#sale for property in gift city

[giftcityproperty23]

Invest in the Future: Top Real Estate Properties at GIFT City

Discover a range of exclusive real estate properties available at Gujarat International Finance Tec-City (GIFT City). This modern, smart city offers an array of residential, commercial, and mixed-use properties designed to meet the needs of investors, businesses, and residents alike. Whether you're looking for state-of-the-art office spaces, luxury apartments, or investment opportunities in India's first operational smart city. Our comprehensive listings provide detailed information to help you find the perfect property at GIFT City.

[res-management]

If you are looking for the best luxury projects for sale in GIFT City, Gandhinagar, RES Management is your trusted partner.

[realtor2024]

As for The Realtors, we specialize in finding properties that perfectly fit our clients' criteria. Our mission is to develop everlasting and deep relationships with our clients by understanding their needs and delivering exceptional service. In the context of GIFT City, we believe that securing the right property is crucial for businesses looking to establish a presence in this emerging financial hub. By leveraging our expertise and network, we can assist clients in finding the ideal real estate opportunities within GIFT City, facilitating their success and contributing to the overall development of the project.

[regaliagiftcity]

GUJARAT'S FINTECH DOMINANCE

This blog article highlights Gujarat's fintech dominance and the state's significant contribution to the country's financial and technology sectors. Get comprehensive information and insights into Gujarat's fintech power.

[cloveroctobers]

FEBRUARY FLUFF — MANNY X READER X HAPPY LOWMAN.

A/N: Thank you to everyone that took the time out to vote for this thing! I’ve always wanted to write for happy but felt like I wouldn’t be able to do him any justice…this is just me brushing on him being in a relationship so I hope he wasn’t too OOC! Anyways hope you guys enjoy this!

WARNINGS: language, some angst—duh!, slight graphic violence right at the beginning, infidelity, age-gap, and me dipping into some smut?—Don’t get too excited 😆

*FIRST GIF BELONGS TO: @riosnecktattoo + the other doesn’t belong to me either!

PROMPT IS FROM HERE & I’m using: 48. "home doesn't feel like home anymore. you feel like home now."

𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢

with the new year just arriving you’ve been standing on business and keeping busy. You always believed in starting off big and ending with a bang but you didn’t actually want to start off February covered in: blood splatter on your face and brain matter falling onto your tall Chanel boots.

There goes that Christmas gift…

it was late and you were just finishing up at the new construction zone, touring the completed model home and agreeing to take it on as a property to sale. You were a real estate agent, one of the very best—if you did say so yourself—in the growing area of Charming and stood on that. Sure it’s name and it’s pretty views was part of what made Charming, charming but every city has its thorns.

Which led to a knife being pressed underneath your chin by a meth head who thought it would be fun to squat here. You weren’t sure how long he’s been hiding out in the home but it didn’t take him very long to attack after business was completed. Listen, you hardly went anywhere without your guard up but your bag was left in the kitchen, phone lost somewhere on the floor after the ambush, and your heart was going haywire while you held your breath, calculating how to handle this.

Before you could tune back into the addicts demands, you ripped your body away, cut on your chin as the knife slipped downwards just before the man fell forward. Your ears only heard ringing, taking up the once quiet of the night in the hills, and you slowly turned your attention to the person who quickly got you out of this messy situation.

Lowering their gun with gloved hands, there stood Manuel, “Manny,” Moreno. Once his long lash framed eyes fully sat on you, he’s shoving it back into his waistband and calls over his shoulder at the two men beside him, who spring into action to clean up their crime scene. He’s moving towards you now but you’re using the sleeve of the mesh new shirt you liked! to wipe away the blood from your face.

“Nu—

He starts to rest his hands on your upper arms but you shove him off, “I’m fine.”

There’s concern on his handsome features as he rasps, “Are you though?”

“It’s not my first time being around a dead body and I’m sure it won’t be my last.” You snap, “just wish it wasn’t fucking with my business but here we are.”

Manny dips his head at you, briefly glancing at his men who are shoving the body into a black bag, “yeah…sorry about that.”

You scoff at this and walk off to the half bath.

Manny hesitates to follow you but says to his men, “take him to the van and make sure y’all get everything spotless in here before we roll out.”

He stalks off in search of you, finding the half bathroom that has the door left open just a crack. Manny raps his knuckle against the door and he can hear you sigh over the water before you shut it off. He takes that as you being decent and pushes the door back with the tip of his shoe. You’ve rinsed and scrubbed your face but he knows when you get home, you’ll just go over that pretty skin even more.

“What’re you even doing here?” You ask, voice steady but there’s a slight shake in your shoulders before you stretch them back and straighten up your posture.

Manny lifts his own as if it’s obvious, “same as you, business.”

“No shit, smart ass! I’m talking about in this area…didn’t you take your spaceship back to AZ where you belong?” You bite but Manny finds that second half amusing.

Manny leans against the doorway, watching your reflection in the mirror, “nah…things changed and put me into a new perspective…so we decided a move to Stockton permanently was the best option.”

That was about fifteen minutes away from Charming.

You felt your eye twitch at this new information as it was your turn to fire off, “How long have you been here?”

Manny seemed to instantly grasp what you were getting at but knew there was no sense in lying as he exhaled through his pierced nose before holding your stare, “Only a couple of weeks.”

Pressing a tongue into your cheek you huff, “a phone call would have been nice.”

Manny lightly sucked his teeth, “Would you have picked up?”

“Probably not but a voicemail or even a damn text would do…unless you also were not expecting to see me here?” You questioned, although part of you had a feeling what that answer would be.

Manny is quiet for a moment and you scoff again. Whipping around with your backside pressing into the sink, arms spread out along the counter you burn your eyes into the man you shared history with. Once upon a time you used to look at him with such light in your eyes but the universe can show you just how wicked people can be. You’ve been on your healing journey and perhaps it can’t all be resolved by your expiration date but it was worth trying…yet the most high knows just how troubling it was for you.

it was difficult when the man you used to be in love with was back to his old tricks like: showing up when you were trying your best to forget his existence. You truly didn’t think you could even if you prayed hard enough while considering so many factors.

“The sons are a conflict and I’m just glad i got here in time.” Was all he said as confirmation.

You’re rolling your eyes, “oh my knight and shining armor! You think I wouldn’t be able to handle myself?”

Manny shakes his head, “Never that, I know exactly what you’re capable of but you hesistated and a thank you would be cool in my book.”

“And you not being a piece of shit would be even better,” you point into his forehead, leaving Manny to lean away from your jabbing nail until you’re shoving your way by, wanting nothing more than to get home and away from him.

Your stomach was churning just being in the same space as him again and you were trying to keep your anger calm but it was increasingly difficult the longer you spoke with Manny.

Moving around the living room, you’re down on your knees searching for the fallen phone and find it just underneath the couch. Bringing it back to your attention, you’re reminded of what last texts you were sending to your agency, (now ready to tell them another story but ultimately knew you probably couldn’t) before being shoved over the couch and then yanked back into the hands of the deceased.

“Look…you can say whatever you want about me but I don’t appreciate your abuelo being around my kid.” Manny tells you and you feel your blood pulsating as you whip your head around.

“What?!” You hiss, head pushed forward in hopes to help you make sense of where this conversation was going.

Manny chews on his bottom lip, “I said—

“I heard what you said,” you got to your feet, “but what makes you think I wanna hear it?”

“You don’t have to want to but I’m gonna tell you anyway.” Manny clasps his hands in front of him, already on defense.

Throwing your head back in laughter you say, “let me tell you something, Manuel. You don’t get to step in whenever it’s convenient for you, which is barely, thinking shit is going to be sweet just because you’re in your feelings about an actual man stepping in taking your place. That same place you didn’t even want, mind you.”

Manny quirked up a brow, “that bag of bones ain’t doin’ shit but getting his gravesite ready. You think that’s cool having that old head raise my kid?”

“What kid?” You quiz, “oh you mean the most adorable three year old girl that you first tried to deny because of something we both did? That same kid you thought was a mistake? The one you tried to hide from your wife? yet she’s the one who had the balls to reach out and want Aya to have a relationship with her big sister, Marbella?”

Manny tightens his jaw as the men are trying their best not to send him any looks as they’re using solution to clean up the hardwood floors. He’s rubbing at his jaw in irritation that his private business was being aired out like this but he’s the one who knew this conversation was going to be had at some point.

Manny’s wife, Lígia was the one to encourage this move. To push Manny to be the man he says he is and shown that he is. She always believed in him when he knew he didn’t deserve it. His wife had unmatched strength with all the deceit he brought into their home and he was just thankful she didn’t take Bella or her love away from him. He knew how shitty it sounded considering that he actually had a friendship with you some time ago—way before he even took those vows. The old him wasn’t as trustworthy and he wanted to try to be now, at least he was according to his brothers but he had his share of dirt. Nobody’s ever perfect inside or outside the club. He’s been married for eight years, had a six year old named Marbella with Lígia and a three year old named Aya out of infidelity with you.

It was always a tough pill for Manny to swallow even until this day. He felt like maybe he took advantage of your heart, promising at the beginning that it would all just be for fun with two friends messing around but you fell fast and even harder when he found Lígia. That was supposed to be you but it never happened. it was something you commonly did, the whole handing your heart over on a silver platter in hopes that your partner would do just the same. Manny ignorantly thought it had to do with the age difference. Now here the both of you stood with you at your early thirties and him approaching forty but this wasn’t the first time he’s ever mentioned this to you.

Manny knew how deeply you cared about him but he still went forth with his marriage and he still wanted you there. As down bad for Manny as you once were, you didn’t want to burst into flames watching Manny seal his love with someone that wasn’t you. Sure you weren’t proud to talk about how foolish you were but it wasn’t a secret like Manny tried to make it out to be. He really wasn’t as smart as he thought, honestly. It wasn’t all about pointing fingers, you had to find your worth, knowing that if Manny really cared about you he wouldn’t have strung you along with false promises. Eventually you knew when to step away for good but of course a pregnancy dragged you right on back until manny showed just how much he didn’t care enough to be there as much as he could for Aya.

Yes it was hard being in two different states now and you for damn sure wouldn’t be uprooting back to Arizona. To make it easier for Manny. He was going to have to put in the effort but instead he’s been here for weeks and his focus is on who Aya is being nurtured by?

He nudges his head, “let’s talk in the kitchen.”

You don’t argue because your bag is in there and you’re itching to get out. Briefly glancing through your bag to make sure your contents were still in there, you lift your head and exhale.

“I know it’s been rough,” Manny rasps as he leans over the large counter, “and I’ve got a lot of things in this world to be apologetic for but I’m here now and I would appreciate it if you would allow me to be there for Aya.”

You hold his stare, “I’d never deprive you of having a relationship with her because of how you treated me. It’s the way you went about everything else and now want to switch up because your wife gave you the okay? is what doesn’t sit right with me.”

Manny sighs aware that this is partly true, yes Lígia gave him the push but he had to learn how to face his truth on his own, “I know I fucked up and I’m sorry—i—just didnt want to be a failure of a husband and father to them but in return I treated y’all like you two didn’t matter. Which is the farthest thing from true. I’ll always be sorry for that time lost…which is why I’m here now.”

‘For how long?’ You thought to yourself.

It wasn’t time to be selfish because Aya deserved to get to know Manny regardless of how young she is at this time. You would have done anything to have more time with your dad if you could and honestly you wanted Aya to determine her own stance with Manny in due time.

For however long that’ll be.

Taking a deep inhale you shrug, “okay…when do you want to see her?”

“As soon as possible,” Manny perks up, “I actually can head your way now—

You grab your jacket, hooking it over your arm before grabbing your bag, “Aya’s not home. She’s spending the night with my mom and Rudy.”

Manny nods as he’s muttering, “right…I guess you and Mr. ‘I’ve fallen and can’t get up,’ probably have big plans tonight.”

Now why did he have to go and say that? Did he see you worrying about his wife or attacking her?

“Excuse me?”

Manny blinks not in the slightest bit worried about your tone, “you know tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day right? You used to love it.”

That holiday came around much faster than you remembered and you showed no emotion at Manny recalling one of your favorite holidays.

“I didn’t forget.” Was all that you said but it was clear Manny didn’t believe that, laughing to himself.

Manny sniffs as he talks once more, “right so…I’ll have the day off tomorrow, so maybe I’ll slide through and grab Aya from your moms and step dad’s and we can have some bonding time—just us three I swear.”

See how he just assumed that you would bring Lígia up? Of course you didn’t think you would one hundred percent be comfortable with that although she did reach out to you but you can never underestimate anyone. The both of you shared words before over the phone prior to the talk about Aya (mostly about you reaching out too much to a married man, although you tried to brush it off with just being besties but Lígia put the boundaries up for Manny since he wouldn’t) but it was never on sight. Lígia made sure of that which in your mind, you labeled that as her being scary of having a convo face to face but she just wanted you out of Manny’s life as it would create more problems for them.

She took it up more with Manny you heard…but she still should have been worried about you fucking her man even after they said, ‘I do.’

“Good luck with that,” you snort already aware how your mother felt about him, “she wont let Aya out of her sight.”

Manny shrugs, “I’ll figure it out.”

You saw something different in his eyes this year. There was a swirl of dedication in them the longer you stared and you didn’t want to get your hopes up. However you would give your mother a heads up since Manny probably already knew where she resided with your step-father. Manny was good at playing at not caring ever since he got into the club and chose to get married but you knew he couldn’t be that heartless. Sure he sent birthday cards here and there once he came to terms with Aya being his and even responded when you thought about child support.

The thing was he just didn’t show up whenever he was near by doing club business. It was the bare minimum and he chose not to. Manny claimed that moving here had partly to do with doing right by Aya and that’s all you could ask for. It still left a nasty taste in your mouth that Lígia got him to step up but that was your own personal problem not Aya’s.

“Alright then,” you start to make your exit until he says…

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Nubia.” His voice is gentle and you expect the tenderness in his tone to make you feel something but surprisingly it doesn’t as he continues, “take care of that cut and don’t forget to pick up something nice for abuelo on your way home.”

You halted but kept your gaze straight, “don’t worry, he’ll give me more than you ever could.”

Which left Manny nodding at your words, rubbing the tension from his jaw as he watched you walk away from him but certainly not for good in his eyes.

Making a stop was not on your to do list tonight but you stopped at your best friend’s lab to shower, take care of the scratch on your chin that would heal in a few days, get tested thanks to being exposed to blood—sadly while being asked a bunch of questions from the worry wart of a best friend that you had but you simply gave her a synopsis before making your way back home after a few texts to your mom and your man.

The drive was a bit longer since you had to go in the opposite direction to get a decent shower but it was what you needed. Eventually you made it through the suburbs and pulled your car right into the open garage beside the familiar bike. Reaching for the sun visor and pressing on the remote, you’re closing the garage door behind you and take a few more seconds to yourself before climbing out.

Each step you took towards the door you hoped the tension erased. The first door was left unlocked while you carried up the stairs, tiredly before unlocking the top door yourself. You don’t even peek to the right where your bedroom is, dumping your items right into the living chair before being greeted by Ope knocking into your legs for attention.

“Hey,” you greet the pit as you scratch behind his ears with a small smile, “you have a good day today? I’m sure you did since you don’t have any bills to pay.”

He barks at you, wagging his tail before running to head up the stairs. Letting out a yawn you raise your arms above your head, cracking the space in between your shoulder blades and blow out a breath as you drag your eyes from the window and to your left.

There Happy stands in what most would find a creepy demeanor. He’s watching you, almost analyzing but you greet him first before he can suspect anything, “hey.”

“Hey,” he blinks almost as if he has to remind himself, “what’s with the change of clothes?”

You frown, peering down although you’re aware what you left the house in but was unsure how Happy knew what you were wearing since his day started earlier than yours today.

“You left the damn shoe box out in the middle of the floor,” he responses in his usual gruff voice, “almost broke my fucken neck.”

Stepping to the bald man with the dark eyes, you wrap your arms around his waist burying your head into his chest to listen to the beat beneath it. “Sorry about that hun, I was rushing this morning.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Happy rests one hand on the middle of your back, squeezing you firmly to his frame.

The both of you hold onto each other for just a little awhile. This was all that you needed, to be in the arms of the man you could trust to be upfront with you and loving despite what the streets labeled him as. It’s not that it didn’t matter but at least you felt sure about this relationship—which didn’t sit right to some but you were grown enough to know what you wanted.

“I need to show you something.” Happy says now rubbing your back in circles, almost as if sensing you had a long day.

You squeeze him with your eyes shut, “is it a sweet chili wing dinner?”

“Better,” happy comments with a smirk as you peer up at him.

Turning your eyes into slits you don’t say much as Happy removes his hand from your back to slip his arm across your shoulders. Leading the way to your bedroom, you’re hit with the satisfying scent of brown sugar and fig, a thick patchwork towel spread out along the bed, and propped up pillows right along the center of the headboard.

“What’s this?”

“Strip,” happy demands from beside you while you frown.

“For…”

Happy rolls his eyes, “stop askin’ questions woman and get naked.”

Giving him a look you turn towards him, fist pressed into your hip while Happy can’t help but to let a smile slip past his lips, faint dimples appearing right with it.

“…am I getting naked by myself or…?”

“if you’re lucky,” happy grips the side of your neck and squeezes, “but first I’m taking care of you with a full body massage.”

A smile breaks out onto your lips now, “aw, happy—

“Don’t get all fucken mushy on me,” happy jeers as you go to scratch the white scruff on his face, “now strip and get your ass over there.”

“You could say please,” you tease kicking off your trainers first followed by Happy doing the honors of yanking up your crewneck.

Laughing to yourself at Happy’s impatience, you guess he’s been waiting a good amount of time for you get home so he could do this. He nods to the bed where you plop down and he lets own a low whistle along with a motion of his finger, “on your belly baby, you know the drill.”

“Oh?” You wink, while Happy grins at you.

Twisting your body, you crawl closer to the pillows, prepared to rest on your stomach but not without catching sight of some oil and flower petals resting in a wooden bowl. Call yourself impressed as you reach into the nightstand to grab your bonnet to slip over your hair.

“I need to be prepared too, hap.” You announce while the said man snickers to himself.

Resting your cheek against the soft pillows you close your eyes, feeling the bed dip and your man hovering over you. His lips are by your ear as he says, “I’ll always take care of you.”

And you believe him.

Happy’s touch is always rough but careful when it comes to you. You keep your eyes closed, body sinking into the comfort of the blanket and the roominess of your shared bed. His fingertips slip between your bra and skin, lifting the garment upwards before messing with the clasp. Being free from that trap makes you feel better already but there’s goosebumps as Happy trails a fingertip down your spine, against the dark art in Arabic that decorates your skin just right.

His hands are on the waistband of your leggings now and he doesn’t say much, he never does, making sure his movements are precise and swift; slipping a hand underneath you, lifting your hips with one arm while he uses the other to remove your leggings for you. The house is always toasty, just warm enough for the both of you during this comfortable but breezy winter but the goosebumps always arise once your skin is bare and underneath the gaze of the man you had no problem calling yours.

You’re left in your underwear and bonnet just the way Happy likes it—occasionally in your Mumu’s (don’t knock it until you try it ladies!) too but for tonight’s purposes? This would be his first choice to keep locked in his memory. He’s reaching over you again, rough fingertips grasping the bowl to tip it right over your skin. You don’t predict it to be warm and it almost makes you flinch but it’s soon smoothened out once happy’s touch is applied.

He starts at your shoulders first, where there seems to be the most tension. Just the right amount of pressure had you squirming but he knows you can take it, knowing just when to ease off, trailing his touch down your arms and interlocking his fingers with yours that are buried beneath the pillows. Then he’s back at it, tackling the knots and backing away towards your spine and going right back to make sure he’s doing his job.

Happy’s always loved your legs, especially when they’re slamming back against his, but this time he has to make sure they’re ready for what’s to come. You’re always on your feet showcasing homes or hunched over a desk so he knows your shoulders and legs would be the most problematic but it’s not like he’s worried.

“Hold on for me, lady.” He warns you just as he jams his thumbs over your upper thighs, making you groan and lift your foot up in protest.

He smacks it back down against the bed, noting that he would get to that later. However he knows your body pretty well so he attempts to keep your mind off the soreness that releases, “…want to tell me about your day?”

Happy’s not the biggest talker but based on research and with his own experience with his mother, he knows directing the conversation elsewhere helps people get through it. Which is a huge contrast when it comes to his job of getting some answers if you get what I’m saying…

“Only if you tell me about yours,” you huff twisting your body to the right in pain but Happy has no problem sitting right on your ass.

Happy snorts, “know i can’t tell you all those details, lady.”

You laugh a bit, “not sure id want to hear the graphics anyways,” relaxing a bit as he switches to his right and your left, which seems to be less painful, “Manny’s back and wants to attempt a relationship with Aya but I don’t want to be the bitch that keeps her away when he’s the one who pushed us away at the start. Yet he has all these standards and preachings with the damn club but couldn’t acknowledge his kid because he screwed around on his wife with me multiple times. I’m scared and don’t want Aya to grow up getting her heart stomped on by a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Happy is listening but he doesn’t respond right away. He couldn’t care less about manny the shitty Mayan to be honest and Happy honestly never saw himself being a father—if that’s what you and Aya considered him as! he was more of a pet dad, and even fell in love with your pet snake, Bingo first before having the chance to meet the curious light hearted toddler with the wide doll-like eyes and pretty long eyelashes who had wind chimes for a laughter box. Granted Happy’s only been around for almost a year but as much as he cared about you, caring about Aya was just a bonus.

This manny punk missed out and you were better than happy. If happy had a woman that didn’t step up for their kid, she’d probably be six feet under—in pieces. However he was the killer out of the couple whereas you said your peace and expected that to be done while still hurting over situations. If situations kept being pressed? That’s when things had the potential to go left on your terms.

“We’ll make sure it won’t,” happy says running his hands down to your ankles now and you’re almost sinking into the bed at his words.

“You genuinely mean that, hap?” Your voice wavering and that makes happy do a sharp turn to glance at you.

He’s moving now, gripping your shoulder and flipping you over to meet your gaze which slowly opens, body aware that you need to have eye contact as he speaks with you. Happy’s hovering over you, palms down by the side of your head as his dark eyes pierce into yours, “have I ever shown you any different? I’m nowhere near that motherfucker and I don’t plan on leaving you…either of you…at least not on purpose.”

There’s that honesty you couldn’t hate.

Your mother and step-father didn’t know exactly what Happy was into but they knew it was anything but good. Of course they opposed the entire thing and also didn’t want him around Aya, which you took precaution of since you were unaware if this would last but it has so far. There was only one way this relationship would end and that’s something the both of you vowed. Something the both of you swore to take seriously. There was also an age-gap just like you and manny but the difference was: love was actually in the room.

“What if you just up and decide you wanna go back to Tacoma, cutting all ties with us? People change their minds all the time you know?” You hated being vulnerable like this but having your heart on your sleeve shouldn’t be a crime.

Happy shrugged, “then I’ll take you guys with me. home doesn't feel like home anymore. you feel like home now."

Your eyes flick back up and a watery smile is present as Happy brushes his lips against yours. Before he reaches up to yank the bonnet over your eyes, “even this raggedy bonnet feels like home.”

He’s grinning while you laugh a bit then lift it up and peek up at him, “not too much now—but I love you anyways.”

Happy dips his head in agreement.

Which makes you reach up to caress his head as if it were your own personal crystal ball and Happy knows just what you’re thinking, wiggling his head from your grasp. “Since you want to be grabby…why don’t you let me massage something else?”

He pats just below with a delivish smirk, “ain’t love day tomorrow?”

“Is it now?” You curl your hand behind your head, “Was this your whole plan?”

Happy shrugs, “I’d get you under me one way or another regardless.”

“Look at you being so damn sure of yourself!”

“Yeah I am. No toddler in the house, a nice massage, me tending to our pussy, and a second meal afterwards? Sounds good to me.” Happy ticks off with his fingers.

You snort, “well when you put it that way? Oh how romantic!”

“I did good though?” Happy questions, a flick of doubt appearing over his face before it’s gone.

You reassure running your thumb over his cheek, “Yeah you did, you’re great with your hands.”

“And I still want to use ‘em.”

“Only if you get my Valentine’s Day gift for you?”

Happy frowns, “That bouncy heart headband?”

“How did you?” You started but shake your head knowing not to question it, “that wasn’t for you that was for Aya.”

“Then where is mine?”

“See, that’s what happens when you go snooping.” You laugh.

Happy slaps your thigh, “well?”

“It’s nothing big but it’s under Aya’s bed because I knew you wouldn’t look there.”

Happy sharply exhaled through his nose and backs away with you. “Don’t move,” he warns stomping out of the room and up the few steps to Aya’s room.

Snuggling back into the bed, you await for Happy’s return with the glitter red box. It’s already open as he tosses tissue paper onto the floor, and holds up one rubber item.

“Pound town ticket,” happy is smirking at you and tosses it right on your body watching as it lands on your torso, “don’t mind if I do and I get two? We’ll use the second one tomorrow.”

You laugh as you pick up the item and give it a kiss before placing it on the night stand. Sitting up on your elbows and you smile as Happy keeps digging through the box to find the personalized boxers.

“Oh shit, look at these!” Happy holds them up, showing the black underwear with hearts printed all over front and back with the middle having your face and a drawn body hugging around where his junk would be.

Asking the man, “You like the cheesy little gift?”

“Hell yeah, it’s stupid but I’m gonna wear these—

“Now?” You pry.

Happy sucks his teeth, “no not now! I’m trying to get out these jeans and into my home.”

Laying back, you lift your feet and spread your legs, peering at Happy, “come on in then.”

The darkening of Happy’s eyes means you don’t have to tell him twice as he chucks the box to the side, licking his lips as his eyes remain locked on you. You enjoy the view as well as Happy hooks his hands through the belt hoops of his jeans, his v-cut being prominent that you have to bite down on your bottom lip, watching him get out of them just as fast as he’s charging over to the bed.

Squealing you welcome him into your arms after he yanks on your ankles, toppling right on top of your body. You always love when he puts if not all but most of his weight on you, burying you into the sheets while he nips at your shoulder and places an open mouthed kiss against your neck. He loves the way you smell naturally or even fresh from a shower. Always like the fresh start of spring, like a harsh rain, cucumbers, and floral—like your favorite flowers that you’re allergic to, lilies.

You always smell soft despite the resting bitch face you have. And he always cares for you just right. That same feeling is evident when he spends time on your breasts, caressing the roundness of your face while sucking and biting. He even runs his tongue over the fresh scratch on your chin and that almost makes you pry your eyes open but your focus is always directed elsewhere once Happy has his hands on you. You’re at his mercy before he’s even inside you but Happy times everything right.

Knows when to tease and get you ready for him. Majority of the time its difficult to have these times together with a young child in the house, Ope trying to cock block, or both of your jobs getting in the way but when you do, it’s best to savor these moments.

With your legs in the air like the letter V to match his hips, body shuddering with Happy holding you right against him at the edge of the bed, he isn’t quick to move like normally. He wants you to feel every inch and he wants to feel just how you were made for him.

Only him.

𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢

February fluff anthology prompts continues here.

[aheathen-conceivably]

The preparations for the move were almost complete. Crates had been packed and suitcases filled until they were almost too full to shut. Josephine and Antoine had signed a deal with the New Orleans city government, selling their prized jazz club for only a fraction of what it had been worth a decade before.

The city planned to raze the whole area in what they were calling a “rejuvenation effort”. Antoine couldn’t bear to think of it, or he would lose his nerve for good. And he was excited, childishly, hopefully excited.

There was promise in the West, not only for himself but for his entire family, but if he thought of his mother or their beloved club he would falter. So he packed boxes and covered furniture looking only at Zelda, thinking only of her and Violette and not of the past.

Despite all of their preparations, only one thing was not prepared for the cross country journey: Violette. Ever since her parents had told her of the move she had become sullen and unresponsive, refusing to speak to anyone or pack any of her belongings.

Both Zelda and Antoine had tried speaking to her in their own ways, but her answer remained the same: I’m not leaving. Antoine promised more gifts, new dresses, and anything else he could think of, but the more he spoke the more sullen she became. What she refused to say was that the last time she had left home he wasn’t there, and that her young mind was convinced if she were to do so again it would be without him.

So only days before their train was scheduled to depart, they called Josephine to the house.

When Josephine entered the room Violette stared straight into her eyes angrily, only to turn away the moment that she sat on the bed. Jo looked around the unpacked room while the rest of the house was so empty. For a moment she was tempted to adopt the child’s stubborn posture and lock the door.

For she was no less shocked now than when her brother had originally approached her with his plan to contact Gio and move together to New Mexico. She had expected an argument, or at least some resistance to her idea of selling the club; she had never expected Antoine to be the one to suggest leaving first.

In truth, her own plans hadn’t spanned far beyond selling the club. While she had entertained some vague ideas of moving to Chicago or even California, she had never considered going back to Gio, to some farm where she would have to rely on him and only him for almost every aspect of her life. As much as she wanted to see him again, she didn’t know if she could bear the feeling.

But the hope in Antoine’s voice had all but convinced her; then, her remaining reservations had melted away once she saw the sale price of their property, barely enough to get them out of New Orleans together. But here, in her childhood bedroom, her memories seemed to matter more than any promise, her roots more than any future, and her nostalgia more than any security.

Then she caught sight of the music box on Violette’s dresser, the same one that her mother had once given to her and she had passed to Violette. She reached over and wound up the small brass handle so that the ballerina began to twirl and a lilted melody played hauntingly from the box.

“Lottie, do you know where your grand-mère bought this music box?”

The child still didn’t turn, but Jo noticed that her rigid posture had softened, so she continued, “When your grand-mère was only a teenager she ran away from home, all the way to New York to be a dancer. Her whole life everyone had told her that she was talented and beautiful enough to make it big, and perhaps she was. Only people here judged her for the way she looked, you see? So she went all the way to New York City to follow her dreams. Sometimes, my little love, we must go elsewhere to be who we want to become. And your Momma and Poppa know that. They know that you’ll be much happier somewhere you are allowed to be whoever you want to be.”

Violette’s demeanor changed notably, and she spoke to her aunt in a small voice, “You promise that you’re coming with me? That Poppa is coming and we’ll all be together?”

“Lottie, of course, my love. Your Momma, Poppa, and I will all be there with you.”

Finally Violette turned, her large eyes seemingly free of the rage they had held when Josephine first entered the room, “And if I go, can I be like her? Like the ballerina in the box?”

As she stared down at Violette, Josephine saw through time, to herself lying on her bed in that same room, watching the ballerina spin in the music box. It was her first night working at the brothel and she just kept watching her spin, and spin, and spin, ignoring her mother calling her name from the doorway.

Delphine sat on the bed next to her daughter, a blend of tender impatience in her face as she tried to soothe her fears, “Josephine, child, I know that you are nervous, but I can protect you here. This is our lot in this life, the fate that expectations and prejudice have placed upon us. Only we wield the power here, do you understand? We get to make the rules and reap the benefits, even if we must play along with things we do not desire. I promise that I will look after you no matter what, okay? I love you, my darling, it will all be alright.”

Josephine looked back at her niece, replacing the rage filling her with hope for the small child sitting in front of her. She brought her hand to her cheek and smiled, “Oh Lottie, I’ll make sure you can be whatever it is that you want, no matter what anyone else may tell you. I promise you that, my darling.”

[mightyflamethrower]

California has become a test case of the suicide of the West. Never before has such a state, so rich in natural resources and endowed with such a bountiful human inheritance, self-destructed so rapidly.

How and why did California so utterly consume its unmatched natural and ancestral inheritance and end up as a warning to Western civilization of what might be in store for anyone who followed its nihilism?

The symptoms of the state’s suicide are indisputable.

Governor Gavin Newsom enjoyed a recent $98 billion budget surplus—gifted from multibillion-dollar federal COVID-19 subsidies, the highest income and gas taxes in the nation, and among the country’s steepest sales and property taxes.

Yet in a year, he turned it into a growing $45 billion budget deficit.

At a time of an over-regulated, overtaxed, and sputtering economy, Newsom spent lavishly on new entitlements, illegal immigrants, and untried and inefficient green projects.

Newsom was endowed with two of the wettest years in recent California history. Yet he and radical environmentalists squandered the water bounty—as snowmelts and runoff long designated for agricultural irrigation were drained from aqueducts and reservoirs to flow out to sea.

Newsom transferred millions of dollars designated by a voter referendum to build dams and aqueducts for water storage and instead blew up four historic dams on the Klamath River. For decades, these now-destroyed scenic lakes provided clean, green hydroelectric power, irrigation storage, flood control, and recreation.

California hosts one-third of the nation’s welfare recipients. Over a fifth of the population lives below the property line. Nearly half the nation’s homeless sleep on the streets of its major cities.

The state’s downtowns are dirty, dangerous, and increasingly abandoned by businesses—most recently Google—that cannot rely on a defunded and shackled police.

Newsom’s California has spent billions on homeless relief and subsidizing millions of new illegal migrant arrivals across the state’s porous southern border.

The result was predictably even more homeless and more illegal immigrants, all front-loaded onto the state’s already overtaxed and broken healthcare, housing, and welfare entitlements.

Newsome raised the minimum wage for fast-food workers to $22 an hour. The result was wage inflation rippling out to all service areas, unaffordable food for the poor, and massive shut-downs and bankruptcies of fast food outlets.

Twenty-seven percent of Californians were born outside of the United States. It is a minority-majority state. Yet California has long dropped unifying civic education, while the bankrupt state funds exploratory commissions to consider divisive racial reparations.

California’s universities are hotbeds of ethnic, religious, and racial chauvinism and infighting. State officials, however, did little as its campuses were plagued for months by rampant and violent anti-Semitism.

Almost nightly, the nation watches mass smash-and-grab attacks on California retail stores. Carjackers and thieves own the night. They are rarely caught, even more rarely arrested—and almost never convicted.

Currently, Newsom is fighting in the courts to stop the people’s constitutional right to place on the ballot initiatives to restore penalties for violent crime and theft.

Gas prices are the highest in the continental United States, given green mandate formulas and the nation’s highest, and still raising, gasoline taxes—and are scheduled to go well over $6 a gallon.

Yet its ossified roads and highways are among the nation’s most dangerous, as vast sums of transportation funding were siphoned off to the multibillion-dollar high-speed rail boondoggle.

The state imports almost all the costly vitals of modern life, mostly because it prohibits using California’s own vast petroleum, natural gas, timber, and mineral resources.

As California implodes, its embarrassed government turns to the irrelevant, if not ludicrous.

It now outlaws natural gas stoves in new homes. It is adding new income-based surcharges for those who dutifully pay their power bills—to help subsidize the 2.5 million Californians who simply default on their energy bill with impunity.

What happened to the once-beautiful California paradise?

Millions of productive but frustrated, overtaxed, and underserved middle-class residents have fled to low-crime, low-tax, and well-served red states in disgust

In turn, millions of illegal migrants have swarmed the state, given its sanctuary-city policies, refusal to enforce the law, and generous entitlements.

Meanwhile, a tiny coastal elite, empowered by $9 trillion in Silicon Valley market capitalization, fiddled while their state burned.

California became a medieval society of plutocratic barons, subsidized peasants, and a shrinking and fleeing middle class. It is now home to a few rich estates, subsidized apartments, and unaffordable middle-class houses.

California suffers from poorly ranked public schools—but brags about its prestigious private academies. Its highways are lethal—but it hosts the most private jets in the nation.

The fantasies of a protected enclave of Gavin Newsom, Nancy Pelosi, and the masters of the Silicon Valley universe have become the abject nightmares of everyone else.

In sum, a privileged Bay Area elite inherited a California paradise and turned it into purgatory.

[the-witch-with-the-raven-tattoo]

After about a decade of building up my crystal collection, I can no longer close my eyes to what I've been supporting. Far from the good vibes that crystals are purported to have, I need to be honest that their trade funds the same human rights abuses and environmental destruction that I've spent most of my life decrying. I need to address this cognitive dissonance within myself, and can no longer endorse buying mass-market crystals anymore. I call myself an earth-worshipper, or nature-worshipper, yet I'm contributing to the destruction of the Earth and her people. This no longer sits right with me. Yes, there are likely minerals in my phone that were mined using less-than-ethical practices, however a cell phone in this day and age is kind of a necessity. Decorative crystals and fossils, though, are more difficult to justify in this way.

I'm still going to keep the ones I have for now, because, welp, the damage has already been done, and getting rid of them now won't undo what I've been endorsing with my dollar. I still have a box of gems that I bought to make wire-wrapped jewelery with, and I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with those, so they're tucked away until I can decide.

If there's interest, I may make some pieces with them and put them up for sale as a Crystal Clearout sale, since I did spend a lot of money on those supplies. Or I might wear or gift them. We will see.

Back to my spiritual practice. What am I going to use instead?

River rocks!

Or lake rocks. Park rocks. Parking lot rocks. Farm rocks. Forest Rocks. Anything except store-bought is fine. Look at these cool rocks I've found in my city so far! These are geologically tied to the place I live, they carry the history on the land I'm on, which is not mine to live on. It is Treaty 6 territory—the traditional and ancestral territory of the Cree, Dene, Blackfoot, Saulteaux and Nakota Sioux. This territory is home to the Métis Settlements and the Métis Nation of Alberta, Regions 2, 3 and 4 within the historical Northwest Métis Homeland.

These stones carry the memory of the people who were here before me, and that of a not-so-distant history I need to address time and time again, examine my own biases, and do what I can to address inequalities right here, right now. They are a connection to this land, and those who live on it.

These stones can also hold my own memories, for instance this petrified wood reminds me of a day a friend and I went rock-hunting by the river, and on a trip to Ontario with this same friend, we found some jade (I think). Which brings me to another point. I am not a geologist. I plan to learn about minerals local to me, but I'll never have the assurance of some shopkeeper (whatever that's worth) that what I'm holding is 100% a piece of pure amethyst, and here is a list of its properties. Instead, I'll be able to find my own meaning in the stones, feathers and flowers I find while walking in the world, and use them in my practices the way I feel intuitively guided to.

In spiritual practices, what we are working with is energy and intention. The rest are simply tools, symbols for our brain to understand what we are channeling towards or away from. The most important quality you can develop as a witch, a pagan, a yogi, a spiritualist, whatever you wish to call yourself, is self-trust. Trust that you are enough. Trust that this stone made its way to you so that you would find it exactly when you did. Trust that the herbs you lovingly grew, watered, bundled and dried are sufficient for clearing any stale energies. Learn from those who came before you, but at a certain point, you have to free yourself from reliance on corporations, merchants, readers, authors, course creators, and anyone else looking to make a buck off your lack of experience and confidence.

When you have a true need, harken not to others' greed. (the Wiccan Rede)

Consumerism has its hooks in us to such a point where we feel like we have to buy our way out of all of our real or perceived inadequacies.

Feeling down? Buy this sun lamp!

Tummy hurts? It's this scary new syndrome I just made up! Peer review, what's that? Nevermind. Buy this supplement!

Want to feel really cool and attractive? Buy this new outfit!

Want to make friends? Learn a new hobby! Oh, but this hobby requires you to buy all this gear before anyone thinks you're serious about it! And make sure you buy a t-shirt that says you're into this hobby while you're at it, so you can talk about it to everyone!

McSpirituality works the same way. Feel like you don't belong? It's definitely a past life thing, buy a reading with me to find out! Looking for love? Make sure you buy a rose quartz to send a lover your way within 24 hours. Hmm, it didn't work? It must not be big enough. Make sure you buy this one instead! Trying to get into meditation? You'll need to buy a zafu, some mala beads, and a buddha head with some very questionable history Are you broke after all these purchases? You can just buy this abundance generating spell kit, and this $10K course (I have seen this price point, it's not hyperbole) on dissolving your subconscious blocks to abundance!

It's not your fault, it's the system we all live in. I was, and still am, immersed in it too. If you're in a tough place, it can be so easy to be swept up by the promise of a quick fix, because spiritual work is hard. You'll have to confront yourself in some tough ways, work through traumatic experiences and spend years building discipline and focus.

It's a lot easier to just walk into a crystal shop and pick the one you like, isn't it? But I want to remind myself that life doesn't work that way.

Do you just walk into a store and pick out the partner, the job, the house, the experiences, the circumstances that look prettiest?

Okay, maybe some of you do if you're very lucky or have certain privileges, but these choices aren't always the ones that guarantee long-term compatibility or happiness.

In real life, it's a lot more like walking down a riverbank with a friend, catching up on life, and showing each other the cool thing you found, maybe deliberating on what it might be. Your rock might look different than hers, but you found it and it feels good to you. Maybe the shape feels satisfying and built just for your hand. You feel like it was waiting for you all this time.

Or maybe it's like walking home after a difficult day, and seeing the little sparkle of something glimmering in the sunlight. Maybe this represents hope and silver linings. Maybe a bird eyes you as you examine your rock, offering you company and understanding in a way that words fail to.

That feeling certainly isn't for sale in stores, or online. If I find it at a garage sale, I'll let you know.

[ilovespec]

Even a rotten heart can love..

| Yandere FEM ! Drug lord × FEM ! reader. | part 2

WARNING !!!!!! : mention of drug sales , mention of intent to kill , fight , attempt , non - con touching , possessive behavior , YANDERE DRUG FUCKING LORD , yandere and reader are female here, their pronouns are she/her. FIGHT BETWEEN GANG MEMBERS YAYYYYY

Part 1

Description of character

In about a few weeks... Months...? of being in this place, you could finally leave Ricarda's room! But of course, under the supervision of Kristina and Gaetana. But, only Gaetana is looking after you. In most cases, Kristina tries to touch you or harm you in some way. But with less enthusiasm than in the first weeks (since her bruises and ribs, and a couple of bones still haven't healed after a "preventive conversation" with Ricarda). And speaking of Ricarda... lately, she's been spending less time in the house. But she "redeemed" that in front of you with gifts, and EVEN MORE physical contact. But much more than that...And today, she told you about an upcoming "partnership meeting" with the leader of another gang. And it was only after a long conversation that you found out some details about her gang. She is the head of the gang - "Unbridled City". Her nickname is crocodile. Gaetana's nickname is the fire ant, and Kristina's nickname is the python. There are 4 gangs in total. "Unbridled City" (Ricarda's gang), "Creepy Mountains", "The Wild Sea" and "Dangerous Forests". But recently, the "Wild Sea" has COMPLETELY destroyed the "Dangerous Forests", for unknown reasons. According to Ricarda, she will soon go to a meeting with the leader and associates of the "Wild Sea gang" ... They are also called "Megaladon", "piranha" and "dolphin".... This meeting will be interesting..

ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

You look at yourself in the mirror, embarrassed... You're wearing a beautiful, calf-length bardic dress..You started violently ! Feeling two powerful arms wrapped around your waist , and a low voice softly whispered in your ear

- Ricarda : Are you ready, meine Süsse?

You see in the mirror how her hands are fastening a ruby necklace around your neck... And on the ruby it says "The one on whom this necklace hangs is the property of the crocodile of the unbridled city.".. You blush a little at this, but Ricarda just smiles softly and straightens up. Today, instead of her usual suit, she is wearing a red tuxedo.. As red as blood. Her black, graying hair is pulled back in a small ponytail , and a pair of half-gray strands have come out of this tail. There was a knock on the door and Kristina and Gaetana entered the room. They're wearing suits too. Gaetana costume - has a dark shade of cheerful. And Kristina's costume, it's not even a costume, but just an ornate red turtleneck, a dark red jacket and black trousers.

- Kristina: do we have to wear this...?

In response to this, she got kicked in the ass by Gaetana.

- Gaetana : Kristina! You wouldn't complain, but would make a compliment (your name) . Do you see how beautiful she looks? Although she's always like this..

You smile back softly and thank her, and Gaetana only smiles back at you faintly. And then Ricard speaks up.

- Ricarda: Well... We have to go, guys!

You go outside and the sunlight blinds you... The smell of nature... The smell of freedom. For a moment, you had the idea of escaping...! But you realized that in the first millisecond when you jerk in the other direction, they will immediately stop you... That's why you humbly sat down next to Ricarda and Gaetana in a parked car. And Gaetana shielded you from Kristina so that she wouldn't do anything for which she would then be "calmly scolded" by Ricarda.

ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

After about 20 minutes, you finally arrived... It was a bar. But it was closed... By the look of it. Your four got out of the car, and Ricarda typed a strange "code" on the door. And it opened... You all entered the room, and finally saw the head and associates of the head of the gang - "The wild sea" ...

ᕙ(⇀‸↼")ᕗ

The head of this gang is a tall and seemingly adult woman, she has rather creepy facial features, slightly tanned skin, blonde hair with light strands and turquoise eyes. She has a couple of scars on her face and some piercings... And how is it clear that this is the leader? Ricarda immediately approached her, and after shaking her hand, they began to talk about something.. You couldn't make out what they were talking about , of course , but you heard fragments ... And you realized that they were discussing the export of drugs to other cities and possibly states, the elimination of bad "chemists" and just not very good workers, and how to raise the efficiency of their subordinates..

ᕙ(⇀‸↼")ᕗ

And the close people of the head of "The wild sea", these are also two girls.. The first girl, with Asian appearance and pale skin... There are several rather large scars on her face, she has long black hair and dark eyes... And she immediately went to chat with Kristina. No matter how it was expected.

- ??? - Hey... Sorry, can we chat, yeah...?

You turned around... It was the second of the people close to you already understand who the hell. She is a rather tall girl, she has tanned skin , blue eyes, dark brown hair, soft facial features and a scar extending from the left corner of her mouth and on her left eyebrow. You nod gently and start chatting with her. But after a couple of minutes, you hear a loud scream, like from that creepy Asian girl

"HEY, PRETTY GIRL, CATCH!!!"

And a glass is flying towards your head....! You try to dodge in shock, but your new friend BREAKS THIS GLASS WITH ONE PUNCH AND RUSHES AT THIS ASIAN GIRL!!! And Kristina and Gaetana jumped into the center of the fight, shouting "YYAYYYYY FIGHT", and the leader of that gang, your lover and you are watching this... As a result, the leaders of both gangs grabbed their inadequates and went out, and you humbly followed your beloved..

Biggggg thanks for reading this silly part , part number three will be realized tomorrow , today I'm already too lazy and I have to get up for school at 6:00 , good night / evening / afternoon / morning >3<

[ingek73]

Official jewellery gifts to royals worth £80m are not in national collection

Palace refusing to explain why official state gifts worn by Princess of Wales and Camilla are not in the royal collection

David PeggFri 14 Apr 2023 07.29 BST

Buckingham Palace is refusing to explain why 11 pieces of jewellery potentially worth £80m that were official gifts to the royal family are not held in a trove of national heritage.

The jewels, which have been worn by Queen Elizabeth II; Camilla, the Queen Consort, and Catherine, Princess of Wales, are not contained in the royal collection, the custodian of culturally significant items held in trust for the nation.

The pieces include a set of aquamarine jewellery, four brooches and six necklaces, including an extraordinary Cartier necklace of emerald- and brilliant-cut diamonds worth at least £40m given to the late Queen by an Indian prince.

At least four of the items were presented by heads of state. The palace’s policy states that “as a general rule” gifts to the sovereign from another monarch or head of state “automatically” become part of the royal collection, a body that manages items held by the sovereign in trust for the nation.

The Royal Collection Trust, which manages the collection, confirmed that it does not have custody of the 11 jewels.

A Buckingham Palace spokesperson declined multiple invitations to explain the current ownership of the 11 pieces. They suggested the royals do not regard the jewellery as their private property and that the items, which were given to the late queen between 1947 and 1979, “may” in the future be added to the royal collection.

“Official gifts are not the personal property of the member of the royal family who receives them, but may be held by the sovereign in right of the crown or designated in due course as part of the royal collection,” the spokesperson said. They declined to explain why the items were not already in the royal collection.

The palace’s policy on official gifts was first formulated in 1995 and updated in 2003. The guidelines state that items received on state visits or in connection with the royal family’s official role are not their private property.

All of the pieces identified by the Guardian were given to the queen before the guidelines were established. There is nothing in the policy that addresses gifts received by the royal family or the monarch before the code was set up.

The potential value of the items is hard to determine. Were anyone else to sell them, they would collectively be worth at least £8m, according to expert valuers.

However, analysis of previous auctions of jewels that were owned or worn by royals suggest the link to the Windsors would add a premium that could easily increase their total value to well over £80m.

‘An exceptional jewel’

Among the gifts identified are pieces of jewellery given to the queen at her wedding in 1947 and at her coronation a few years later by state officials.

It is one of the late queen’s most elaborate diamond necklaces and one she wore regularly. It has also been worn by Catherine, now the Princess of Wales, including at a gala at the National Portrait Gallery in 2014.

Sara Abey, a gemologist and jewellery merchant who estimated the value of several items for the Guardian, said the necklace could be worth more than £4m before considering its association with the British royal family.

“Having a renowned maker, important history and notable provenance, the queen’s Nizam of Hyderabad necklace is an exceptional jewel,” she said.

However her estimate of its value did not take into account what is described as the royal premium, which can dramatically inflate the sale value of an item and could make this necklace worth at least £40m.

Another diamond necklace was given to the queen as a wedding present by distinguished individuals from the City of London.

This, like many of the 11 items identified by the Guardian, was worn regularly by the queen. Other members of the royal family have also been seen wearing some of the gifts.

A diamond necklace presented to the queen during a state visit to the United Kingdom in 1967 by King Faisal of Saudi Arabia was lent to Diana, Princess of Wales in 1983. The necklace was originally made by the American jeweller Harry Winston in 1952 and could be worth as much as £9m.

Twelve years later, during a reciprocal visit by the queen to Saudi Arabia, Faisal’s successor, King Khalid, gave her another of Winston’s diamond necklaces, now worth more than £8m.

A necklace of turquoises from the then president of Pakistan, Muhammad Ayub Khan, given on a state visit in 1966, and four brooches are among the other official gifts identified by the Guardian. These include the Flame Lily brooch, which was presented to Elizabeth on her 21st birthday by the children of Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), who were each asked to donate three pence to pay for it.

The diamond necklaces and brooches were included in a 2012 reference volume published by the Royal Collection Trust or exhibited in Diamonds: A Jubilee Celebration display.

The exhibition was described as including “an unprecedented display of a number of the queen’s personal jewels – those inherited by Her Majesty or acquired during her reign.”

Quick Guide

How we estimated the value of the royal jewellery

Valuing the royal family’s private jewellery collection is exceptionally difficult. A professional valuation would require each stone of each item to be inspected for occlusions or other imperfections that cannot be detected by the naked eye.

Even where an estimate can be made, there is then the ‘royal premium’: the association with the royal family, which could multiply the value many times over.

In 1989, Laurence Krashes, a senior assessor for the US jeweller Harry Winston, described the task as ‘like landing a plane in fog without a radar’. He assessed the family’s collection – excluding the royal premium – at £36m for the royal journalist Andrew Morton.

The Guardian has identified several items Krashes did not consider, such as the Cullinan IX ring and a diamond necklace given to the then Princess Elizabeth as a wedding gift in 1947. Sara Abey, a fellow of the Gemmological Association and jewellery merchant, provided the Guardian with estimates for the additional pieces.

Morton multiplied Krashes’ estimates tenfold to try to achieve a more realistic value. However an auction of the late Princess Margaret's jewellery in 2006 suggests this may have been a considerable underestimate. A Guardian analysis found items sold for an average of 18 times the auction house’s top-end estimate.

Since that 2006 auction, the value of royal jewellery has increased further. Fifty of Margaret’s items went on sale again in 2020, with one diamond ring having an asking price of £1.1m, almost 10 times the 2006 sale price of £142,000. This was already higher than the original auction valuation of £70,000

Opting for caution, the Guardian has used a multiplier of 10 to reflect a conservative estimate of the royal premium.

[giftcityproperty23]

Residential and Commercial Property Rental Trends in GIFT City: A Deep Dive into GIFT City Property

GIFT City is quickly shaping up to be one of the most promising urban developments in India, with a singular focus on businesses, investors, and residents

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story Two: Ventricles

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Previous Story, Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for Eventual Smut

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: After a year of adventuring, Astarion and Orlando are back in Baldur's Gate, excited to begin their newest adventure: home ownership.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, domestic fluff, suggestive conversations, lots of banter, Astarion getting bit in the ass (and not in a sexy way, though that might happen in a future chapter)

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Astarion smooths his hand along the wall, creamy stones cool and uneven under his fingertips. His touch ripples along the seams between each one, bumping gently as he trails along the perimeter of the house. In the darkness, it glows like a lantern, warm light pooling on the grass from the diamond-paned windows. Astarion thinks back to over a year ago when the image of this house had first been presented to him, during the celebration after the defeat of the Netherbrain. At the time, it had seemed like a pipe dream. Neither he nor Orlando had much money to their names, and the thought of settling down seemed almost too good to be true. Unbeknownst to Astarion at the time, this little cottage on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate was a gift to Orlando from her mother, who had received a sizable inheritance from the sale of their ancestral property. Who knew decaying estates with inert portals to the deep sea would be worth so much?

The cottage is perched on a low cliff overlooking an isolated cove, just beyond the city limits. A narrow, winding road leads up from the harbors of Baldur’s Gate and splits into three different paths. The property sits just off the southwestern-most of the three paths, private but only a ten minute walk from the city. Orlando surprised Astarion with the house a few days after the ceremony, once they had recovered from the raucous festivities. However, neither felt ready to settle down just yet. They dumped what few belongings they had with them there and set off on the road, itching for adventure. Though Astarion wonders if it wasn’t adventure they were looking for, but a means to escape the mounting pressure of being named Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. 

On the road, Astarion and Orlando were just two travelers of little to no renown. In the furthest reaches of Faerûn, they could venture forth in quiet anonymity for a while. A smattering of people here and there might have recognized them, but overall, they were left well alone. However, the exhaustion of travel got to them and the decision to settle down, at least for a little while, was made. It was back to Baldur’s Gate, where the hullabaloo had died down and they could walk the streets well-liked, but not fawned over (or sneered at, in the case of the few remaining Absolute supporters). 

As Astarion leisurely paces through the garden of his new abode, bathed in starlight and humming softly to himself, he feels awash with relief. Relief and a bit of apprehension. This will be the first time in over two-hundred years he’ll have a home. A real home. Somewhere he can feel stable and secure, safe and comfortable. And yet, this building does not yet feel like home. Nevermind the lack of furniture or the dusty, cobweb-riddled corners. The house, in all its newness, is a foreign body. A husk, aching to be filled with memory. But it brims with potential. With promise.

As Astarion passes the window that will soon belong to their bedroom, Orlando gives him a small wave, approaching the cloudy glass with some excitement. She struggles for a moment trying to tug at the rusty old deadbolt, but finally manages. With some help from Astarion, she pushes open the casement window, sending up a cloud of dust as the panes swing open.

“Sorry,” she laughs, which swiftly turns into a cough. The house sputters out years worth of abandonment in gray puffs, dousing Astarion and an overgrown rose bush that has certainly seen better days. He and Orlando wave their hands around to dispel the choking motes, scowling until the air clears. 

“Gods, it looks as if I’ve gone crawling in the dirt,” the Elf grouses, dusting off his now grubby shirtfront with the back of his hand. 

“You look like you’ve been crawling in the dirt? What must I look like then?” Orlando exclaims, tugging down the hem of her oversized work shirt to show off the sandy brown fruits of her sweeping labor. 

“Like the Princess of Dust and Cobwebs,” he teases, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. He feels her smile against him, soft lips feathering kisses at the corner of his mouth. When they separate, Orlando wears an impish smirk.

“And are you the Window-Cleaning Prince, come to rescue me from my tower?” she coos, batting her eyelashes in an almost mocking fashion. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“Hardly,” he scoffs, grabbing a cleaning cloth from where it was draped over his shoulder and whipping the air with a sharp crack, “Now close it, so I can clean it,” 

“Yes, sir,” Orlando returns, though her tone does not house a single ounce of actual obedience in it. She merely does as she is asked because she, herself, has work to get back to. Astarion chuckles alongside her as they each return to their cleaning duties. He watches Orlando from the window while he scrubs at glass stained with dirt and rainwater. She’s beaming to herself, happy as a clam as she removes the offending layers of dust from the bedroom hearth. He thinks about her excitement as they made their long journey back to Baldur’s Gate, the elation she felt at finally getting the opportunity to “nest,” as she put it. To make a home for the two of them. 

The two of us, Astarion repeats in his head, a thought that fills him with a quiet, fluttering joy. 

Out loud, they had dreamed of all the empty rooms they would fill with furniture, furniture they would get to pick out together. Astarion, in his imagination, leaned towards a gothic, ornate look with dark wood, crushed velvet, and shades of crimson or merlot. Orlando seemed satisfied with this aesthetic, though she requested the kitchen remain light with its already colorful tile backsplashes and touches of sage green, terracotta, and cream. A bit of a hodge-podge home, perhaps, but uniquely theirs. The time had come to start their interior design, but they needed to build up their savings again. For now, however, they were content with making do with what they had and imagining what could be. 

Astarion finishes up with the windows before returning inside to help Orlando unpack some of the various trinkets and talismans they’ve collected along their travels over the last year. He unwraps a vintage bottle of Elverquisst, gifted to them by Shadowheart when they met up with her on their way to visit Halsin, and stores it in the cellar until such special occasion warrants its consumption. He watches as Orlando carefully positions a crystal figurine in the shape of an octopus on one of the windowsills, a treasure that they may or may not have pilfered from a Goblin camp just outside Daggerford. A Githyanki greatsword hangs over the mantel, Lae’zel’s way of thanking them for helping her people. A sun catcher, either meant to be darkly humorous or perhaps an awkward attempt at consolement, hangs at the kitchen window.

“Who gave this to us?” Astarion questions with the raise of an eyebrow as he pulls the object out of a little velvet bag.

“I don’t know, honestly,” Orlando admits, gazing at the object, perplexed, “It was in our pack after Withers’ get together, with a little note addressed to you.”

He sighs, holding it up in front of his eye and peering through the prismatic crystal. Something about it screams Minsc to him, in which case, the gift is no doubt a clumsy attempt to make Astarion feel better about losing his ability to walk in the sun. He can practically hear Minsc proclaiming that this “magical item” is supposed to capture sunlight, perhaps allowing Astarion to temporarily wander out in the daytime.

“And what good would a suncatcher do for a vampire spawn?” Astarion sneers, testing its weight in his hand, about ready to toss it back into the crate he found it in. 

“You could thrash it around like a flail and whack people with it,” Orlando half-jokingly suggests, mimicking a swinging motion with her hand.

“Could do,” he muses, dragging a fingertip along one of the pointed edges, “It’s rather sharp, actually. Might even do a fair bit of damage.”

Should there ever be a home invasion, if he’s desperate enough, Astarion will snatch it from its resting place in the kitchen and make good use of it.

When all but a few of the crates have been unpacked and the night sky starts to lighten with the first threat of day, Astarion and Orlando adorn each window with thick, light blocking curtains. Satisfied that not a single sliver of light can pierce in or out of the house, they settle in for slumber sometime around dawn. In the heat of the morning, there’s no need for a fire in the hearth. But the discomfort of their thin bedroll, padded only by an ornate rug Wyll sent as a housewarming gift, has the two of them searching for softness and comfort. Weary from a night spent cleaning, Orlando promptly passes out in Astarion’s arms, snoring softly against the crook of his neck. Astarion follows not long after, falling into a deep, dreamless meditation.

Sometime around early afternoon, Astarion senses Orlando’s restlessness. He feels her slip from his grasp, taking special care to rearrange the blankets back over him. Her lips brush against his temple before her warmth is temporarily lost to him. Astarion’s eyelid briefly flutters open to catch a glimpse of the bioluminescent spots on Orlando’s back retreating in the darkness. A while later, he hears the front door open and close, but is far too exhausted to pay it any mind. He dreams of sitting on the porch, enjoying the rushing sound of the waves down below and feeling the gentle prickle of sunlight on his skin. Orlando sits at his side, fingers carding softly through his snowy curls, her lips tasting of sugar and lemon. 

A ruckus awakens Astarion later that evening. He jolts awake, joints aching, left arm asleep, and back ferociously sore. Orlando is nowhere to be found, at least not in the living room. And the terrible racket is only getting louder by the minute.

“Darling?” he calls out, groggily wandering from room to room, cradling his numb left arm. There is a brief moment where Astarion has half a mind to grab the suncatcher-turned-flail from the kitchen window. He and Orlando have just started to settle into this house and he’s not about to let intruders ruin the sanctity they are trying to create. His anxiety is quelled, however, when a moment later, Orlando’s voice calls out to him.

“In here!” she shouts from somewhere at the back of the house. Astarion fumes off to the bedroom, towards the source of the commotion, relieved he won’t have to defend his property, but irritated to have been so rudely awoken. What on earth could Orlando possibly be doing this early (or late, rather, given that it was well past sunset)?

“What in the nine hells-” Astarion begins, fully awake and incensed. However, upon entering the bedroom, Astarion is greeted by the sight of two rather burly looking Dragonborn carefully lifting a plush looking mattress onto a canopy bed. Orlando sits on the floor, hair up in a messy bun, fussing over the drape of the crimson bed skirt. Her beam upon seeing her beloved is enough to brighten the whole room and temporarily make Astarion forget about the ache in his body.

“Ta-da!” she enthusiastically greets, clambering to her feet and gesturing towards the newly assembled bed in the center of the room. Befuddled, Astarion blankly stares at the newest addition to their furniture- well, one of the only additions to their furniture. 

“Thank you, my friends,” he distantly hears Orlando twitter, forking over a hefty bag of coins and showing the two Dragonborn to the door.

“No problem, O,” one of them returns in a gruff yet jovial voice, “Say hi to your mom for us.”

“Will do! You’ll have to join us all for dinner sometime,” she returns, before the door falls shut and she traipses back to join Astarion in the bedroom. She closes the door behind her, an apprehensive look on her face.

“Do you like it?” she ventures quietly, hands clasped behind her back and tail hesitantly swishing against the floor, “I tried to find one I thought you’d like. If you don’t like it, we can return it!”

Astarion silently inspects the bed, inching closer and smoothing his palm along one of the sturdy, oak posters. The thick, velvet curtains, parted and held open with some gold tassel cords, are luxurious underneath his fingertips. He presses a palm against the mattress, testing its firmness. This bed is everything he has ever dreamed of, right down to its gothic, ostentatiousness. He feels his chest constrict, overwhelmed with emotion. Orlando bought him a bed. Bought him a bed that he actually likes. Went out of her way to pick one out that she thought he might appreciate. He can’t remember the last time someone did something like that for him. 

“Like it?” he dreamily starts, sidling over to the side of the bed he’d like to claim as his and flopping down onto the mattress. He bounces briefly before sinking into its heavenly plushness.

“Oh,” he groans, letting his eyelids flutter shut as he luxuriates in the comfort he wishes he had had last night, “It’s magnificent, my darling.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Orlando joyously cries, throwing herself down right beside Astarion, who turns to drape an arm over her. They’re eye to eye, centimeters apart, gazes searching.

“Where in all of Faerûn did you get the money for this?” he exclaims after a silent moment, flabbergasted, “And why couldn’t we have done this yesterday so my arm wouldn’t have to feel like it’s falling off?”

“Well, while you were busy cutting off the circulation to your extremities, I went into town to purchase a couple of necessities using the last of the money we made outside Candlekeep-“

“Money you made,” Astarion cuts in.

“We made,” Orlando emphasizes with a wicked little grin, “Helping that sweet old lady find her missing Gremishka.”

“The wound still stings, you know,” Astarion murmurs, gingerly rubbing his backside.

“Well, think of it this way,” Orlando begins, scooting closer and cupping his face. Astarion rests his hand on the small of her back and smirks as the Tiefling goes on, “Thanks to the small sacrifice your derriere made, we now have one of the nicest, most comfortable beds I could find at Fredweard’s Furniture and Upholstery. Reed and Aria, the owners of the shop, owed me a favor and agreed to help me assemble it. I was hoping it would be done before you got up.”

“Well, it is much appreciated, darling. I-“

Astarion pauses abruptly, casting a suspicious glance at a rather proud looking Orlando. 

“Did you say they helped you assemble it?” he questions, the bed frame creaking ever so slightly as he shifts his weight, “As in, you had a part in the assembly process?”

Astarion recalls Orlando’s insistence back when they visited Gale in Waterdeep, claiming that she knew how to properly reassemble a broken chair with a confidence that would’ve made Professor Dekarios himself look like a diffident neophyte. With a flick of her wrist and an unintelligible utterance, the chair pieced itself back together, only to collapse under poor Gale as soon as he set himself down in it. After several minutes of breathless laughter, Orlando went back to a more traditional method of mending. By the time she was done, she had it sturdier than when Gale bought it, though she vowed never to try to use magic to fix anything ever again. Though skilled in spells pertaining to the mind and the otherworldly, furniture mending is not Orlando’s magical strong suit. Though, she’s picked up enough building skills from her many years partnered with Gortash to make her a threat (albeit, only when it comes to small household items). 

“Mayhaps,” she drawls noncommittally, glancing demurely away, “Magic played no part in it this time. I promise!” 

“I just want to guarantee that I’m not going to be rudely awakened in the middle of my rest when the bed comes crashing down underneath me,” Astarion posits, somewhat jokingly. But only somewhat. Orlando gives an insistent reassurance that the bed will, indeed, hold together. 

“Jokes aside, darling,” Astarion begins after a bit more teasing, smoothing back some errant strands of her dark hair. Orlando’s eyes are bright when they meet his, curious and loving. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against hers and holding her close.

“I’m glad you like it,” she murmurs, voice muffled against him. They lay in one another’s embrace for a while, enjoying the softness of the mattress and each other’s company. This is not Astarion’s first real memory of home, post-Cazador. But it is his first memory of stability. Home has always been wherever he and Orlando are, so long as they are together. But life on the road, in the year after the defeat of the Absolute, was never stable. There was always a constant search for shelter, for food, for money. This house, however, feels solid, sturdy, and comforting. Though it is a work in progress, already in the first two days of living here, Astarion can feel it welcoming them. One day, this cottage will be alive with memory. These first few days are the spark, the strike of a match lighting a hearth. The slow trickle of blood into ventricles aching to burst into life.

“You know,” Orlando slowly starts after a little while, drawing back to look Astarion in the eye. Her gaze is dusky, cheeks dusted pink in the low candlelight, “I can think of a few activities that might test the mettle of this frame.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow, an impish, lopsided smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Hmmm, perhaps we ought to test if your construction skills have improved,” he purrs, gently gripping Orlando by the back of the neck and swallowing up her laughter with a fervent kiss.

A/N: I wanted to do some dialogue and banter practice this chapter, which was lots of fun! I really enjoy writing domestic fluff and I don't do it nearly enough! Looking forward to writing some more in future chapters. Up next will finally be some smut. Breaking in the new bed and what not, of course. Thank you for reading! Lots of love &lt;3

[realtor2024]

As for The Realtors, we specialize in finding properties that perfectly fit our clients' criteria. Our mission is to develop everlasting and deep relationships with our clients by understanding their needs and delivering exceptional service. In the context of GIFT City, we believe that securing the right property is crucial for businesses looking to establish a presence in this emerging financial hub. By leveraging our expertise and network, we can assist clients in finding the ideal real estate opportunities within GIFT City, facilitating their success and contributing to the overall development of the project.

[regaliagiftcity]

THE FUTURE IS FINTECH

In this blog post, we will discuss the impact of upcoming FinTech innovations on the financial's industry. We'll look at how businesses in Gift City might benefit on changing technology to increase profits.

[laure-stephens]

— BASICS

Name: Laure Stephens (nee Rothschild) Age / D.O.B.: 47 / March 3, 1976 Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Cis woman, she/her, lesbian Hometown: New York City, New York Affiliation: Syndicate Job position: Director of Sotheby’s Auction House / Smuggler Education: Fine Arts from NYU, PhD in art history from Columbia (thesis on 18th century European antiquities) Relationship status: In an open marriage Children: None Positive traits: Creative, effervescent, gregarious, warm-hearted, disarming Negative traits: Secretive, calculating, Machiavellian, arrogant, spiteful

— BIOGRAPHY

The eldest daughter from a family who has been connected with the fine arts scene for generations. Her father, several aunts and uncles, and many more cousins hold various roles within the industry, from collectors to curators to restorers. Not joining the family business was never an option for Laure, but she never contemplated the idea to begin with, far too enamored with her cushy lifestyle to ever give it up.

Initially started out as an an artist herself, often working with oil paints or charcoal, though she never turned it into a career. These days she solely has personal pieces in her studio, and the occasional gift to friends. Instead, Laure turned her attention to the business of art, how each piece exchanged hands and moved from museums to private collections. The wealthy have always used art as a means of displaying their opulence and it’s a well that never runs dry.

She gets her start at Sotheby’s, the famed London auction house that has relocated to the city. Her connections land her a prized role as an associate, putting her in direct contact with priceless artifacts and their owners. She deploys every tactic she’s ever been taught to build connections and become an integral part of the business. There’s not a single part of the auction process, from procurement to sale, that she doesn’t understand.

Laure meets her wife Kiri while they are in grad school, she for her PhD in European antiquities history and her wife in pharmaceutical chemistry. It is a match of opposites, but Laure is a woman who goes after what she wants. They are married on her family’s property upstate, and Laure finds a lifeline outside of her family and their stringent expectations.

She is 31 when she first learns of her family’s ties to The Syndicate, when one of her cousins becomes a loose end in one of their business deals. He was in charge of moving product between New York and Europe, and a mistake cost him his life. Laure steps forward to redeem the Rothschild name within the organization, offering her position at the auction house as a new method for the gang to launder stolen items. Millions of dollars worth of product are legally moved through their warehouses each day. What’s a couple million more?

She doesn’t tell Kiri about the new development at her work and doesn’t see the need to. She is family, but she’s not family. Laure knows the consequences for telling the Syndicate’s secrets, and she has no desire to get her wife involved with the darker parts of her world. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

At 47, she acts as the main Rothschild contact with the Syndicate, a recent promotion after the death of her father. She takes care to keep her hands as clean as the fake records she keeps, and her family's reputation grants her a bit of that flexibility. There are others within her family who are also involved in the organization but if something goes wrong, it's Laure's neck on the line.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS

FELLOW SYNDIES - What it says on the tin. Laure has been a part of the Syndicate for nearly 20 years, though she tends to stay on the shinier side of things. Her role is one of enterprise, putting on a good show so no one questions the darker underbelly of the organization. She’d probably work closest with the forgers, though anyone can ask for her smuggling services.

1% - Laure is born and raised as part of the 1% and it shows. She has connections out the ass, and if people haven’t heard of her, they’ve definitely heard of her family. There will likely be history, positive or negative, whether it’s directly between muses or indirect between their families.

ARTIST PROTEGE - A young, promising artist who could use a leg up in the world. Laure looks out on the world as it exists and mostly doesn’t see anything wrong with it. The strong (read: wealthy) at the top, and everyone else falling in line underneath. However, she does find it a shame that art itself has become so disrespected in the world by the general populace, and if there were to be an especially talented artist that catches her eye, she wouldn’t be opposed to helping them find some opportunities (0/1)

FLIRTATIONSHIPS/HOOKUPS - Laure and her wife are in an open marriage, which means she’s not opposed to finding new playthings every once in a while. The one rule is that they never take their fun back to their shared home. She also makes it extremely clear that there is no possibility of anything more happening, and any attempt to approach that topic will lead to Laure ending all contact.

OLD DOG, NEW TRICKS - Up until this point, Laure has been able to get away with not actually doing anything particularly bloody for the Syndicate. She is not one for assassinations or brutal retaliations, and it's obvious that she is not trained in any way. Maybe something can happen that requires that to change.

EVERYONE ELSE - If your muse doesn't fall into any of the categories above, it doesn't mean that Laure won't interact with them. Just be prepared for her to embody that one Ryan Gosling gif from Crazy Stupid Love unless you can interest her in some way.