response was immediate. His teeth grazed your shoulder, just enough to make your skin tingle, before his lips followed, nibbling lightly as if testing your limits. "And yet, here you are," he murmured, his hips snapping against yours with more intensity. The wet, rhythmic sound of his movements filled the cramped space of the car, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust.

His hands moved lower, gripping your thighs firmly to hold you in place as he adjusted your position. The shift sent him deeper, the hard, insistent head of his cock brushing against that sensitive spot inside you, drawing a choked gasp from your lips.

"Taking everything I give you," he continued, his voice softening but never losing that sharp, teasing edge. His pace didn’t falter, every thrust hitting the perfect angle, as if he had mapped out every way to fuck you long before this moment.

"Tell me again," he murmured, his body pressing closer, his chest brushing against your back. His breath was hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "How you’re the one in control, name. I’d love to hear it."

For all his gentlemanly charm, William could truly be insistent at times. The control he prided himself on could crumble so easily, his reason slipping away as instinct took over. It was almost funny—almost. The way the heat of your pussy wrapped his dick, engulfing him completely, made it impossible for him to think clearly. All that careful composure vanished, his blood rushing south until he felt dizzy with pleasure.

He paused, his moans growing louder as he began grinding in slow circles. You felt your arousal trailing down your thighs, threatening to stain the leather seats beneath you

"Oh my fucking god," William muttered, pulling away, slick coating his lips and chin as he stared at the mess you’d made. "Look at that pretty pussy. So wet, all for me." A soft slap to your ass had your body jolting.

You let out a breathless laugh, your head dropping forward as your fingers clawed at the edge of the seat. "You talk too much."

"Stop pretending you don’t love it," he murmured, his voice rough but steady as his eyes locked onto yours. His pupils were blown wide, his golden hair damp and sticking to his forehead from the heat between you.

His pace slowed, his hand sliding around to your abdomen as his thrusts grew more intentional. His palm pressed against your skin, right over the spot where he could feel the motion of his cock inside you, eager to see your expressions.

You felt yourself nearing the edge of climax, and you knew he was just at the same point. The slick noises intensified with each of his final thrusts into you.

"If you stain my car, you will clean it, okay?" you chuckled, your voice breathy, as he massaged your clit in circular motions while rolling his hips. You moaned loudly, the dizzy sensation in your head reaching its apex, your vision momentarily going black.

"Don't worry," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "I’ll clean it every time, dear."

He bit his lip as he reached the edge, pulling out of you and wrapping his hand around his length. Pumping up and down along his flushed shaft, he moaned your name, circling the tip with his thumb until sticky ropes of cum painted your back white.

You looked at him and sat down, your legs trembling, your skin slick with sweat and stained with his cum. "I’m exhausted. God."

"I am no god, name," he smirked teasingly, pulling a cloth from the car door compartment to clean you. "But I can be your boyfriend."

"As if I’d let you have me this easily," you huffed, crossing your arms. "We still have two hours left, and you just lost your driver."

"Go, go, math genius. I’ll help you with the GPS," you added nonchalantly, pushing him lightly and pointing to the steering wheel.

He pecked your cheek and ruffled your hair. "I’d do it even if you hadn’t asked."

William reached for his boxers, pulling them up his legs and over his hips in one swift motion. He grabbed his jeans next, stepping into them and tugging them into place before fastening the button and belt.

He opened the car door and stepped out, the sound of his shoes faint against the ground as he moved around to the driver’s side. Once there, he opened the door, slid into the seat, and adjusted it slightly, his hands steady as they found the steering wheel.

"But I’ll really need your help to understand these maps," he pouted. "I’m a mathematician, but this type of technology is a no for me."

You sighed, sitting down next to him after putting your clothes back on. "I hope this place is actually relaxing and interesting."

"Let’s go, darling," he said with a smile. "I’m paying for it anyway."

"Rich bastard."

And the engine roared to life

[nanamineedstherapy]

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

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. 🖤

Masterlist

[tateshifts]

MATTHEO & I ⋆｡˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ love story

mattheo and i have known eachother since birth and since we’ve been bestfriends for the longest time we have a mutual understanding of eachother, it’s something we have never found in anyone else.

we have always had a special place in eachothers hearts but never acted on it due to him only knowing the ways of one night stands and the meaningless flings and me being scared of getting hurt by a man like him.

so in april of 2021, a few days after my birthday, i told him i couldn’t stop pretending anymore and that i wanted to be with him, after years of watching him with other girls i was over it. he told me that he was trying to put off his feelings for me for the longest time because he was scared of hurting me and his feelings in the process. the poor boy thought he was going to get rejected by me so he never spoke up…

we made the decision together that it would be best to keep our relationship private for the first few months, until we both felt like we could trust eachother as this was new to us. i needed to know that i could trust him completely and that he has changed from his ‘promiscuous’ days. and he needed to the time to be able to open up, communicate and trust me so that when we made it official we were happy, content, and healthy in ourselves and in eachother.

at first it was rough, we had a lot of arguements and we both made mistakes. but we learnt to communicate and talk through things so we could grow and learn from them. i’m so greatful we decided to go about our relationship the way that we did as it gave us so much needed reassurance.

this was honestly the best decision we could have ever made as since we’ve been officially together (15/10/21) our relationship has only ever gotten better. now we’ve been living together at home, at the riddle estate. and i’ve truly never been happier, he always puts me and my needs first and he treats me the way a girl deserves to be treated. i couldn’t ask for anything better.

we are the definition of bestfriend to lovers and i couldn’t see myself falling for him in any other way.

OUR PLAYLIST

Mary’s Song - taylor swift

Lovers Rock - tv girl

cowboy like me - taylor swift

Shut Up - greyson chance

So High School - taylor swift

Sparks - coldplay

Stuck with U - ariana grande

Everything Has Changed - taylor swift

Banana Clip - miguel

New Year’s Day - taylor swift

Tongue Tied - grouplove

Yellow - coldplay

Friends - chase atlantic

Saturn - sza

Hits Different - taylor swift

When Will I See You Again - shakka

Turning Page - sleeping at last

Treacherous - taylor swift

The Lakes - taylor swift

There Is a Light That Never Goes Out - the smiths

Gold Rush - taylor swift

Little Things - one direction

Dress - taylor swift

if you made it this far, thank you for reading ❦｡･:*:･ﾟ follows, likes & reblogs are appreciated x

tagging @girllblogging777 because you asked for this a long time ago and i never pulled through 😖

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Welcome to the volcanic rock house (it has a bunch of other rocks, too). Still sitting on the market, I've posted it before. Built in 1978 it's right on Lake Lyndon B. Johnson off the Colorado River, in Horseshoe Bay, TX. 6bds, 6ba, $13.5M.

Rocky front steps up to the front door. Odd placement of railings- I guess you shouldn't walk up the center.

Cement doors flanked by lava rock.

A matching curved wall. Note the stone flooring and random piece of lava rock on the left.

Steps down to a living room with a view of the lake. Natural lava rock forms decorate the stairs and rails. There's also a lava rock fireplace.

Terrace. Don't even think of diving off the terrace into the lake. Look at those rocks. (Murder-make-it-look-like-an-accident-scene?)

The kitchen has tree trunk custom-made cabinetry. I don't know if it's real or simulated. The island, however, is real lava rock. I think that the counters are real wood, but they could be laminate. There's also a large wine rack in the wall.

Double doors open to a bedroom. The whole house has amazing views of the LBJ River.

The spacious room has a vaulted ceiling and a private terrace.

The en-suite has a tile shower, tile sink counter and stone bowl-style sink.

The primary suite is huge and even has a loft, plus a vaulted ceiling.

There's even an accordion door to close out the light. Did they leave a piece of art?

There's an office area with a desk and cabinetry.

The terrace.

It has a large, rounded en-suite with tile and stone. Look at the shower- there's a bench to look out at the river. You could sit there naked, and wave to the boats going by.

Lava rock halls.

Outside is an infinity pool.

Covered stone patio with an outdoor kitchen.

Large wood deck beside the boat dock.

Gotta have a boat dock when you're right on a lake.

Beautiful natural landscaping.

Lots of rocks in the lake.

4.06 acres of property.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/122-Estate-Dr-Horseshoe-Bay-TX-78657/2062670194_zpid/?

[reality-detective]

Did you know the Vanderbilt and Cecil families owned Ashville?

The Vanderbilt family, specifically the descendants of George Washington Vanderbilt II, have a long-standing connection to Asheville, North Carolina. George Vanderbilt built the Biltmore Estate, a 250-room chateau-style mansion, in the late 1800s. The estate, located in Asheville, was his summer home and a testament to his love for the city and its natural beauty.

The Cecil Family's Involvement

The Vanderbilt family's connection to Asheville continued through the generations. In 1924, George Vanderbilt's daughter, Cornelia Stuyvesant Vanderbilt, married John Francis Amherst Cecil, and the couple had two children. Their son, William Amherst Vanderbilt Cecil Jr., is the current president and CEO of The Biltmore Company, which owns and operates the Biltmore Estate.

The Company's Evolution

In 1999, The Biltmore Company formed a new business group, which expanded the estate's operations beyond tourism and hospitality. Today, the company is a privately held corporation, still owned by the Cecil family, and employs over 2,400 people in Western North Carolina.

Asheville's Economic Impact

The Biltmore Estate and its affiliated businesses have a significant economic impact on Asheville and the surrounding region. The estate attracts millions of visitors each year, generating revenue for local businesses, hotels, and restaurants. The company's agricultural and forestry operations also contribute to the local economy.

In Summary

While the DuPont family is not directly involved in owning Asheville, NC, the Vanderbilt family, specifically the Cecil family, has a long and storied connection to the city through the Biltmore Estate. The estate's ownership and operations remain in the hands of the Cecil family, who continue to preserve and promote Asheville's natural beauty and cultural heritage.

🔗

🔗

🔗

Wait there's more 👇

DuPont State Forest, made famous as the setting for the movies The Hunger Games and The Last of the Mohicans, is home to amazing waterfalls, mountain lakes and hiking trails. DuPont State Forest is located in Western North Carolina near the South Carolina state line, and is less than an hour drive (40 miles) south of Asheville.

Curious has anyone looked at NC governor Roy cooper's political investments from the Vanderbilt family? Cecil family? Or Dupont family? He's working in the heart of their investments...

Interesting this article coming up with the lieutenant gov is criticizing his efforts with the after math of hurricane Helene...

Read 🤔

NOTHING will be left unknown, EVERYTHING will be revealed and NOTHING will be hidden and remain a secret. 🤔

[starlight-archer]

Fic Request for @ckxep "Charles and Edwin being dumb teenage boys"

They're having a little holiday weekend!

It was the first month of Autumn and things had finally slowed down at the office. They had had a busy few weeks and they had all decided that they were long due a break.

Initially, they had struggled to come to an agreement on where to go, but then the classic British September heat wave had hit and Niko had eagerly suggested that they all go to the beach.

Charles was immediately eager, it having been a long time since they had gone to one outside of a casework. He was practically already in his swim shorts and flip flops before she had even finished her sentence.

Edwin hadn't really been to the beach much while he was alive. There had been a lake on his family's estate, and there was the one Summer when he was twelve, when he had been sent to the seaside "for his health" (though he hadn't actually been allowed on the beach or in the water, and his aunt Beatrice had kept trying to feed him nettle soup).

All that to say that they had leapt at the idea.

They had debated for a while about where to go, but in the end they had settled on a two day trip to Cornwall. They had taken the train into a seaside town called Hayle from London Paddington, and Crystal had rented a chalet at a small holiday resort that had it's own private beach.

Once they arrived, they quickly realised that they would have to wait for the following day for the beach.

It was raining. A lot.

So, Charles pulled a couple of umbrellas out and they headed over to the supermarket to stock up on snacks before checking in to the chalet.

The place was pretty spacious inside, with a small kitchenette, a compact lounge with a coffee table, an open area and then two bedrooms and a small bathroom.

They set up in the small sitting area and broke out the snacks, had an afternoon of board games that Charles had brought along. Half way into it, they had started a game of Charles and Edwin throwing popcorn and gummy sweets, and Niko and Crystal trying to catch them in their mouths.

At one point, they had also made a game of seeing how many marshmallows they could fit in their mouths (Edwin had cheated by letting them phase partially through him and they embrassingly hadn't noticed until he got to ninety-seven).

The next day, they had all gotten into their beachwear and headed down to the seafront. It was a picturesque little area and due to the time of year, most of the others there were middle-aged or elderly couples (likely there in September because all of the families with children had gone back home with the end of the Summer holidays).

Crystal set up their wind shield and parasol while Niko laid out the beach towels and found rocks to weigh down the corners.

Charles put his backpack down and opened it up before pulling out two decently large shovels, both with wooden poles and brightly coloured plastic handles.

He gave Edwin a look, grinning and raising his eyebrows.

"Shovels?" Edwin looked at Charles curiously as he took the blue shovel in his hands.

"Shovels!" Charles echoed, waving his own, bright red shovel excitedly.

He brought Edwin over to a patch of sand that was a little bit damp at the top. The tide was on its way out, so they wouldn't have to worry about having to move across the beach.

"What are we doing with these?" Edwin asked, already having an idea, but still being unsure.

"Digging a hole!" Charles exclaimed.

"A hole..."

"A really big hole!" Charles made the first move to bury his shovel in the sand and toss the contents to the side. "Come on!"

Edwin hesitated for a moment, but when Charles carried on, he decided to join in. If nothing else, he was curious about the appeal.

One hour and twenty minutes later and the appeal had become more than apparent.

Edwin and Charles had managed to dig down deep enough that their heads were barely visible over the brim of the hole and it had become wide enough for at least three people to fit in there (granted, uncomfortably, but still).

"Well, I must admit that this is a strangely rewarding endeavour." Edwin said, digging his shovel into the lump of sand at his side.

"Mate! It's digging a massive hole, it's brills! It's like human nature, innit?" Charles beamed.

It felt good to do something so pointless and fun, just for the sake of it, without having any additional purpose or end goal. Just dig a hole. A really big hole. And then hope you don't accidentally make it too deep to climb out without help.

When they were done with the hole, they rejoined Crystal and Niko by the parasol and dragged them over to see the hole.

"Holy shit!" Crystal laughed. "It's like six feet deep!"

"You guys! That's crazy!" Niko hesitantly leaned over the side to peer in. "it's like the mountain of sand you dug out just makes it look even deeper."

"You basically dug a pond."

"Pretty cool, yeah?" Charles put his hands on his hips and looked incredibly proud of all their hard work.

"Pretty cool." Crystal smiled, holding back the rest of her giggles.

They all took a splash in the sea, then spent the rest of the day lounging, waiting after they had packed up for the wave that finally reached the hole and filled it up to the brim, knocking half of the dug up sand back in at the same time. They cheered.

Walking back up the path, Charles suddenly darted ahead. "Oh, yeah!" he cheered and when he turned back around, brandishing two large sticks that he had picked up from the bushes.

He threw one to Edwin, who deftly caught it. "En guarde!"

Without another word the two of them took a fighting stance and started "sword fighting" with the sticks, carrying on until they were almost back at the chalet, where Edwin finally managed to disarm Charles, sending the stick flying off to the left.

Before the sun had set, they finished packing up their overnight supplies, picked up some takeaway chips for the journey, and headed back to the train station. There would be one changeover at Plymouth and then they would be on their way back to London.

Vacation well spent.