#and you can only experience it through touch

[ccupcakqs]

— oops it slipped ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up), creampie, petnames, overstimulation pairing: oscar piastri x female reader a/n: first smut idk how i feel 🫣

you and oscar had been dating for just over four months and it was about time that you both had started to want to experience in bed with each other. wanting to see how well your bed life would go together, even though you already knew it would do wonders.

and you were right.

oscar obeyed your wish to start slow, to not actually fuck you yet, but just getting off with one another’s bodies. but you didnt know how desperate just that would make you.

you were laid down on the bed, legs spread open while oscar was between them, his hard and leaking cock just resting on your pussy. not pushing in, just resting on it. you whined and oscar only smirked, his hips slowly rolling forward, making his cock rub against your clit, the folds of your cunt desperately trying to wrap around his length.

“fuck..” he groaned, his hands gently resting on your thighs as he continued to slowly roll his hips. not rushing, not overwhelmingly, but calmly. his dick though—was throbbing.

he needed to get inside you as soon as possible, but he knew you wanted to go slow. you havent had much sex experience before him and this being your first time with him, oscar didnt want to scare you off.

but every fucking second was pushing his buttons, testing his will power. he desperately wanted to ruin you, make you scream his name, fill you up with his seed so much where you feel like you could explode. but he waited.

“mmh, oh god,” you breathed out softly, head fallen back onto the pillows. your lips slightly parted open and every so often ,, small whimpers would leave your mouth—only driving oscar more insane.

“yeah? how’s it feeling, baby?” oscar asked, his voice already breathless. his tone wasnt anything but genuine, wondering how good he’s making you feel from just this. begging for you to praise him, need him, crave him.

you blushed softly as oscars right hand went to caress your stomach, watching it suck in from the warm touch before relaxing again. “it’s good, so good,” you moaned quietly, his eyes lighting up as if you just gave him his favorite candy.

“can i go faster?” he asked. the second you nodded your head, his pace quickened. not too fast to be overwhelming, no, he knew better. it picked up slowly but surely. the redden head of his cock brushing so gently over your clit, your legs twitching everytime.

“mm, osc..” you moaned. oscars hips jolted forward, earning a gasp from you and a groan from him. his mind was drowning in thoughts of just you and with the sound of you calling out his name in such a sinful manner, oh he was gone.

“yeah, princess?” he replied back, eyes watching your face make all sorts of expressions, showing him how good he is doing. you didnt even say a word when you moved your hand to grab his and brought it up to your chest, allowing his hand to grasp a hold of your breast.

oscar cupped your tit and gave it a gentle squeeze, his heart pounding when you let out a needy whimper, hips jutting up into his own thrusts. he wasnt sure how much longer he could take in just this, with how good you sound, look, feel.

oscar must of pulled back a bit too much to you because in just mere moments his tip would be pushing slightly through your entrance, his mouth open as he leaned forward to take your lips into a kiss, his hips fully pushing forward into yours to push his cock all the way inside your cunt. you moaned loud but muffledly against his lips, your back arching off the bed and chest pushing against his own.

you placed your hands onto his chest and pushed him back gently, not rough to make it seem as if you were uncomfortable, but back enough in pleasure and shock that you just had to see what he did. and when you gave it a look, you felt yourself start to leak more.

“fuck, fuck, oscar“ you whined, not used to the feeling of being filled up. especially not by someone as big as oscar. he could only fake a gasp and mumble out apologies.

“fuck—baby—i’m sorry, it slipped in—“ he tried to say, but you saw right through him. though, you didnt even mind anymore, you weren’t angry because how could you be angry at him when he’s now fucking into your pussy softly? making it feel like he’s tearing you apart from doing nothing but soft thrusts.

“oh my god, just, just fuck me,” you whimpered, pushing your hips back against his own, trying to get more from him. and how could oscar ever resist a request like that? he grabbed onto your hips from both sides and pulled almost all the way out before he pushed back in, doing that over and over again while he slowly picked up the speed with each thrust.

the sounds of your wet pussy being fucked in by his cock echoed through the room, followed by loud moans from him and yourself. oscar was now pounding into you—fast and rough—you were on fire, your mind was blank and all you could feel was him.

“shit, princess, taking me so well,” he praised. his cock twitching between your walls as he desperately fucked into your heat. your stomach started to twist, your breathing started to stager, chest heaving. you knew you were getting close.

“m gunna cum” you cry out, thighs trembling from either side of his waist, he didnt slow down. he only went faster, his long thrusts making your body jolt forward with each fuck into you. he needed to see your face when you came, he needed to see how fucking gorgeous you looked.

“cum for me, cmon, make a mess on my cock.” he groaned, nails now starting to dig into your skin as he got rougher, pure desire to make you cum. your back arched off the bed again and your hands flew to his arms, desperately trying to hold onto something as you came onto him. “fuck! fuck! oscar” you moan out.

he didnt stop like you thought he would, he only started to chase his own high, pushing your legs close to your chest so he could fall deeper into your heat, hitting all new places to you. your whines and moans never ending, which only made him harder.

“feels so good, baby, your pussy swallowing my cock up so well,” he moaned lowly. sweat slowly starting to form on his skin, his hair covering his eyes as he only focused on using your cunt. the overwhelming feeling of being used after you came was catching up to you. your body twitching and trying to pull away from his thrusts, but he only fucked into you harder.

“please, osc—can’t take anymore,” you cried, but he only shook his head. watching how your eyes started to form tears but your face didnt show any signs of discomfort, just overwhelming pleasure.

“you can take it, your pussy was made for me, baby.” he praised, his thrusts getting sloppier as he felt his high coming. he watched as you practically screamed out his name when you came for a second time, your body worn out but oscar needed to fill you up. he needed to claim the insides of your cunt, mark them with his own seed.

“fuck, princess, im gonna cum. gonna fill you up,” he moaned. you nodded quickly, toes curling up as he fucked into you once, twice and three more times before he pushed his cock deep inside and stilled, hips slightly twitching as he released inside your walls.

oscar let go of your legs and let them fall to the sides of him again as he leaned down to kiss your lips, chest up against your own. you moaned into the kiss and let him fuck out his high into you.

“guess that wasnt starting out so slow,” oscar laughed, only making you roll your eyes at him lovingly. “says the one who tried to use ‘it slipped’, like really?” you fought back at him, watching his face turn red in blush.

he pulled out slowly and went to grab some clean up clothes, helping you to the bathroom so you both could shower. you got in and he got in after you, allowing the warm water to hit your bodies.

“okay, but it really did just slip in..“

“oscar.”

“okay okay, my bad.”

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[meadowfics]

babymama

cho hyun-ju x f!pregnant!eader

synopsis: headcannons of hyun-ju helping you, her wife, give birth <3

warnings: no stupid squid games! baby is biologically both of yours <3

hyunju has been preparing for this moment since the day you both found out you were pregnant.

she’s read every book, attended every birthing class, and even practiced breathing techniques with you.

inside of her own head, she wished her military experience could've helped.

however, she was confident that everything was under control.

your wife's hands love gently resting on your belly as she whispers sweet reassurances to you and babygirl.

the woman's attentiveness is unmatched.

she’s memorized your birth plan, packed the hospital bag weeks in advance, and even made a playlist of soothing songs for the delivery room.

every detail matters to her because she knows this is your shared miracle.

the miracle she thought shed never have or experience.

in the early stages of labor, hyunju is a steady presence.

she’s by your side at home, rubbing your lower back as contractions start.

“you’re so strong, y/n,”

"breathe.."

"there is five minutes between every contraction. you're doing so good mama."

she murmurs everything.

hyun-jus voice is always soft but firm, grounding you.

she times each contraction with a stopwatch app on her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration.

when you wince, she’s quick to hold your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“i’ve got you. just breathe with me, okay? in… and out…”

when it’s time to head to the hospital, hyunju is a whirlwind of calm efficiency.

she grabs the hospital bag, helps you into the car, and keeps one hand on your thigh during the drive, squeezing gently whenever you tense up.

“we’re almost there, my love,”

she says, her voice a warm spot in your mind.

she’s already called the hospital to let them know you’re coming, ensuring everything is ready.

due to past experiences with the hospital setting, hyun-ju is hyper-aware of how medical spaces can sometimes overlook people, so she’s prepared to advocate fiercely for both you and your baby.

at the hospital, hyunju transforms into your fiercest protector.

she’s polite but unwavering, making sure the nurses and doctors follow your birth plan to the letter.

when a nurse suggests something outside your preferences, hyunju steps in with a gentle but firm,

“excuse me, we discussed this in our plan. y/n wants to try natural pain management first and see how things do from there.”

hyunju's attentiveness to your needs is unwavering.

she notices every grimace, every shift in your posture, and she’s quick to ask,

“do you need more pillows? anything?”

as labor intensifies, hyunju stays glued to your side.

she holds your hand, letting you squeeze as hard as you need, even when her fingers go numb.

“you’re doing so well, y/n,”

she says, her eyes shining with pride and love.

she brushes damp hair from your forehead, her touch feather-light. when you’re too tired to speak, she reads your body language, offering sips of water or adjusting the room’s lighting to keep you comfortable.

hyunju’s own journey as a trans woman adds a layer of profound emotion to the experience.

she’s always dreamed of motherhood but never thought she’d see a child born from her love, carrying her biological traits.

in fact, she never believed that someone would love her enough to go through all of this with her.

however, you loved hyunju more than anything.

the way hyunju has been so caring and protective over you during your pregnancy only makes you want more childern with the strong woman.

as she watches you labor, she’s overwhelmed with gratitude.

“you’re giving me something i never thought i’d have,”

she whispers during a quiet moment, her voice thick with tears.

“this baby… she’s ours. she’s proof of us.”

when the pain peaks, hyunju becomes your cheerleader.

she kneels by the bed, her face close to yours, and says,

“you’re the strongest person i know, y/n. you’re bringing our daughter into the world. i’m so proud of you.”

she never lets go of your hand, her grip a steady reminder that she’s with you every step of the way.

hyunju’s attentiveness extends to the medical team.

she notices when a doctor seems rushed and gently but firmly asks for clarification.

“can you explain what that means for y/n and the baby?”

she asks, her tone calm but insistent.

she’s not just there for you emotionally.

she’s your advocate, ensuring your voice is heard even when you’re too exhausted to speak.

as you start pushing, hyunju’s emotions spill over.

she’s still holding your hand, but tears stream down her face as she watches you fight to bring your daughter into the world.

“you’re almost there, love,”

she says, her voice breaking as she holds one of your legs.

“i can’t believe how incredible you are.”

she’s in awe of you, her heart swelling with love and admiration.

she presses a kiss to your forehead, whispering,

“we’re so close to meeting her.”

when your daughter is born, the room fills with the sound of her first cry, and hyunju sobs openly.

she’s overwhelmed, her chest heaving as she looks at the tiny, perfect baby.

its her daughter, your daughter, the embodiment of your love.

“she’s here,”

hyunju chokes out, her voice raw with emotion.

“y/n, she’s here, and she’s beautiful.”

the doctor places the baby on your chest, and hyunju leans in, her hand trembling as she touches her daughter’s tiny fingers.

hyunju can’t stop staring at your daughter.

she sees her own features in the baby’s face.

the shape of her eyes, the curve of her nose.

it hits her like a strong wave.

“she’s got my eyes,”

she whispers, her voice filled with wonder.

“and your cheeks, y/n. look at her… she’s perfect.”

this moment is everything hyunju never dared to dream of, a tangible proof of her love with you, a love she once thought couldn’t create life.

as you rest, hyunju stays close, cradling your daughter when you’re too tired to hold her.

she sits beside you, the baby nestled in her arms, and she hums softly, a lullaby she’s practiced for months.

“i’m your mama,”

she whispers to the baby, her voice thick with emotion.

“and she's your mommy. you have is the bravest mommy in the world.”

she looks at you, her eyes shining.

hyunju’s attentiveness doesn’t stop after the birth.

she’s hyper-aware of your needs as you recover, fluffing your pillows, bringing you snacks, and making sure you’re comfortable.

when you’re ready to breastfeed, she’s there, adjusting the pillows to support you as she helps you with babygirl.

she’s in awe of your strength, and she tells you so constantly.

when the nurses come to check on you, hyunju is quick to ask questions.

“is y/n’s recovery on track? what can we do to help her heal?”

she’s not overbearing, but she’s diligent, ensuring you get the best care.

you make sure that the staff knows hyunju is the other mother, proudly introducing her as, "this is hyunju, my wife and our daughter’s other mama.”

the pride in your family is radiant.

hyunju’s love for your daughter is boundless.

she’s the first to change a diaper, her hands careful but confident as she murmurs to the whiney baby, “don’t worry, little one, mama’s got you.”

she’s meticulous, making sure everything is perfect for your baby.

when your daughter fusses, hyunju rocks her gently, singing softly until she quiets.

“she knows my voice already,”

she says to you, her smile wide and full of wonder.

as you both prepare to leave the hospital, hyunju takes charge, packing up your things and double-checking the car seat.

“we’re bringing our girl home,”

you says, your voice trembling with excitement.

she helps you into the car, her hand lingering on yours.

“you did something incredible, y/n. i’m so grateful for you.”

hyunju's eyes are wet again, but she’s smiling, her love for you and your daughter shining through.

at home, hyunju’s attentiveness heightens.

she sets up a cozy corner for you to rest, complete with blankets and your favorite snacks.

when your daughter cries in the middle of the night, hyunju is up in an instant, saying, “i’ll get her, love. you rest.”

hyunju brings the baby to you for feeding, sitting beside you and stroking your hair as you nurse.

hyunju loves pointing out the traits your daughter inherited from both of you.

“she’s got your stubborn streak,”

she teases when your daughter refuses a bottle, but her tone is full of affection.

“and your knack for drama,”

you add, laughing when the baby lets out a particularly loud wail.

every little trait feels like a miracle to her, a reminder that your love created this perfect little person.

one quiet evening, as you both watch your daughter sleep, hyunju turns to you, her eyes soft.

“i used to think i’d never know what it’s like to be a mother,”

she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“but you… you gave me this. you made me a mama. i love you so much, y/n.”

she kisses you gently, her lips warm against yours.

you pulled away, smiling at her with the biggest twinkle in your eyes.

"you're the only person I'd ever carry this love with, hyunju."

hyunju’s advocacy never wavers for you.

at doctor’s appointments, she’s there, asking questions and taking notes.

“is the baby’s weight gain on track? what about y/n’s recovery?”

she’s not just attentive to your daughter, she’s attuned to you, making sure you’re supported as a new mother.

"hyunju, you don-"

“no, love.. you’re doing so much,”

she tells you.

“let me take care of you, too.”

as your daughter grows, hyunju remains the most loving, attentive mother.

she celebrates every milestone with you, from the first smile to the first giggle.

“look at her, y/n,”

she says, her voice full of awe as your daughter reaches for her.

hyunju’s tears come easily, but they’re always happy tears.

she cannot believe this testament to the life you’ve built together.

every night, hyunju holds you close, your daughter sleeping between you.

“this is everything,”

she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

“you, her, us. i’ll spend my whole life loving you both.”

masterlist

authors note: BECAUSE SHE IS ALIVE AND I FUCKING SAID SO

sorry

tags: @hyunjusbiggestfan

[sh4nksslvt]

Anatomy Lessons

Professor Law quizzes you on anatomy using your own body as the model—not allowing your release until you pass his intense, hands-on “lesson.”

law x fem!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, NSFW, teasing, orgasm control, toys, professor law, student-teacher relationship, secret relationship, forbidden, modern au a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe n akward | ++ this is my frst time writing nsfw so bear w me lolol word count: 1.4k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You stared blankly at the glaring red marks across your anatomy quiz.

58%.

The number felt like a slap. You weren’t the type to fail — not with your GPA, not with your ambition. And certainly not when your secret boyfriend was the professor teaching the course.

Still, Trafalgar Law didn’t play favorites. Not even with you.

Your phone buzzed under the desk as the last student filed out of the lecture hall.

[Trafalgar Law]: Come to my office. Now.

Your stomach flipped. Not out of fear. No, your relationship had always played dangerously on the line between power and pleasure. He was your professor, yes. But he was also the man who had you gripping his sheets just two nights ago, whispering anatomical terms against your thigh like they were gospel.

You quickly packed up your things and slipped through the side hallway to avoid lingering students.

Law’s office door clicked shut behind you.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth to explain before his voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

“Fifty-eight percent,” he said, his back turned as he scribbled something onto a clipboard. “Disappointing, considering how much of this content you’ve already had hands-on experience with.”

Your cheeks heated. “I was tired.”

“You were moaning my name at 2 a.m., y/n. Don’t blame exhaustion for laziness.”

You stepped forward, shutting the blinds without being asked. It was routine now — the ritual before your “private study sessions.”

“I’ll do extra credit,” you offered with a falsely innocent lilt.

Law turned around, black eyes glinting behind his glasses. He looked every bit the cold, brilliant professor. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his tattoos, collar slightly undone like he’d barely had time to dress between lectures.

“I already have something in mind.”

You swallowed.

He leaned against the desk, beckoning you forward with two fingers.

“Strip. Just enough so I can access what I need.”

You unzipped your jacket, heart pounding, fingers trembling with a mix of excitement and dread. Off came your shirt. Then your bra. He didn’t move. Not even when you pushed down your skirt and stood in just your panties and knee-high socks.

“You’re the model today,” he said, pushing his chair back and gesturing for you to sit on his desk. “We’ll review what you’ve forgotten.”

You climbed up, sitting at the edge.

He picked up his pen and touched it to the top of your sternum.

“Name this.”

“…Sternum.”

“Good.”

His fingers trailed down between your breasts, eyes watching you clinically.

“These?”

“P-pectoralis major.”

“Both sides?”

“Yes.”

“Which part of the brain processes sensory touch?”

You blinked. “Uh… th-the parietal lobe?”

His lips curled. “You hesitated.”

Suddenly, he cupped your breast, thumb grazing your nipple. The contact was sharp, electrifying. You gasped.

“Don’t guess,” he said. “Learn.”

Your back arched slightly, and he pinched.

“Parietal lobe,” you choked.

“Better.”

He reached into the drawer and pulled out a familiar toy — slim, vibrating, curved perfectly to angle inside you. Your breath caught.

“Spread your legs,” he said coolly.

You obeyed.

He pushed your panties aside and ran a finger through your folds, already wet. He gave a soft hum of approval.

“Recite the bones of the pelvis while I insert this.”

You clutched the edge of the desk. “I-inominate bone, ischium, pubis, sacrum—ahh!”

He slid it in, slow and unforgiving. Your body clenched.

“Keep going.”

“C-coccyx… ilium…hngh~”

“Good girl.”

The toy stayed inside. He turned it on low.

You bit your lip hard to keep from moaning as it thrummed deep within you.

Law sat down, legs spread lazily, clipboard on his lap.

“I’ll quiz you,” he said. “You don’t get to come until you score 100%.”

You whimpered.

“And if you get loud,” he added, “I’ll have to punish you. We wouldn’t want the faculty lounge to overhear, would we?”

You shook your head.

His fingers returned to your body — one hand tweaking your nipple, the other sliding two fingers alongside the toy, pressing gently against your entrance.

“Where’s the G-spot located?” he asked, fingers rubbing precisely over that spongy patch inside.

“About… Haah~ t-two inches in, against the anterior wall!”

He smirked. “Impressive. But too slow.”

He turned the toy up a level.

Your hips jerked. You clamped a hand over your mouth.

“What’s the largest nerve in the human body?”

“S-sciatic…!”

His fingers curled.

“Muscles responsible for thigh abduction?”

“Gluteus medius, gluteus minimus—!”

He stopped.

You whined.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“What's the difference between the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems?”

You could barely think.

“Sym…sympathetic is fight or flight—parasympathetic is rest and digest.”

His hand returned to your cunt. Three fingers this time, plunging in, scissoring, curling, rubbing over the toy and your soaked walls.

“You really are a good student when you focus,” he whispered.

You were trembling, holding back an orgasm so hard it physically hurt.

He could see it. Your legs shaking, stomach tensing, eyes glossy.

“Hold it,” he warned.

You nodded desperately.

He took the toy out, leaving you empty, and pulled you off the desk, bending you over it instead. Your chest pressed against cool wood.

“You earned a reward,” he said. “But not release. Not yet.”

You heard the metallic clink of his belt unfastening — slow, deliberate. Then came the soft rasp of his zipper being dragged down, followed by the faint rustle of fabric as he pushed his slacks and briefs just far enough to free himself.

His cock sprang free — hard, thick, flushed deep red at the tip and already leaking with anticipation.

“You remember the planes of the body?” he asked, voice darker now.

You nodded shakily.

“Name them.”

“S-sagittal, transverse, frontal—Mmmfffp!”

Without any warning he slammed into you.

You cried out, mouth muffled by your hand.

He didn’t wait — thrusting deep and hard, one hand tangled in your hair, the other covering your mouth to keep your moans contained. His cock filled you completely — every thick inch stretching you open, dragging against your walls, hitting so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.

“Say them again.”

“Mmfh… sh’git’ll… f’nsverse… f’ontrl…” you sobbed against his palm.

He groaned. “Fuck-... look at you… can't speak properly, dripping onto my floor like a fucking slut, still trying to pass the test.”

He fucked you like he was trying to rearrange your organs — precise, rough, completely in control.

You came without warning — body writhing, moan stifled by his hand.

He growled low in your ear. “I didn’t say you could.”

“I-I couldn’t stop—!”

He pulled out and flipped you over, lifting you back onto the desk, legs spread wide. His cock glistened with your slick as he rubbed the tip against your clit.

“You’ll apologize properly,” he said, slapping your inner thigh.

“A-aahh! I’m sorry, P-professor…”

“Again.”

“Haah~ p-please...I’m sorry I came w-without permission!”

He thrust back inside.

This time it was brutal. Quick. Loud enough to make the books on the shelf rattle.

“You want t-to graduate?” he hissed, fingers digging into your hips.

“Y-yes, please!”

“You want that A mhm?”

“Yes! Nnhg~”

“Then take it. Take every inch.”

You did. You let him fuck the failure out of you.

When he finally came, it was deep, possessive, and with your name on his lips.

He stayed inside for a moment, breathing heavy against your throat, hand stroking your hair.

Eventually, he pulled out with a low groan, breath still ragged as he leaned over you, pressing a kiss on your lips — a soft contrast to everything before.

He didn’t speak at first. Just touched your cheek gently, brushing away a few stray strands of hair that clung to your damp skin. His fingers lingered.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now, rough from exertion.

You nodded, dazed but smiling. “Mhm... just very thoroughly lectured.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. He helped you sit up slowly, his hands steadying your hips when your legs wobbled. Without needing to ask, he reached into the bottom drawer — the one that didn’t hold pens or medical charts, but a small towel, a water bottle, and a pack of wipes.

You knew he kept them there just for you.

He cleaned you up carefully, not rushing — a swipe of the warm cloth between your thighs, wiping down your skin where his marks bloomed red.

“Still trembling,” he muttered, voice almost affectionate. “You came too hard.”

“You made me,” you replied, letting your head rest against his chest.

“Hm,” he hummed. “Should’ve docked points for disobedience.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

He rolled his eyes and pressed the bottle of water into your hand, thumb rubbing absent circles along your thigh as you drank. Afterward, he helped you back into your clothes piece by piece — bra hooked, skirt adjusted, shirt straightened.

Once you were dressed, he bent down to press a kiss just beneath your jaw.

“I’ll write the retake,” he muttered. “You’ll get a 100% this time. No exceptions.”

You giggled softly, still breathless.

“Another… anatomy lesson soon, Professor?”

He looked at you — that cool, unreadable stare softening just enough at the edges.

“Next week. After hours.”

[sha-brytols]

da2 is crazy because it's like almost (A L M O S T) a perfect demonstration of like. power schisms and how dominant colonialist religions gain their influence through control and fearmongering and how said fearmongering works specifically because the system is Designed to isolate and dehumanize groups of people who inevitably lash out and fight back, creating the exact circumstances for a dominant power to claim the moral high ground and further suppress the marginalized population. not to mention how it touches on the way the system even abuses its own participants by preying on their desperation or vulnerability to gain their loyalty and THEN turning them into disposable pawns that rely on it far more than it relies on them. and then in the midst of this you play as a victim of that exact same system where your whole life has been dictated by fear and secrecy and the constant looming threat of being taken or having your family taken from you, and then when you finally work your way above the system you still aren't free because the person at one of the highest points of the hierarchy is willing to turn your family and friends into hostages to ensure your compliance. and this isn't even mentioning how this is the same game that just Happens to be separated into three different periods of time where your class status and social standing is drastically shifted in each one so you experience every angle of this cycle of systemic oppression. and then at the very end when you choose between upholding the status quo or protecting the marginalized and persecuted population you get a wildly different outcome as the protagonist. rebelling and going against the grain makes you a fugitive who has to abandon the very home you fought tooth and nail for because the system is now hunting you down for attempting to disrupt it. but if you choose to maintain it you rise to one of the most powerful positions within the system. and the only difference in how you get there is you can only obtain power through massacring the oppressed population in its entirety, demonstrating how this exact cycle is maintained through violence and subjugation. it's oppression at its most brutal and honest form. victims will always be victims unless they comply to the will of the oppressor.

and then you go online and you find out the writers have been writing thinkpieces on why the templars are actually the good guys on twitter and you're actually stupid as fuck for interpreting this as a commentary on institutionalized oppression

[merakiui]

Big intimidating sea god azul who torments a village until they pay him through treasure or blood. They hope to appease him by sacrificing a virgin. You think its all over as he drags you under. The villagers are terrified at the scene but relieved their hardships are over through your sacrifice.

To your suprise you wake up in an under the sea palace. Off to the side is the sea god was working just waiting for this moment to finally decend upon you.

That night he sweetly takes you, showering you in kisses going slow and carefully. The sea god know for his violence and scheming nature was treating you so gently, cherishing you... you wake up with 10 arms wrapped around you and a whiney sea god wanting you to go back to sleep.

AAAAAAA YES!!! You think he’ll eat you or steal your soul or whatever other evil deeds you’ve heard from the villagers, so it’s surprising when you find yourself in such a lavish place and with the ability to breathe underwater. >w< waaaaa he’s such a sweetheart. He’d never treat a gift such as yourself with malice. You’re precious to him. Gently twining a tentacle around your waist to bring you closer, promising you only the sweetest experience, his usually vengeful smile soft and adoring.

He spends so much time working you open on his fingers, praising you each time, and you’re still so uncertain. But maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s not going to be so bad. And you’ve never been touched there by another person before,,, it feels good the less you hold onto your fear. <3 soon, you’re coming apart and it’s such a darling thing for the sea god to witness. No one else will ever have you. You’re all his. And he’ll mark you all over with his suckers, the little bruises imprinted over your perky nipples, between your thighs, on your waist, on your neck, all over your chest. He’s such a perverted god. He doesn’t want to be the reason for your fear or anxious tears. Rather, he wants to be your entire world and show you just how gentle this supposedly devilish sea god can be. :)

Sweet kisses all over in the morning, too!!!! Clinging to you so much he’s basically a blanket and you have no choice but to lay there with one of his tentacles still stuffed in your hole and another idly stroking your tummy. He’ll pout at you if you try to get up. Sleep a little longer, won’t you? :< it’s too early to be up and moving. You’re still in awe that you’re not dead. Is it truly okay to live like this? He won’t hurt you? You can live peacefully, always spoiled and never hungry…

What you don’t realize is that a virgin sacrifice is basically just a spouse for him. Why would he waste this opportunity? You’re meant to be his, after all. Your wedding will be grand and luxurious. <3 only the finest for his angelfish.

[cuttlefishcorraller]

The Curtis brothers, but they are all autistic.

Darry, who lined up his toy cars as a kid.

Sodapop, who used his dinosaurs to trample over and ruin Darrys line of cars.

Ponyboy, who never learnt how to actually play without being ashamed of it so he secretly would act out stories with his toys when he was alone and then just read or draw in the sand when at recess or the park with his brothers.

Darry, who has a specific routine that helps him get shit done.

Sodapop, who just does what he wants too when he wants too.

Ponyboy, who has a routine that builds himself as he goes through day by day, he doesn’t just do things whenever like Soda, but he doesn’t have a set routine like Darry, and he still gets upset if his nonexistent existent routine changes.

Darry, who doesn’t mask, and is not the best with social interactions with those he doesn’t know.

Sodapop, who literally cannot mask, talking to everybody he passes on the street, making them stop and talk about whatever he’s currently interested in and how they reminded him of it.

Ponyboy, who physically cannot not mask, who accidentally programmed himself to not know how to be himself, so much so he masks even when no ones around unless he’s in a good mood and/or remembers that he’s alone.

Darry, who can’t use his imagination or picture things he hasn’t seen before in his head.

Sodapop, who has way too much imagination.

Ponyboy, who spends hours maladaptive daydreaming, escaping into his interests and creating alternate universes and watching his own never before written fanfiction play episode by episode in his mind as he does a repeated task such as walking in circles or swinging on a swing set whilst staring off into space.

Darry, who has a photographic memory.

Sodapop, who forgets things within minutes.

Ponyboy, who can only remember certain things and everything about those certain things, though he can’t pick what so its mostly random experiences and stuff about his interests, not important memories or things he wished he could remember.

Darry, who has since learned how to control and handle his meltdowns, often knowing how to avoid getting to the point of a meltdown.

Sodapop, who uses physical touch to help calm down from meltdowns, such as hugging or someone lying on his chest (pressure.)

Ponyboy, who goes mute after melting down and often has to talk himself into not harming himself to feel better.

Darry, who loves communicating via eye contact.

Sodapop, who will vomit if you try to look him in the eye (not really, but sometimes he makes gagging sounds when he makes eye contact to communicate that thats what it feels like to make eye contact).

Ponyboy, that hates making eye contact, except for with people he knows well, until he catches himself doing it and has to remind himself, ‘dont look people in the eyes your autistic’ even though autism is a spectrum and be knows he not faking just because he can occasionally like and even seek eye contact

[jeszrosse]

🧬 “Precautionary Measures: Part II”

Albert Wesker x Reader | NSFW!!| Controlling/Obsessive Boss AU

⚠️ Smut | Office/Power Dynamics | Oral (F receiving) | Overstimulation | Light Restraints | Possessive Language | Praise | minors dni | Dark Themes | (HE IS NOT A HEAR ME OUT- HE'S A HOLD ME BACK.)

“You're not confined,” he murmurs. “You're kept.”

.

.

.

.

---

His hand drops from your chin. But the weight of it lingers. You feel like you’ve been marked—without bruises, without blood.

“You really think locking me in here with you is going to earn you anything?” you ask, dry. “Loyalty? Gratitude?”

“No,” he says again. “But it will make you understand.”

Then he steps closer. Close enough that your back touches the cold steel wall.

You expect a threat. Instead, he kisses you for the second time.

There’s no warning. No tension. It’s matter-of-fact. Like he’s proving a hypothesis.

And you—

God help you—

You let him.

Because the truth is, part of you had always wondered what lived under the surface of him. Whether there was anything at all beneath the precision, the control.

Now you’ve seen it.

And it’s worse than you imagined.

When he pulls away, he doesn't say something dramatic or proprietary.

He just studies you.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

You are. From adrenaline. From rage. From something else you don’t want to name.

“You scare the shit out of me,” you mutter.

He doesn’t look proud. Or apologetic.

Just amused.

“Good."

“You sound possessive,” you say quietly.

He leans in, low and smooth.

“That’s because I am.”

---

🌶🧬 The shift is subtle but immediate.

He kisses you again—but this time, there’s no cold calculation.

His gloved hand wraps gently around your throat—not tight, just present. A reminder.

“You don’t have to think right now,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Just do what you’re told. You’ve always been good at that.”

The lab feels feverishly warm.

He lifts you onto the steel workbench like you weigh nothing.

His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw—steady, grounding.

You try to speak, but he doesn’t give you the space. His mouth ghosts over yours again, slower now, like he's testing how long you’ll hesitate before following his lead.

There’s no demand in the way he holds you—only expectation. The kind that makes refusal feel foolish. Pointless.

He leans in, breath warm against your cheek.

“Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Your pulse jumps beneath his hand.

And when you don’t move—when you don’t pull away—he smiles.

Just barely.

But it’s enough.

“No one’s coming in. No one can see you,” he says, sliding the zipper of your lab coat down, slow and deliberate.

“There is no world outside this room. Not tonight.”

You shouldn’t want this. But god, you do.

---

🌶🧬 His control doesn’t slip — it sharpens.

He kneels in front of you like he’s conducting an experiment.

Not rushed. Not eager. Just methodical—clinical.

His gloved hands shove your underwear aside, and he looks up through those damn sunglasses like he’s documenting every flicker of hesitation in your face. As if your reactions are data to be archived. Controlled. Repeated.

Then he leans in—

And presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

Measured. Cold. Almost reverent in the worst way.

His breath is warm, but his mouth is not. And that contrast sends a flicker of heat down your spine, sharp and involuntary.

You tense, just slightly.

“Be still.”

A command.

Spoken low, not loud—but enough to still the breath in your throat. It isn’t a threat. It doesn’t need to be. It’s a statement of fact, like he already knows you’ll obey.

And the worst part is—you do.

His mouth finds you.

Tongue precise, steady, devastating. Like he’s memorizing you—charting nerve endings the way someone maps territory they already intend to claim.

Not sloppy. Not rushed.

Every movement feels rehearsed. Controlled. Like he’s pacing himself on purpose, just to see how long it takes before you break protocol.

He works you open with practiced pressure, dragging slow circles until your hips twitch forward. Instinctive. Desperate.

And when you arch with a sharp cry, his grip tightens around your thighs—holding you down like it’s nothing.

“No noise,” he murmurs against you.

“Containment protocols.”

His voice is almost amused. Almost.

But the order is real.

Then you make a sound anyway—soft, bitten-back, helpless.

And he hears it.

He pauses—not to stop, but to let the sound hang between you. A quiet act of disobedience.

Then:

That smirk. Barely there, but unmistakable.

“So undisciplined...” he hums, tongue dragging slow and deliberate.

“We’ll need more conditioning.”

His mouth returns to you like a punishment.

Like a promise.

And this time, he doesn’t go slow.

It builds fast—heat blooming sharp and immediate, like he’s pulling pleasure from you with mechanical precision. There’s no fumbling. No hesitation. Just a devastating rhythm that leaves no room for thought, only instinct.

Your breath stutters. Legs shake.

Every swipe of his tongue leaves you raw, sensitized, undone—like he's dismantling you piece by piece, learning what makes you twitch, gasp, beg.

You try to hold still. Try to obey. But it’s impossible. He knows exactly where to press, when to pull back, when to push harder.

Your body’s not yours anymore. It’s responding to him. Because of him.

You're burning alive—and all he does is hold you in place, methodical, composed, like he’s watching his favorite experiment succeed.

And god—

It feels so fucking good you almost forget to be afraid.

---

🌶🧬 You come hard, hips twitching—but he doesn’t stop.

“Overstimulation breeds obedience,” he says in that damn cunning, merciless voice.

“You’re not leaving this table until you’ve internalized that.”

And he means it.

The aftershocks haven’t even finished rolling through your body before his mouth is back on you—tongue unrelenting, dragging sensation out of raw nerve endings that haven’t had time to settle. It hurts, almost—but it’s the kind of hurt that coils low and tight and unbearable.

Your thighs tremble. The edge is sharper now, pleasure warping into something hotter, more fragile. There’s no time to breathe, no time to think. Just sensation, again and again, until your body forgets where the first orgasm ended and the next begins.

When you come again, it tears through you. The heat in your legs turns to static, your muscles locking tight before they unravel all at once.

You sob—voice breaking under the weight of it. But he doesn’t falter. He likes that sound.

He licks you through it, steady. Focused. Devoted in that cold, obsessive way of his.

Only when you're shaking—eyes glassy, breath stuttering like a broken machine—does he finally lift his head.

And even then, he’s not done.

He’s just… evaluating.

Gloved fingers stroke your cheek.

You’re breathless, soaked, legs trembling from the second orgasm he forced out of you with his tongue. Your muscles won’t stop twitching. Your skin is hot. Overheated. And your thoughts—what’s left of them—come in fragmented pulses of more, more, more.

You barely register the shift in weight when he rises to his feet—methodical, towering, composed. Not a single movement wasted. No urgency. No mess. Just quiet, controlled escalation.

He begins to remove his gloves.

The leather slips from his fingers in one fluid motion—slick, deliberate. They hit the floor with a dull slap, like the prelude to something you’re not built to handle.

“Don’t move.”

The command slices through the room like a scalpel—sharp and clean, cutting through the thick hum of fluorescent light and your own thundering pulse. You obey without thinking. You have to.

He unfastens his belt next—slowly, deliberately—and the soft scrape of leather through metal rings out like a gunshot in the sterile quiet of the lab. It’s obscene. Wrong. Perfect.

Your eyes drift down—helpless, hungry—and—

Fucking hell.

He’s thick. Veined. Long enough to make your stomach tense. Ridiculously proportional to the rest of his impossibly crafted body. Like everything else about him, it borders on inhuman.

Dark. Flushed. Leaking, because of you.

Because he planned this.

He wraps a hand around the base, stroking himself once—just once—and it sends another wave of heat tearing through your already broken body.

“No more waiting,” he mutters, voice like crushed velvet.

“You’ll take it. All of it. And you’ll thank me for the privilege.”

He doesn’t say it like a threat.

He says it like an equation. Something inevitable. Proven.

And as he lines himself up against your aching, overstimulated core, you already know—

You’re going to let him.

You’re going to take it.

And you’ll thank him for ruining you.

He presses in—slow, stretching, merciless.

Your body clenches around him involuntarily, muscles taut, breath punched from your lungs as he fills you inch by unbearable inch.

“W-Wesker—!”

“Sir.”

His hand is on your jaw instantly, grip firm but not cruel—commanding. He tilts your head up until your eyes meet his—those golden irises burning behind the lenses like warning lights.

“In here, I’m not your colleague. Not your peer.”

“You call me sir.”

You whimper. Something desperate leaves your throat. But before you can even try to respond, he thrusts forward—once, hard—bottoming out in a single, brutal stroke.

Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.

You’re full. Stuffed. Split.

And there’s no grace period. No pause. No adjustment.

He starts to move—hips snapping with cold, mechanical precision, like he’s recalibrating you from the inside out.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs against your neck, voice dark silk.

“You were so cockdrunk on my tongue.”

“Now you’re quiet?”

You gasp as his pace intensifies, dragging friction against every overworked nerve—pain-pleasure rippling so deep it short-circuits thought. His hips grind just right, his angle unerring. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His breath fans hot against your throat.

“Speak.”

“Or I’ll fuck the ability out of you entirely.”

The table creaks beneath you with every thrust, metal legs groaning in protest as he drives you into the surface like you belong there—like you were made to be taken apart by him, and him alone.

His grip on your hips is bruising—fingers digging in, anchoring you in place, keeping you where he wants you. Where you need to be.

You’re already close again—too close. Your walls flutter around him, a tell you can’t hide.

And of course, he notices. Of course, he fucking knows.

“Tight little thing,” he growls, voice shredded with restraint.

“And all mine. Say it.”

Your body’s breaking open again, pressure coiling hot and unbearable in your gut. Your vision blurs. Your breath stutters.

And still—his voice is what wrecks you most.

“Yours, sir~,” you sob. “I’m yours—I’m yours—”

He groans, low and feral, a sound punched from somewhere deep in his chest—and then his hips slam forward harder, sharper, as if your admission unshackled something in him.

“Goddamn right you are.”

He fucks you like he means to burn the memory of anyone else clean out of you.

Like he’s branding every inch from the inside out.

And you let him. You fucking let him.

---

🌶️ After

You’re wrecked.

Shaking. Glistening. Leaking his cum down your thighs like a failed sealant test.

Wesker doesn’t move to clean you. Doesn’t reach for a towel.

He just stands there—composed, calculating—watching you fall apart on the table he set the terms for.

His gaze is unreadable behind the glasses, but you feel it like heat—scanning, cataloguing, claiming.

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” he says, as if it’s protocol.

“I’ll authorize remote work. Tell HR I’ve reassigned you to internal development.”

A button clicks shut. His belt slides back through the loops.

He tucks himself away like nothing just happened—like he didn’t just ruin you with expert precision.

And then—

He picks up your ruined panties off the floor.

Slips them into his coat pocket like evidence.

Doesn’t say a word.

Just smirks. Barely.

“You’ll report to my quarters next week. 0100 hours. Untraceable route. No badge.”

You try to speak—try to form a sound—but your throat betrays you. There’s nothing left but your pulse hammering in your ears and the way your body still clenches at the thought of more.

Wesker leans in.

Kisses you—slow, deliberate. Like the claim wasn’t complete until now.

Like he's proud by how quiet you’ve become.

“You’ve passed containment,” he whispers against your lips.

“Now let’s work on submission.”

And with that—he’s gone.

He turns without hesitation, boots echoing across the sterile floor.

One tap to his comms. A low voice, smooth and absolute:

“Disengage quarantine. Authorization: Wesker.”

A mechanical hiss ruptures the silence.

Locks disengage. Doors slide open. Lights return to full power.

Just like that—the breach is over.

But you know better now.

The real experiment… has only just begun.

---

(A/N: Hi lovelies I've risen from the dead to provide the wesker fic I promised🥺 I'M SORRY I WAS GONE FOR SO LONG- BLAME THE SYSTEM. But even so, I didn't let it stop me from posting this hot, horny, sunufabitch💅 Enjoy sluts.) :>

[anarcho-commeownism]

Okay so take this with as many grains of salt as you like, because I'm just gonna talk about my own personal experience here, but I have a few things to say on this.

First of all, this isn't a new revelation by any means. You can find some form of sex aversion treated as an illness in many many instances throughout history, far before homosexuality was considered as such. This conversation HAS been thoroughly picked through in discourse on this very website but I really don't think there was ever a real conclusion to it because I believe a lot of important context hasn't really been touched on, so I appreciate someone bringing it up!

Now, my personal issue with this whole thing: I struggle with identifying as aromantic and/or asexual because the thing is? Sometimes medications, disorders, and illnesses do cause asexual/aromantic behavior and inclinations. I'm on multiple medications that decrease libido, I have sexual trauma, I am autistic, I have several anxiety disorders known to cause sexual dysfunction, etc. I've got a million and one medical reasons as to why I might feel so repulsed by the idea of having sex myself, or being in a romantic relationship, and I never had a break between being a child and being a medicated chronically ill adult to figure out what I'm "really" into. I don't feel like I ever will have a chance to find out what I'm "really" into, either, because my life is centered around my disabilities and their side effects, and there is no cure for most of this. So I've settled with it—I would rather have my life-saving medication than be allosexual, and by extension, I have a basically identical experience to that of what seems to be the "correct" asexual individual.

This kind of wholesale rejection of asexuality in a medical sense kind of leaves those of us that do experience these things medically out in the cold. It's as if we don't exist within aspec discourse at all because our existence must "prove" that asexuality is inherently medical even though we are individuals that have chosen this label because of the disorders we have or life saving medications we take or what have you. There's a reason I don't say I'm asexual most of the time—the only reason I'm "like this" is ultimately because I would be dead if I wasn't on several medications that significantly decreased my sexual desires and libido. Functionally, I am at least on the asexual spectrum, and I'm often deeply uninterested in actually having sex. I believe that the label fits me. But again, I don't like disclosing this because I know how The Disk Horse puts me directly in the center of two opposing sides, one of which thinks there's something wrong with me because I don't have sex, and the other of which believes there's something wrong with me and I would actually like sex if I wasn't chronically ill.

We have to understand that there are many reasons for asexuality, and yes, that includes medical situations. That includes trauma. These things do not inherently mean that all asexuals are the result of a disability or medication. They just mean that we exist, and you can't just ignore that to push your own one-track narrative on asexuality's relationship with the medical field.

Asexuality on its own should not be considered its own disorder, I agree. But there is a significant lack in awareness of this gray area that I am in wherein our asexuality is indeed a symptom of something else, and there are a huge variety of reactions to this! Some people do actually want their decreased sexual desires to be remedied because they miss a time in their life when they were functionally allosexual, or they feel as though they're missing something and want to experience it at least once. Some people (like me) don't mind much and want to identify as asexual and/or aromantic because that is what feels best to us. We all have the same experience, but with different conclusions. The best way to comprehend this is to just let people identify how they feel most comfortable, of course.

That's the difficulty with asexuality—while there are no provable causes for someone to become gay or transgender, there are plenty of ways a person might find themselves permanently asexual despite not being asexual previously. Sexuality is fluid! I believe those people deserve the label as much as anyone else.

Also, none of us want to be told that we would be allosexual if we weren't ill, OR that we would be asexual even if we were abled. That completely & arrogantly disregards our experiences with chronic, often life-long conditions, and our personal reconciliation with those things, just because you can only see this in a black and white way where asexuality is never a medical issue for anyone.

I suppose I just want to clarify that asexuality should not be considered a disorder on its own, but it can indeed be the result of a medical situation. And as you may not seem to understand, some people do want to see a remedy to that—and since its in this blurry gray area where some people consider it asexuality and some people just see it as decreased sexual desire, some might choose to call that conversion therapy even if the person involved was not asexual prior to their medical situation and is uncomfortable with their lack of sexual desire and/or motivation, and feels more like themself once they are off the medication they were taking or taking something to aid their libido.

It literally doesn't matter if we'd be allosexual if we weren't disabled. We're disabled. We're in a situation medically that restricts our sexual desires, motivations, and enjoyment, and there's often no way out of it. We each individually make our own decisions on our situations and what we want "fixed" medically. Sometimes people just want to enjoy sex again. Sometimes we're fine with the way we are on our meds. Does that make us less valid as asexuals? As aromantics? I don't know. You tell me.

I've come to the conclusion that the way asexuality (and by extension aromanticism if we're being real) are pathologized now is similar to how homosexuality was pathologized in the 80s.

Because, if you don't know, when homosexuality was taken out of the DSM in 1974 it was immediately replaced by a new disorder called ego dsystonic homosexuality. This "condition" basically stipulated that homosexual desire was a disorder, but only if the patient was distressed by their sexuality. This compromise disorder was obviously introduced because while they couldn't go on pretending homosexuality wasn't intrinsicly disordered, they couldn't let go of that idea completely and it wasn't removed until over a decade later in 1987. But asexuality and aromanticism are still seen this way. Asexuality is still in the DSM under the name hypoactive sexual desire disorder, which stipulates that lack of sexual desire is a disorder, but only if the patient is distressed by their sexuality.

Both disorders' diagnostic criteria warn that people who are happy in their sexuality should not be considered disordered, but this only serves as tacit admission that it was never a disorder in the first place. A true disorder is a disorder regardless of how the patient feels about it. Anorexia is a disorder even if the patient is adamant that they're happy and healthy. Chronic depression is a disorder even if the patient says they're fine. And while this has been acknowledged with regards to homosexuality, it still hasn't been acknowledged with regards to asexuality.

And this perception of asexuality is imbedded within the wider culture as well. When people hear someone, be it a fictional character or a real goddamn person, say they're not attracted to anyone or interested in sex or romance, often their immediate thought is "Oh, there must be something wrong with you." Some of them will back off if you say "Actually I'm aro/ace" but some of them won't, and even for the ones who do, their first thought was still that there's something wrong with you that needs fixing. And they only thought your lack of interest was acceptable with the excuse of labelling yourself asexual/aromantic like it's a necessary hall pass.

Because fundamentally people can't let go of the idea that asexuality and aromanticism are disordered, even if they nominally support aro/aces, so they have all these excuses, like "Well maybe they're just repressed maybe they're just traumatized maybe-" yadayadayada. Because they can't simply associate lack of attraction with being aro/ace, they can only think of being aro/ace as one possible explanation. We're literally just stuck in "Oh you say you're into the same gender not into anyone? Well maybe you're traumatized or were abused as a kid or you're going through a phase or a late bloomer and you'll find the right person someday." But it's fine because if you use your hall pass then maybe they'll back off but if you don't have it because you don't know or accept you're aro/ace yet, tough luck. It's no surprise that asexuals have the same conversion therapy rate as gay people.

[aventurineswife]

SAGAU and SAHSRAU:

im thinking, yk how herta uses mirrors and can even come inside/out of them? what if that's how creator reader enters into their respective worlds! even better, theyre like a memetic entity like black swan, so they can twist an already finished portrait to look like themselves! this means that the portraits portray what they are already doing (like reading, experimenting, even napping) i feel like the casts would constantly look for portraits with their face to see what they're doing rn lol

SAHSRAU

"The Portrait God. The Mirror Walker. The One in the Frame."

This is how they know you: a memetic Creator, stitched between realities, glimpsed through ever-shifting portraits and mirrors that shouldn’t show what they do.

You’re not just real.

You’re perceptible—only when you want to be.

How it works:

Paintings, screens, even polished surfaces—if there’s an image or reflection anywhere across the train or in the universe, it might ripple faintly. And then... there you are. Doing something completely mundane. Reading. Laughing. Fixing code. Sleeping.

And the image changes subtly as you move—like an animation one second ahead of time.

They start seeking these out.

Silver Wolf gets obsessed. She catalogs every portrait fragment that shifts into your likeness. She calls it a "cross-dimensional webcam" but she’s deeply parasocial about it.

“They’re debugging. Again. That’s the fourth time this cycle. When do they sleep?”

Black Swan is mesmerized. This is exactly how she perceives memory—a fluid, fragmented, nonlinear thing. You rewriting old portraits into your own is godly in the most terrifyingly accurate way.

“Your existence is not limited by causality. How… poetic.”

Kafka looks in mirrors with a sly smirk now.

“Watching me again? Don’t blink, darling.”

Dan Heng finds a half-burnt portrait of you asleep, curled under a blanket with glitch-pixels forming your silhouette. He stares at it for hours like it might tell him how to feel safe.

Blade punches a reflective wall once, sees your face flash across the cracks, and just stares. Breath caught. Anger? Fear? Worship? Yes.

And when you step out of a mirror, elegantly folding out of the frame like reality's just a door, everyone shuts up. The room goes silent. Time stutters.

“They’ve arrived. The Frame-God walks.”

They don’t speak. They witness.

SAGAU

"They walk between paintings. They rewrite the art we once thought complete."

In Teyvat, the artistic becomes divine. You don’t arrive with glitches or terminals—but on brushstroke and lacquer, emerging from scrolls and murals like an ancient spirit of image and memory.

Every time an artist finishes a portrait, there’s a chance—just a faint one—that their ink will shift. Their paint will pulse. And the image will change:

A flicker of you, sipping tea under a tree.

A profile of your face in the background.

Your hand touching the edge of a frame.

Suddenly, a piece becomes sacred. The Creator has passed through it.

The Effect:

Albedo is fascinated. He begins painting daily, not for beauty, but to invite you in.

“Each stroke may be a door. I simply hope they choose to open it.”

Zhongli calls your portrait-crossings omens. Sacred. Signs that the heavens still watch. He studies old Liyue scrolls to see if you’ve always been in their corners. (Spoiler: you have.)

Ei commissions an entire series of mirrors. She believes if she arranges them in a specific pattern, you will emerge from the center. She’s not entirely wrong.

Kazuha once watched a calligraphy scroll shift mid-wind to show you sleeping in a sunbeam. He folded it reverently and refuses to share it. He sleeps beside it now.

Xiao doesn’t want to look, because he knows it’ll hurt. But sometimes he stares into shrine lantern reflections at night… just hoping.

Venti sings about you as the god in the paintings. Kids in Mondstadt play games trying to spot your face in frescoes.

“I saw them napping! I swear it!”

And when you step out of a scroll—folding out with light and gold, your feet hovering just above the ink—the Archons kneel. The people cry. Even the Adepti dare not breathe.

“The brush bends to them. The world bends after.”

You are a myth that moves, a god of reflections and revision, who rewrites what is already finished—and in doing so, proves that nothing is ever truly out of your reach.

In both universes, people don’t just look for you out of devotion.

They look because seeing you, even briefly, makes the universe feel like it’s still alive.

Still being changed.

Still loved by its Creator.

[kousanosgf]

a lil something with sevika

tags: nsfw, somno

through your dream you feel warm, hot even. and there's something else you can't put your finger on. the confusion doesn't last too long as you finally wake up. a gasp leaves your mouth, you feel a hand gently touching your clothed pussy.

"shhh", another hand covers your eyes before you are able to take a sleep mask off. "can i continue, baby?" sevika sounds too tired to touch you like this, especially with the fact that she's the one who barely gets any sleep so when she has a chance no one can wake her up.

it's not like you're against it, you're the one who brought up the "experimenting". sevika hasn't followed up on that suggestion for months so you figured she wasn't interested. you were wrong however, sevika reaches to kiss all over your face, slowly and sweetly, waiting for the answer.

you nod in agreement.

her hands makes a bee-line getting under your pj's and finally touching you, skin to skin.

"mmm didn't lie when you said you'd like it", she chuckles. "so wet."

"vika-", you whine as you try to find her hand with yours.

"too much?" she was going slow already, now she switches to agonizingly slow and it makes you thrust you hips into her fingers.

she chuckles again, it's low and heavy, her breath is hot on your temple. "i can get a hint. you should go back to sleep, it's too early"

and you really try. you sink into the pillows more and more, managing to even out your breathing and focus on the sound of the night outside, on the sound of sevika's heardbeat. but the thing is- it's impossible to relax when sevika's fingers are on you, going in soft circles, coming closer and closer to your entrance.

"i can't" you whine and she laughs again which only makes you more wet.

"ok, ok. let me help you out. we can try again next time, yeah?" you hear when sevika gets under the blanket and starts kissing your thighs.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

regarding Dust's depiction in the fandom.

i’m not sure if i’m the right person to speak on this, especially since my diagnosis has changed multiple times. at first, i was told i had hallucinatory delusional disorder—only to later be told that diagnosis doesn’t even formally exist. another psychiatrist changed it to bipolar II, and eventually, all of that was scrapped. i’m still in the process of trying to find real answers.

My therapist just told me that I don't even have delusions, just very extreme intrusive thoughts and severe depersonalization.

what i do experience is intense dissociation, and what could be described as “hearing voices,” though it’s not exactly a sound. it’s something between a thought and an external voice. sometimes i can hear a direction, or distinct tones like different people speaking, but what they’re saying rarely makes sense. it’s like fragments of a conversation, but the context is missing.

for me, what’s pushed me into dangerous territory hasn’t necessarily been the voices themselves, but the nightmares that come with them—and how much i’ve overanalyzed what they seemed to be telling me. trauma plays a huge role in how that spirals. i won’t go into it here, but it’s a big part of the picture.

that’s why i’d really love to see a more layered depiction of Dust. i actually have my own fanfic where i try to explore these kinds of things, but looking back, i worry that in trying to vent through him, i might’ve accidentally written something that came off as ableist. it’s hard to toe that line when you’re writing from pain.

i think what i want—more than anything—from portrayals of Dust is for his symptoms to go beyond just “hallucinating Papyrus.” i want to see the paranoia, the delusions, the intrusive thoughts, the nightmares, the flashbacks. the dissociation. the disorganized thinking and speech. the whole picture of what it feels like when your mind isn’t a safe place anymore.

right now, i’m still going through a diagnostic process. i’m crossing my fingers that i don’t get hit with another heavily stigmatized label—and honestly, that whatever i have is something treatable. but more and more, i feel like it all traces back to trauma. i relate to Dust so deeply it almost scares me sometimes, he has so much potential.

You and I are on the same page about wanting to see more depictions beyond hallucinations, although I was of course thinking of wanting to see more of those depictions with Killer.

Unfortunately, it’s very common in this fandom for Killer’s own psychosis to be ignored, overlooked, or just not know about—which is one reason why the common depiction of Killer making fun of Dust’s hallucinations doesn’t make any sense, given Killer hallucinates too.

And he has various forms of hallucinations, from vivid and real, to shadowy figures that watch him or attempt to reach out and touch him. He has full on and back forth conversations with “Chara” despite them not being real, when asked where Chara is he points directly at his own head—“it’s all in your head” is a common phrase associated with Killer.

He has flashbacks, hears multiple voices in his head in different ways—voices from flashbacks, the internal voices he relies on to make any choices on his own—he dissociates heavily, he experiences black out amnesia with Stage 4 and loses control over his own body. He struggles to tell what is and isn’t real thanks to the constant Resets, he constantly feels like he’s being watched by Chara.

He views himself as just something with Sans’ face. He often is showing having back and forth conversations internally and externally as if he’s watching himself argue with himself, his internal conflict is so severe that he sometimes even verbalizes it—which often comes out in confused, contradictory statements, especially when asked anything about himself. When asked how he’s feeling, he answers like “I’m fi—I don’t know. …I’m okay.”

And that’s just one example of it, the entire first page of the Something New comics shows his fragmented thought processes pretty clearly. He shows a deep awareness that something about him has changed, that he’s not the same as he was, but he doesn’t why and he doesn’t seem to know how to stop it.

He seems to struggle a lot with distressing cognitive dissonance, such as killing because he wants to feel something but knowing it doesn’t actually make him feel anything—seemingly believing he only exists because someone else wanted him to. [“Killer Sans exists because of you.”] Feeling more like a role or script than an actual person living a life.

All of this comes from both trauma, and externally induced dissociation + coercion, manipulation. This is a man who doesn’t know who or what he is anymore.

Both Murder and Killer are characters where their mind has become a deeply unsafe place, but for different reasons. For Murder it’s trauma and mental illness, for Killer it’s because of intense prolonged external control and manipulation—and as a result, he is suffering from trauma and mental illness. Even Killer’s own body has become his enemy.

[blushofeve]

Cam Girl

Masterlist

Pairing: Caleb x Cam girl!reader

Summary: After a restless night following a stressful mission, Caleb stumbles into a late-night livestream that unexpectedly captures his attention. Drawn to the sensual, shy charm of a new cam girl, he initiates a private call that quickly turns intimate.

Themes: the reader is a new cam girl, strangers to lovers(?), sexual tension, sexual content (masturbation), porn with little plot.

Word count: 2.4K

A/N: This is a repost because I posted the first one wrong 😭

It was just one of those nights when Caleb discovered you. Sleep was avoiding him at all costs and to top it off he was unexplainably upset. He’d just completed a mission, and even though he should’ve felt more relaxed now that the worst was over, he felt tense and frustrated. He was even going to start his two months of leave; he should’ve felt happy. That night, he lay in bed, aimlessly scrolling on his phone. Silently praying sleep would come to him soon. He searched and tested what felt like millions of methods to try to sleep and all failed. It was a while before he found a method he hadn’t tried. A comment in a sleep subreddit said: “I usually have sex with my partner or masturbate to tire myself out, I knock out like a few minutes after. It also helps to release tension.” Caleb thought for a minute. He had no partner and hadn’t touched himself for a while. Even if it didn’t work he needed the release anyway.

His imagination wasn’t helpful at the moment so he turned to online sources. He was sat up placing a pillow behind his back, phone in his left hand and his right resting on his thigh. He visited his usual website, and pictures of girls in seductive clothing a poses were paired with provoking captions. Caleb scrolled for a while, trying to find something that turned him on. Accidentally he found himself on the live stream section. “Why not?” He thought. Skimming through the titles of a stream, he- again accidentally- presses on a stream. Caleb was met with the sight of the most beautiful body he’d ever seen. PinkLadyLure. He could only see the girl from her nose downwards. She sat in a room that was lightly lit with pink LEDs, She wore a cute pink lingerie set and wore a gold chain necklace with a small apple charm on it. Her skin looked so smooth and was littered with small tattoos here and there.

The stream only had around fifty viewers. She wasn’t doing much. She was speaking to a few commenters in the chat. “I haven’t seen you before are you new?” Her voice as she read a comment immediately entranced Caleb. She laughed nervously, “Yea I am. I kinda needed money, my friend recommended I do this. You guys can ask me to do stuff, I’m not sure what I should do.” For some reason, her lack of experience turned Caleb on. “Oh, I don’t know if you guys have seen, but I’ve been posting videos and pictures and stuff.. just to test the waters haha.” Her glossy, pouty lips had Caleb entranced as she spoke. Another comment “Do u have oil? U can rub it on yourself.” “Oil? Yea, I’ve got some right here.” She reached off camera and pulled a bottle of body oil into the view of the camera. Sensual music played softly in the background as she quietly poured the oil on her chest. Caleb’s breath caught in his throat as she spread the oil more around her body. Her stomach, thighs, ass- soon her whole body was covered in oil. With the sensual rubbing and praising comments it was clear the girl was getting turned on. And Caleb was too. His underwear had grown tighter and his breath became heavier. Soon his underwear was thrown off and his hand wrapped around his cock. The stream went on, and eventually, the girl ended up lying on her bed, hands between he legs, softly moaning as she rubbed gently over her panties. Caleb tried to hold on, he really tried his best, but as soon as she let out the sweetest moan from slipping one finger in her cunt- he became undone. A whiny moan left his moan poured out his mouth as he threw his head back. He trusted up into his hand, shaking from what he would describe as the hardest orgasm of his life. There he lay, moans still coming from his phone, and his stomach and thighs covered in his cum. “It’s so much.” He mentally cursed, getting up to go clean up. He looked at his phone briefly and caught sight of an image that would be burned into his mind for the rest of the week. The cam girl writhed around on her bed, thighs tightly pressed together and her tits threatened to spill out of her bra. Her whiny, breathy moans rang through his head. It’s safe to say Caleb immediately got hard again. For the next hour or so, he spent it with his dick in one hand and phone in the other as he watched every video and studied every picture she had previously posted until he came again, hard. Too tired and spent, he flopped back in bed and passed out right as he hit his pillow.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Although he tried not to make it a habit, Caleb found himself on your page every night, hoping you’d go live again. You did just that two days later. For Caleb, it was just as intense as the first time. The way you smiled at the praising comments, how you softly moaned thanks as people donated while you had a pink dildo shoved up your pussy. It was all so much for him. Now and then he’d comment or donate small amounts to try and get you to notice him. “Thank you for the donation Apple.Prince.” You’d sweetly reply and then do whatever he had asked. The first time he commented you had laughed at his username and jokingly asked if he feels special when she wears her signature apple necklace, did he think it was just for him? Well, he certainly did now. He was finally back home on leave. He was free for the next 2 months, free to watch you as much as he liked. One night, he had the house all to himself, MC and Josephine had left to go watch a play in a nearby theatre. Lucky for him you had decided to stream today.

It began like usual. You’d sit in your room, music and lights set to match the mood, and a cute new lingerie set. Caleb was one of the first to join. You were already conversing with someone in the chat. Quickly, things got heated and once again you found yourself playing along with the commenter’s requests. While Caleb enjoyed watching you feel yourself up in your lingerie he wanted more.

“Take off the lingerie.” Caleb was stunned as he realised what he had commented. You stared at the comment and caused before smiling. “You want me to take it off?” “Yes.” “You’re gonna have to donate for that… At least $200 and we can do a private call.” Caleb hesitated to respond. “That’s not too much to ask for right?” You wondered out loud. Thinking with his dick, Caleb donated $500. The girl gasped. “Oh my God. A five hundred dollars… Are you insane? That’s so much. Thank you!” you breathed out. “Call now?” Caleb wasn’t sure why he was so desperate for her, why this random cam girl had him spending so much money after only seeing her rub oil on her body. Oh, that perfect body. “I’ll call you now. Bye to everyone else, I’ll try to be back on stream afterwards, no promises. Thank you for tuning in.” The live stream ended and Caleb was left staring At his phone, waiting. He waited around 10 minutes, eagerly waiting while slowly rubbing his palm over his boxers. He had nearly begun to think she had scammed him then the call popped up on his screen. He immediately answered.

He was greeted once again with the nose-down view of PinkLadyLure. He quickly positioned his camera to show his chest. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t figure out how to call. I’m still getting used to this.” Her sweet voice sent pleasurable shivers down Caleb’s body. “It’s fine..” His voice trembled. There was a beat of silence before he spoke again. “So… are you gonna take it off?” “Oh right, yes, sorry.” She sheepishly apologised and set up the camera against something so she was away enough that her face had now come into view, however, she wore a mask. Calebs applied more pressure as palmed his bulge, intently watching you as you slowly pulled down your bra straps. “Are you ready?” She asked her voice low and her breasts threatening to spill out. “Yea.” Caleb prayed she didn’t catch how his voice cracked. Carefully unclasping the back, she let the bra fall revealing soft, supple breasts. “Oh fuck.” Caleb let out a low groan as he stroked himself harder. Without him asking, she took some oil and rubbed it on her now fully exposed chest. She let out small moans as her hand glided over her nipples. Caleb quickly pulled his underwear off and his hard dick slapped back onto his stomach. It was loud enough for her to hear. She paused her actions and stared at his chest through the camera.

“Are you touching yourself?” The words surprised you as they left your mouth. You were feeling quite bold, the comments full of compliments from your earlier stream had gotten into your head. Someone had donated $500. Five hundred dollars. Just to see you naked. It was such an ego boost. Now you find yourself on a video call with a stranger who’s telling you to strip while getting off to you. Luckily for you, your donor seemed to be equally as much eye candy as he thought you to be. His toned chest was displayed across your screen, you could see every deep breath he took as he watched you. “Yes, I am.” His raspy voice responded, it sent waves of pleasure through your body. You smile at the camera, an idea popping into your head. In a low, needy voice you asked: “Can I see?” He was silent, except for the sound of him breathing and the faint sound of stroking. “Please…” You begged in your sweetest voice while going back to massaging your breasts. He visibly shuddered. “Fuck… Okay.” The camera view flipped around to show his hand wrapped around his cock, his tip glistening from the leaking pre-cum. You quietly gasped. “Ohh, it’s so pretty.” Your brain started to fill with cotton at the sight and your thighs pressed together. You absentmindedly slipped your hand between your legs, the growing heat since the start of the call was undeniable now. You rubbed slow, lazy circles, eyes locked on the image of the stranger stroking himself. His legs twitched and his muscles spasmed with every movement.

Your unoccupied hand found its way back to your breasts and gently fondled one, lightly tracing circles around your nipple. A loud moan left your mouth. Caleb caught onto the way your hips were slowly moving, grinding against your palm. “Are you also… Fuck I wanna see too.” He almost whined. “So desperate.” You thought. You moved and positioned the camera so that he could see how soaked your panties now were. He slightly increased his pace and you followed suit. “Ah fuck- you’re so hot… Can you take your panties off, please?..” He almost came as you slipped your panties off, revealing your glistening wet fold. Your fingers immediately slipped between them. You laughed breathlessly. “Do you think this is worth you $100?” “Mhmm… so worth-” He cut himself with a low moan. You watched the stranger’s hands move up and down, up and down, up and down. “You look so good.” You hummed and caught the way his body shuddered at your words. You rubbed yourself slowly at first, letting the pleasure wash over you in waves. “Do you want to see me come?” you asked, your voice breathy and low. Caleb sped up his pace. “Yes.” The desperation in his voice was as clear as day. “Please you’re so hot. Fuck.” The sound of him losing control pushed you further, your fingers worked faster, your moans coming louder now, unfiltered. You could hear his stroking quicken, the slick sound of it mixing with yours, creating a shared rhythm that only the two of you existed in. Your mind wandered, “This is so intense.” You couldn’t think of a reason why this stranger, with his hot voice and pretty cock, had you so turned on. You’ve never gotten this riled up when it was just you. Maybe you liked being watched.

The music from your speakers slowly faded out and all you could hear were the wet sounds coming from you both and the small praises you whispered to each other, you more than him. You had to make sure he got his $500 worth, complimenting him, and asking him to direct you. You went the whole nine yards. Caleb was nearly going feral. He tried not to take it personally whenever you’d say things like: “I wish it was your pretty cock instead of my fingers,” every time you pushed deeper into yourself. Or “You look so hot stroking it like that, just for me.” God those moans. They were going to ruin him. He’d reach the edge long ago but held back, he wanted this to last long enough that he could burn the sounds of your moans in his memory.

You felt the orgasm building quickly, and you weren’t trying to hold it back. “I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Come with me. Please…” That did it. His moan was deep and broken as he came, his body trembling, his cum spilling over his hand and abs. Watching him unravel tipped you over the edge. You cried out, your legs shaking as your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you for support. For a moment, the screen was silent. Just two heavy sets of breathing. You both stared at each other through the screen, panting, dazed. “Fuck.” Caleb let out a sigh as if he had just been hit with post-nut clarity. You let out a breathy laugh, “So- was- was that worth the $500?” “Definitely. I wanna do it again.” Despite how slightly shameful he felt, he was now hooked on you. You smiled, a little caught off guard at how nice that sounded to hear. “You do?” He hummed in response. “Well, you know what to do. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a little gift.” You blew a kiss at the camera and flashed a smile before ending the call. You snapped a few pictures and captioned them “Had so much fun with you xx. Can’t wait for next time <3” Caleb was in for another long night after seeing those.

part 2

part 3

Comment if you wanna be tagged.

[bestest-brackets]

Semifinals

Most in Need of a Hug Bracket

Who is Most in Need of a Hug?

Vote and reblog to support your favorite!

Propaganda below the cut

Layton:

Layton has the unfortunate curse of losing loved ones about every ten years. He lost his family and it was so bad his mind blocked the event out, his best friend literally slipped from his fingers as a teen and it traumatized him, his girlfriend died in an explosion that was caused by her coworker, he spent eight years alone after that, and then he was blamed for his friends death, had several near death experiences, lost MORE family, has been drugged twice and had to fight multiple giant machines trying to kill him. The man has such bad touch starvation he can barely return hugs from the people he loves most, HE NEEDS MORE HUGS! And a therapist.

SPOILERS for basically every game and the movie but like

I think I should be mentioning the fact that his parents got kidnapped at like age six. And he got seperated from his brother

And the thing about him being beaten into a month long coma when he tried to investigate his girlfriend's death?

Oh yeah and the fact that he thinks his old mentor is dead for a whole game

Or the fact that he himself quite literally dies for like a good ten minutes at least!

Or. Well. Every single near death experience they go through in every game

Depending on if you think the katrielle anime is canon he also gets cryogenically frozen for super long

Ah yeah and the daughter he has to surprise raise all of a sudden because of baron reinholds shenanigans.

Aurora and loosha dying…

Emmy's betrayal…

He has seen his best friend die and the love of his life died before he could tell her.

Homura:

She was an orphan who spent most of her early life in the hospital due to a heart condition, growing into an awkward and lonely girl. She was finally allowed to enrolled at school at age 13, where she found it very difficult to socialize due to her isolated upbringing.

It all changed, however, when she was saved from a witch by two magical girls who also turned out to be fellow classmates of hers, Madoka and Mami.

Homura fell in love with Madoka, however, she ended up watching her and Mami tragically die in the hands of a witch. Now, In the Madoka Magica universe, young girls are given the chance to become magical girls by a strange being called Kyubey, in exchanged for a wish, and since Homura had been undecided up until that point on whether or not to be a magical girl, she decided to become one, in exchange for getting a chance to save Madoka.

She was thus, given the power of time manipulation, returning to the past to save Madoka. However, despite her many attempts to do so, Madoka and her friends always ended up meeting a tragic fate, and Homura has been stuck for years in a loophole trying to save her friends from dying…or becoming witches themselves…for you see…that is the catch of the magical contract. Every Magical Girl Will One Day Become A Witch, as they have basically sold their own souls.

Madoka eventually puts an end to this cycle, by wishing to erase all witches before they are born, taking the souls of the girls into a sort of heaven. But the weight of her wish ended up making her a goddess, relegating her to be nothing more than a concept, the concept of The Law Of Cycles, erased from the minds of the mortal realm.

Homura was allowed by Madoka to retain her memories of their time with together, and resigned herself to keep her only in memories until her own death…

That was until the Kyubey kidnapped her in order to lure The Law Of Cycles and control her. Turning Homura into a witch in the process. A creature who only feels despair. Most witches, in their bitterness, want to destroy others, but Homura in witch form still wanted nothing more than to end herself, a punishment for her failure to save Madoka.

Eventually, through a series of events, Homura’s love turns her into the devil instead, pulling Madoka from the heavens, erasing her memory, and creating a reality of her own…all just to make Madoka happy. Without ever expecting her to find out.

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch Pt 4

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. FINAL PT/ PT 4

Song: Artemas - if u think i'm pretty

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Author’s note: GUYS! THIS IS REAL! The FINALE chapter of A Lover's Touch! I hope you all enjoyed this series! Please like, reblog and share this 🫶!!

Taglist: @finnishfrom1999, @sinofwriting, @scriptedinkbyxim, @unknownmystery22, @suns3treading, @4-ln4, @vyctorya, @lovebeinaprincessworld, @widow-cevans, @waywardpersonwerewolf, @freyathehuntress, @obxstiles, @tiffanyae123-blog, @uhcalli, @aileeincomplexity, @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog, @donteventry-itdude, @leclrcg, @sabrinaselina55, @pandora108, @aykxz98, @tabisswag, @ln4girlie

Word count: 26.1k

MASTERLIST - F1

As you took your seat, Charles pulled out the chair for you, his hand lingering on the small of your back, sending a thrill down your spine. You felt his warmth even as he took his own seat, the proximity of his thigh against yours setting your nerves alight.

The waiter appeared, reciting a menu that might as well have been in a foreign language for all the attention you could give it.

The only thing you could focus on was the way Charles's eyes never left yours, the way his hand found yours under the table, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin.

The food was exquisite, a symphony of flavors that seemed to mirror the tumultuous dance of your emotions. Each bite was a sensory experience, a delightful explosion that only served to heighten the anticipation of what was to come.

You sipped from your wine glass, the velvety liquid sliding down your throat, warming your insides, loosening the knots in your stomach.

But it was the dessert that truly stole the show. A rich, decadent chocolate cake, with a single, flickering candle atop it. The room seemed to hold its breath as the waiter presented it with a flourish, the flame casting a warm glow across the table.

"Happy birthday," Charles murmured, his voice a soft caress.

You stared at the cake, the reality of the situation crashing over you like a tidal wave. It was your birthday, a day you had hoped to ignore, to pass by unnoticed, but here it was, staring you in the face with all the subtlety of a neon sign.

You took a deep breath, the scent of melting wax and sugar filling your nostrils, and made a silent wish. A wish that tonight would change everything, that you'd finally find the courage to tell him how you felt.

The candle's light danced in his eyes, a reflection of the hope and longing that swirled in your soul. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your cheek. "Make a wish," he whispered.

You closed your eyes and did just that, the words echoing through your mind like a prayer. When you opened them, the flame was extinguished, a soft plume of smoke the only evidence of the silent promise you had made to yourself.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of sweet whispers and lingering glances, the tension between you a living, breathing entity that seemed to grow with every moment.

Finally, the plates were cleared, and the waiter retreated, leaving you and Charles in the cocoon of the candlelit table.

He reached for the small, velvet box he had placed next to his plate and slid it towards you. The weight of it was substantial, hinting at something precious within.

"Happy birthday, mon amour," he said, his voice a gentle caress.

You stared at the box, your heart racing. Your hand trembled as you reached for it, the warmth from the candle flame seemingly burning through the velvet. The box opened with a soft click, revealing a necklace that shimmered under the flickering light.

It was a delicate chain of gold, with a single, round diamond nestled in the center of a heart-shaped setting.

"It's beautiful," you breathed, your voice trembling.

"It's nothing compared to you," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours as he leaned over and fastened the clasp around your neck. The cool metal kissed your skin, the diamond resting in the hollow of your throat, a silent declaration of his affection.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt as you touched the necklace, the weight of it a tangible reminder of the unspoken words that hung between you. "Isn't this too much?" you whispered, the question heavy with meaning.

Charles' eyes searched yours, the candlelight playing in the depths of his pupils. He leaned back, his gaze never wavering. "Is it?" His voice was calm, but you could feel the intensity of his emotions coiled tightly within him, like a spring ready to unravel.

You nodded, your pulse racing. "I don't know what to say." The necklace felt like a brand, a mark of his claim on your heart.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. "Say nothing," he murmured. "Just take it as my gift." His eyes searched yours, the depths of them a sea of emotion. "A symbol of what you already are to me, regardless of what you decide."

You looked down at the necklace, the diamond winking back at you, a silent sentinel of hope. The warmth of his hand lingered on the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You knew what he was asking, what he was offering, and the weight of it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Thank you, Mon Prince," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. The endearment slipped out, unbidden, but it felt right. It felt like a promise, a soft surrender to the inevitable.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "You're welcome, my love," he said, the words a gentle caress that seemed to melt away the last of your defenses.

His hand found its way to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing lazy circles that sent bolts of electricity through your body.

As you stood to leave, the warmth of the restaurant clung to you like a lover's embrace, a stark contrast to the cool night outside. The limo waited, the engine purring like a contented cat, the driver holding the door open with a knowing smile.

You slid into the back seat, the leather cool against your skin, the scent of the leather mingling with the heady aroma of the chocolate cake from dinner.

The ride home was a silent crescendo of unspoken desire, the tension palpable as the city lights streaked by the tinted windows.

Each bump in the road sent a jolt through your body, a reminder of the unspoken words and the weight of the necklace around your neck.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb outside the house, the anticipation was almost too much to bear. Charles' hand was on the small of your back, guiding you out of the car, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The night air was cool, a gentle caress that seemed to whisper sweet nothings in your ear as you walked towards the lobby.

Inside the elevator, the space between you was charged with an energy that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the rising floor numbers.

Your hand found his, your fingers lacing through his, the warmth of his skin grounding you as the world outside the steel box felt like it was spinning out of control.

As the doors slid open, revealing the sanctity of your shared living space, the tension grew. The silence was a living, breathing entity, echoing through the hallway as you walked towards the apartment.

The click of your heels on the marble floor was the only sound, a seductive beat that seemed to sync with the racing of your heart.

And then, you saw it. The living room, which had once been a bastion of neutrality and order, had been transformed into a sea of crimson.

The biggest red bouquet you had ever laid eyes on dominated the space, the roses so rich and velvety, they seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The scent was intoxicating, a heady mix of love and longing that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"Charles..." you murmured, tears welling up in your eyes, a testament to the overwhelming emotion that washed over you.

The bouquet was a visual symphony of passion, a fiery sea of red that seemed to have been plucked from the very depths of love itself.

Each petal was a declaration of his feelings, a silent shout that resonated through the room. You stepped closer, the velvety softness of the roses brushing against your skin like a lover's caress.

"I know you don't like to celebrate, but I couldn't let this day pass without showing you how much you mean to me,"

Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. His hand found the small of your back, the gentle pressure guiding you into the room, the bouquet a fiery backdrop to the moment.

You stumbled forward, the scent of roses overwhelming, the tears in your eyes blurring the crimson tide before you. "I... I can't believe it," you whispered, your voice choking on the words.

"Believe it," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Pick up the flowers, my love," Charles urged, pulling out his phone with a mischievous smile. "I need to capture this moment."

You felt a strange mix of excitement and vulnerability as you reached for the bouquet.

The velvety petals whispered against your skin as you cradled them in your arms, their warmth and weight a stark contrast to the delicate necklace that lay against your chest.

You could feel the throb of your heart in your fingertips as you held the roses, a pulse that seemed to echo in time with the beat of your racing pulse.

The bouquet was almost too much, too intense, too... real. It was as if the room itself had been painted with the color of your deepest desires, and the scent was a siren's call that you couldn't ignore.

Each breath you took was filled with the sweet, heady perfume, making your head swim with the potency of its promise.

As you leaned in, the roses almost covering your face, their petals brushing against your cheeks, you felt a sudden rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the candles scattered around the room.

It was as if the very essence of love had been distilled into this bouquet, and you were inhaling it, letting it fill your lungs and seep into your soul.

You felt the camera's gaze on you, and despite the gravity of the moment, you couldn't help but smile. It was a smile filled with a mix of surprise, joy, and a touch of bewilderment. How had you gotten here? How had you allowed yourself to be swept up in this whirlwind of emotions?

The flash of the camera was a stark reminder that this was no dream. This was real. Charles was real.

His love was real. And as the light bounced off the diamond necklace that now rested against your skin, it illuminated the truth that had been hidden in the shadows of your heart for so long.

You took a deep breath, the scent of roses and candle wax intoxicating your senses. The warmth of the room seemed to pulse with the rhythm of your heart, beating a seductive tango with the anticipation that coiled in your stomach.

The dress clung to your body, a silent whisper of the passion that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

As you turned to face him, the bouquet still cradled in your arms, his eyes searched yours, the question in them unspoken but palpable.

"My love," he murmured, setting down his phone and walking toward you, the soft rustle of his shoes on the plush carpet the only sound in the room.

His hand reached up to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill over your lashes, the gentle touch of his thumb a silent promise that he would be the salve to your fears.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air, the words a gentle caress that seemed to strip away the layers of doubt and hesitation that had wrapped around your heart like a cocoon.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, the bouquet of roses still cradled in your arms, their fragrance a sweet symphony that seemed to echo the tumult of your emotions. "I've just never had someone treat me like this."

The words hung in the air between you, a confession that was both a declaration of your love and a plea for understanding. You watched as the smile on Charles' face grew, his eyes lighting up like stars in the velvety night sky.

He stepped closer, the warmth of his body a comforting embrace that seemed to melt the last of your fears.

"You deserve to be treated like a queen," he whispered, his voice a gentle breeze that seemed to caress your very soul. His hand reached out, his fingertips brushing against your cheek, the touch as soft as the petals of the roses you held. "Every single day."

The warmth of his touch was like a brand, searing away the last of your resistance. You felt the heat of his gaze, the intensity of his emotions, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let your guard down.

You placed the bouquet down on the table with a soft thud, the sound echoing through the silent apartment like a declaration of your surrender.

The roses looked like a fiery pool of passion in the candlelight, their scent intoxicating, a silent chant of love that seemed to fill the very air you breathed.

"Any more surprises for me?" you asked, your voice a tremulous whisper that seemed to hang in the air like the last note of a love song. You turned to face him, your heart racing like a wild stallion in a desert of doubt.

"No, my love," he said, his voice a gentle caress that seemed to melt the ice that had surrounded your heart. "This is it."

"Good," you murmured, taking a step closer to him. "Because I have one for you."

Without another word, you wrapped your arms around his neck, the warmth of your embrace enveloping him like a warm blanket. His eyes widened slightly in surprise before a slow smile spread across his face.

The necklace he had given you lay cool against his chest, the diamond winking in the candlelight like a silent affirmation of your decision.

"Mon amour," he murmured, the endearment a warm breath against your skin as he pulled you closer.

His arms were a steel band, strong yet gentle, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. You could feel his heart pounding in time with yours, the beat a testament to the intensity of his emotions.

The first kiss was a simple peck, a soft brush of lips that seemed to be asking permission, a question that was immediately answered by the way you melted into him. But it wasn't enough.

Not nearly enough to sate the hunger that had been building between you for weeks, the slow burn that had become an inferno.

Without breaking eye contact, Charles leaned back in for another kiss, this one stronger, more demanding. His hands slid into your hair, holding you captive as his lips moved over yours with a passion that was both fierce and gentle.

His mouth was hot and hungry, claiming yours with a fervor that stole your breath and made your knees go weak. You could feel his desire, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the beat of his heart a wild tattoo against your chest.

The second kiss was like a dam breaking, a torrent of emotions that had been held back for too long. Your arms tightened around him, pulling him closer as your mouths melded together.

The taste of chocolate lingered on his lips, a sweet reminder of the evening you'd shared, mingling with the minty freshness of his breath.

Your tongue darted out to trace the line of his lower lip, and he groaned, deep in his throat, the sound sending a shiver of pleasure through you.

The hands on your waist were firm, yet tender, holding you as if you were a delicate treasure he was afraid to break. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin above your hips, and you could feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of your dress, setting your nerves alight with every touch. You moaned into his mouth, the sound lost in the symphony of passion that seemed to fill the room.

"Are you sure about this?" Charles murmured, pulling back slightly to search your eyes. His gaze was filled with a mix of desire and uncertainty, the question hanging in the air like a fine mist.

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. You were sure. More than sure. The hunger in his eyes was a mirror to the ache in your soul, and you knew that you couldn't fight this anymore.

The fear, the doubt, the walls you'd built around your heart – they were crumbling under the weight of his love.

He seemed to read your answer in your eyes, because the next thing you knew, you were being pulled closer, your body pressed against his with an urgency that left no room for doubt.

His hands slid up your back, his fingertips tracing the line of your spine before settling on the base of your neck, holding you in place as his mouth reclaimed yours.

You felt your chest tighten, your breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

The dress, which had once felt like a declaration of intent, now felt like a prison, trapping the heat that was building within you. His thumbs stroked the bare skin above your dress, sending bolts of pleasure straight to your core, making you ache for more.

The room seemed to spin around you, the candles casting a dizzying array of shadows and light across the walls, a dance of passion that mirrored the tumult in your heart.

The air grew thick, charged with the electricity of desire, making it difficult to breathe.

You felt your heart hammering in your chest, so loud it seemed to drown out the sound of his breath, the beat of his own pulse against your palm where it lay against his chest. 

Shyness overtook you, and you found yourself hiding in the crook of his neck, his strong arms a comforting embrace that shielded you from the world.

Your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his skin seeping through, soothing the nerves that had you trembling like a leaf in a storm.

His scent, a potent blend of cologne and pure masculine energy, wrapped around you like a warm blanket, chasing away the chill of doubt that had clung to you for so long.

As you melted into his embrace, the feeling of rightness grew stronger, a warmth that started in the pit of your stomach and spread like wildfire through your veins, reaching every part of you, igniting your soul.

It was like you'd been lost in a cold, dark wilderness, and he was the sun breaking through the clouds, bathing you in warmth and light.

The gnawing anxiety that had been your constant companion for weeks began to recede, the edges of your fears smoothing out under the relentless tide of his affection.

With each beat of his heart, you felt the yearning within you grow stronger, the ache to be closer, to be one, a hunger that had been gnawing at you from the moment you first saw him, and now, finally, it was being satiated.

The words you’d spoken, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” felt both incredibly simple and profoundly significant, a quiet acknowledgment of a truth that had been simmering between you for months, perhaps even years.

He tilted your chin up again, his eyes soft but intensely focused. The uncertain flicker you’d seen before had been replaced by a quiet certainty, a deep reservoir of affection that seemed to cradle you.

“And I, you,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your lips. “More than you know.”

With that, he kissed you again, his mouth claiming yours with a tenderness that belied the passion that smoldered just beneath the surface.

His hands cradled your face as if you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world, and yet there was a strength in his touch, a promise of protection and possession that sent a thrill down your spine.

You muzzled into his neck, breathing in the heady scent of him, feeling the pulse of his life beneath your lips. The warmth of his skin, the scratch of his stubble, the softness of his throat – it was all so real, so vivid, that you could almost believe that this was a dream.

But the way his arms tightened around you, the way his breath hitched when your teeth grazed his skin, told you that this was anything but a fantasy.

"I have one final surprise for you," Charles said, a bit shyly.

You looked up at him with a question in your eyes, your heart racing like it was preparing for a race of its own. What could possibly top this moment? You thought, your hand resting on his chest where his heart was hammering away like a drumline.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, his voice a low, velvety murmur that seemed to resonate through every nerve in your body.

You did as told, the darkness behind your lids a stark contrast to the warm, golden light that filled the room.

As you closed your eyes, you felt him guide you by the hand, the gentle tug a silent promise of something more, something exciting, something that would change the very fabric of the night.

Each step you took was a step into the unknown, but the warmth of his hand was a beacon of comfort in the sea of uncertainty.

When he finally said, "You can open your eyes now," you did so with a gasp.

The sight that greeted you was nothing short of breathtaking. The floor was a canvas of crimson and ivory, with rose petals arranged in the shape of love hearts stretching out from the bed to the door.

Balloons, also in shades of red and white, bobbed gently in the air, each one with the question, "Will you be my girlfriend?" scrawled across it in Charles' unmistakable handwriting.

The bed itself was a vision of romance. The crisp, white sheets were adorned with more rose petals, creating a love nest that seemed to beckon to you with a silent, seductive whisper.

The headboard was framed by a heart-shaped arch of roses, the blooms so fresh they looked as if they'd been plucked from the garden just moments ago.

The balloons, floating like a cloud of love notes in the air, each one asking the question that had been dancing around the two of you for what felt like an eternity. It was a declaration of love so bold, so unabashed, that you felt your heart swell in your chest.

"Is this...?" you began, the words trailing off as you took in the scene before you.

"Yes," Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wanted to make sure you knew how much you mean to me."

You felt the weight of the moment, the gravity of his confession, and the love in the room was so palpable that you could almost taste it. Each rose petal seemed to whisper a promise, a vow of devotion that was echoed in the soft thud of your heart.

Taking a tentative step forward, you felt the petals beneath your bare feet, the sensation a gentle reminder of the tender care that had gone into this surprise.

Your eyes swept over the balloons, reading each "Will you be my girlfriend?" with a thrill that grew stronger with each syllable.

You turned to face him, the love in his gaze so potent that it seemed to light up the very air between you. "How could I say no?" you murmured, the words a soft sigh of surrender to the inevitable.

The smile that lit up his face was like the dawn breaking over the horizon, chasing away the last shadows of doubt. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours, the warmth of his touch a lifeline in the sea of emotions that threatened to drown you.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmured, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on your palm. "Just be with me."

You nodded, the weight of his gaze feeling like a warm embrace, a silent promise of understanding.

The words had been said, the intentions laid bare, but the reality of it all was still sinking in, a warm, golden glow that seemed to envelop you from the inside out.

But before you could say anything more, the moment was shattered by the sudden, unexpected sound of a knock at the door. The sharp, staccato beat echoed through the apartment, a discordant note in the symphony of your emotions.

You both froze, the spell of the moment broken by the intrusion. The tension in the air thickened, a tangible presence that seemed to coil around you like a serpent. You could feel Charles' grip on your hand tighten, a silent question in the tension of his fingers.

With a muttered "merde," he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The hands pointed to a time much later than you had realized.

"What is it?" you whispered, the question slipping from your lips before you could think better of it.

"It's Arthur," Charles replied, his voice tight with frustration. "He's dropping Leo off. I was hoping for more... alone time with you."

"Charles, you already spent the entire day treating me," you smiled, "can I not shower my little baby with some affection?"

The tension in the room dissipated like a storm cloud breaking for the sun, and his features softened into a warm smile that made your heart skip a beat.

"You know I can't resist when you call him that," he said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

"I know," you whispered, your voice thick with affection as you stepped back and took his hand, leading him to the door. "Let's go greet them."

As you pulled the door open, the sound of Leo's excited yipping filled the air, a high-pitched symphony of joy that seemed to resonate in your very bones.

The little dog shot into the room like a comet, his tail a blur of wagging happiness, and you couldn't help but laugh as he leaped into your arms, licking your face with a passion that was both overwhelming and utterly endearing.

The love and affection in his eyes was a mirror to what you felt in your heart for Charles.

You tightened your grip around him, his warm, furry body a comforting weight against your chest as he squirmed and wriggled in your arms, his tiny paws scrabbling at the air in pure delight.

"I see someone's happy to be back," you said, chuckling, your cheeks aching with the force of your smile.

Arthur's eyes danced with mischief as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you and Charles with barely concealed amusement.

"Happy birthday, Y/N!" he exclaimed, the words a delighted shout that seemed to echo in the quiet apartment.

You couldn't help but laugh as Leo's tail wagged even faster, his tiny body vibrating with excitement. You set the squirming puppy down, and he bolted over to Charles, jumping up to greet him with a flurry of licks and yips.

"Merci, Arthur," Charles said, his voice a mix of gratitude and mischief. "You're a lifesaver."

Arthur chuckled, his eyes flicking down to the unmistakable mark on Charles' neck. "It's no problem," he smirked. "Looks like you two had a good time."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. You hadn't noticed the kiss mark in your rush to answer the door, and now, with Arthur's knowing gaze on you, it felt like a neon sign announcing your intimate evening.

"Here's your gift," Arthur said, holding out a big bag with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. The fabric was soft and luxurious, the weight of it hinting at something substantial within.

"Thank you, Arthur," you managed to say, taking the bag with a tentative smile. The weight of it was surprising, the fabric a smooth, luxurious silk that whispered promises of something extravagant.

Arthur winked at you, his eyes twinkling with brotherly mischief before he leaned in to whisper, "I had it specially made for the two of you."

The bag was heavy in your hands, the contents a mystery that made your heart race with anticipation. You glanced at Charles, whose own curiosity was piqued by his brother's knowing smile.

"Let's see what you've got for us," you murmured, the words a challenge that hung in the air as you reached into the bag.

Your fingers brushed against something soft and velvety, sending a thrill down your spine. You pulled out a blindfold, the fabric a rich, midnight black that shimmered with an iridescent sheen in the candlelight.

"Ah, a little something to spice up the evening," Arthur said, his tone suggestive. You felt your cheeks burn as you looked at the blindfold, the implications clear.

This was not a simple birthday gift. It was a declaration of intent, a wink at the passion that had been simmering just below the surface.

"Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you hold the blindfold in your trembling hands. The weight of it, the softness of the fabric, seemed to be a tangible representation of the intensity of the night ahead.

You couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement, a shiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with the cool evening air.

"You're welcome," Arthur replied, his smile widening into a knowing grin. He ruffled Leo's fur before turning to leave. "I'll let you two lovebirds get back to your... festivities," he said, his eyes twinkling.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the room grew quiet again, the only sound the gentle rustle of the petals underfoot and the soft, steady breathing of the man who held your heart in the palm of his hand.

"Mon dieu," Charles muttered, a hint of frustration coloring his voice, "sometimes I hate that boy."

You giggled, the sound a sweet, delicate melody in the quiet room. "It's a great gift nevertheless," you said, stroking the soft fabric of the blindfold.

"But, mon amour," Charles murmured, stepping closer, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your breath hitch, "you know I can't ruin you on the first day of us dating."

The words sent a thrill through you, a jolt of electricity that had your core tightening with need. You met his gaze, your own eyes flashing with a challenge.

"Is that what this is?" you whispered, your voice a sultry caress that seemed to dance in the air.

Charles stepped closer, his breath a warm gust that seemed to envelop you. "If you wish it to be," he murmured, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you against him.

You could feel the heat of him, the solidness of his body a stark contrast to the delicate fabric of your dress.

You tilted your head back, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. "I think you should save this for another time," you murmured, your breath a warm whisper that seemed to dance across his skin.

He stilled, the hunger in his gaze fading slightly, replaced by a look of confusion and something else, something that looked suspiciously like disappointment.

But before he could say anything, you stepped back, scooping Leo up into your arms.

The puppy squirmed happily, oblivious to the tension in the air, his tiny paws scratching at your chest as he licked your chin.

You carried him into the living room, the plush carpet feeling like a cloud beneath your bare feet. The room was still, the shadows cast by the flickering candles playing across the walls, a silent testament to the passion that had been building between the two of you.

As you settled onto the couch, Leo curled up in your lap, his warm, panting breath a gentle reminder of the real world that lay just outside the bubble of desire you'd created.

You stroked his soft fur, the rhythmic motion soothing the racing pulse in your wrist. The room was filled with the scent of the roses, their sweet, heady perfume a silent serenade to the love that hung in the air.

Charles followed you, his eyes never leaving yours, his steps deliberate and sure.

The candlelight played across his features, casting him in a warm, golden glow that made him look like a god of passion come to claim his mortal bride. He knelt beside the couch, his hand resting gently on your thigh.

"Can I at least hold you tonight?" he asked, the words a soft, tender plea that seemed to resonate through the very core of your being.

His hand was a brand on your skin, the heat of it a gentle reminder of his presence, his desire.

You looked at him, the love and longing in his eyes a stark contrast to the coolness of the air. The question was simple, yet it held the weight of a thousand unspoken words, a silent confession of his need for you.

For a moment, you hesitated, the fear of what might come flooding back in a cold, hard wave.

But then, you took a deep breath, the scent of the roses filling your lungs with their sweet perfume. You looked down at Leo, his tiny eyes closed in contentment as he snored gently in your arms.

You felt the warmth of the love you had for him, for the way he had brought you and Charles closer together.

And you knew, deep down, that you couldn't deny the man kneeling before you what he so clearly needed.

You nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. "Yes," you whispered, your voice a soft caress that seemed to echo through the room. "You can hold me tonight."

The relief that flooded Charles' face was palpable, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing as he slid onto the couch beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist.

Leo grumbled in his sleep but made no move to leave the warmth of your embrace.

You leaned back against him, his strong, steady heartbeat a soothing rhythm that seemed to sync with the calming strokes of your hand through Leo's fur.

The warmth of his chest against your back was a comfort, a promise of protection that you hadn't realized you'd craved until this moment.

The world outside the apartment faded away as you nestled into him, your eyes closing in contentment. The plush cushions cradled your body, the velvety fabric a gentle embrace that seemed to whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

The soft glow of the candles cast a warm light across the room, painting everything in a hue of gold that made you feel as if you were in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated love.

Leo's gentle snores were a soothing lullaby, the steady rise and fall of his chest a testament to the peace he felt in your arms.

His warmth was a balm to your soul, a reminder that, despite the chaos of the world, there was a small pocket of happiness that was yours and yours alone.

You felt Charles's breath on the back of your neck, a warm, steady presence that seemed to melt the last of your defenses. His hand, strong and calloused from years of racing, stroked your arm with a gentle rhythm that mirrored the beat of your heart.

Leo shifted in your arms, his paws twitching as he chased a dream, and you tightened your grip on him instinctively, drawing comfort from his warm, living weight.

You felt a strange mix of emotions—safety, love, and a yearning so deep it was almost painful.

"I've never seen you so relaxed," Charles whispered, his breath a gentle caress against your skin.

You couldn't disagree. With Leo nestled in your arms and Charles's warm embrace around your waist, you felt as if you were floating on a cloud of pure contentment.

The dog's gentle breathing and the steady thud of his heartbeat served as a soothing metronome, lulling you into a tranquil state of bliss.

Every muscle in your body seemed to melt into the couch, the tension of the last few months seeping away like rainwater through soil.

Leaning back into Charles' chest, you felt the reassuring beat of his heart against your back, a rhythm that seemed to sync with your own.

His strong arms held you securely, his hand tracing gentle patterns on your skin that sent goosebumps skittering across your body like leaves in the wind.

You felt cherished, protected, and, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, truly alive.

"Wake me up before it's 11," you murmured into the quiet, your voice thick with the weight of your impending slumber.

The words were a whispered plea, a silent acknowledgment of the fear that had become a constant companion. You didn't want to miss a moment of this newfound peace, this delicate truce with your own heart.

"You always say that and then you punch me for waking you up," Charles teased, his voice a warm caress that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket.

You couldn't help but smile at his words, the corners of your mouth turning up despite the heaviness in your chest. "It's just a reflex," you said, your voice a soft murmur. "I don't want to lose this moment."

Charles chuckled, the sound a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through his chest and into your very soul. "You won't," he assured you, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. "I'll wake you up with a kiss."

You felt a thrill at the promise in his words, the warmth of his lips leaving a trail of fire across your skin. "Deal," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as you allowed yourself to sink further into the comfort of his embrace.

As you drifted off, the steady rhythm of Charles's heartbeat lulled you into a deep, peaceful sleep. It was a feeling you hadn't experienced in months, a tranquil oasis in a desert of turmoil and doubt.

The gentle strokes of his hand on your arm became the only thing you were aware of, a comforting reminder that you weren't alone. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Ma chérie, wake up," Charles murmured, his breath warm against your cheek as he placed feather-light kisses across your face.

You felt the brush of his lips on your forehead, the tip of your nose, the soft skin just below your ear, each touch sending a delightful shiver down your spine.

His hand slid up to cup your chin, tilting your head back so that his mouth could find yours. The kiss was tender and lingering, a silent promise of the passion that awaited.

As your eyes fluttered open, the room swam into focus.

The early morning light cast a soft, golden glow across the crumpled sheets, illuminating the strong lines of Charles's shoulders and the fiery tangle of your hair spread out on the pillow.

He hovered above you, his emerald eyes filled with a gentle hunger that mirrored your own.

With a quiet sigh, you reached up to trace the contours of his face with your fingertips, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw and the softness of his lips.

"Good morning," you whispered, your voice still thick with the remnants of sleep.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you like a sweet, seductive melody. "I've been waiting for you to wake up," he confessed.

"See, I told you I wasn't going to slap you when I wake up," you muttered, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The memory of his teasing words from the night before danced in the air between you, a secret shared only by the lovers who knew the thrill of their own private language.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Charles replied, "Ah, but I never said I wouldn't kiss you senseless instead." His grin widened as he lowered his mouth to yours again, this time with a hunger that was anything but gentle.

You melted into the kiss, the softness of the bed beneath you contrasting with the firm pressure of Charles's body above.

His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, holding you in place as his tongue explored the warm cavern of your mouth, dancing with yours in a silent, intimate conversation.

Each stroke sent a bolt of desire straight to your core, making you ache for more.

As the kiss finally broke, leaving you both breathless, Charles rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that stole your breath away once more.

"You are exquisite," he breathed, his voice a low rumble that resonated deep within your chest.

You blushed, a warm flush spreading across your skin. "And you," you managed to say, your voice still a little shaky, "are a very persistent man."

He laughed, a rich, full sound that made your heart sing. "Only when it comes to you, ma chérie."

He shifted his weight, settling beside you on the bed, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his side. The warmth of his body was a comforting anchor, a familiar solace.

"Is that why you changed my clothes?" you teased, running your hand over the soft fabric of the pajamas that had replaced the silky dress you'd worn to bed.

"It's nothing new," he said, his voice a low purr. "I've always had a thing for a woman in her nightclothes."

You giggled, feeling a thrill of excitement at his words. "And what exactly is it about me in pajamas that drives you wild?"

"Everything," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they roved over your body. He leaned in, his nose skimming the line of your jaw, his breath hot on your skin.

"Charles, you're a wild one," you giggled, squirming in his embrace. His touch was electric, setting every nerve ending alight.

He pulled back slightly, a knowing smile playing across his lips as he met your gaze. "Am I?" he challenged, his voice a seductive growl.

"Always," you replied, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the sound of your ragged breathing. He traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his touch featherlight.

"You know," he said softly, breaking the spell, "I didn't just change you into pajamas because I like them."

Your eyebrows rose in question.

"You fell asleep in my arms. You were exhausted. I didn't want you to be uncomfortable in that dress all night." He paused, his gaze turning tender. "Sometimes, ma chérie, the wildness comes from protecting what's precious to you."

His words caught you off guard, melting away the last vestiges of your skepticism.

"Thank you," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "For what?"

"For seeing me," you said, "for really seeing me."

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones. "I see you," he promised, "and I always will."

You kissed him once more before removing yourself from Charles' grip, feeling his reluctance as your bodies parted. Your legs slid over the side of the bed, and you stood, the coolness of the floorboards against your bare feet a stark contrast to the heat you'd just shared.

The light from the windows painted the room in a soft, ethereal glow that wrapped around you like a lover's embrace. You felt his eyes follow you as you moved across the room, the weight of his gaze a gentle caress.

Turning to face him, you took in the picture he made, sprawled across the bed with the sheets tangled around his muscular form. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his chest rising and falling with each breath he took.

His eyes searched yours, and you could almost see the cogs turning in his mind, the unspoken question of where this moment was leading.

You stepped closer, standing before him, and leaned down to kiss him once more. It was a kiss filled with the sweetness of the morning and the promise of the day ahead.

His arms reached for you again, but this time you gently pushed them away, a soft smile playing on your lips. "I need a shower," you murmured against his mouth.

He groaned in protest but released you, watching with a smoldering gaze as you padded towards the en-suite bathroom. Your pajama top slipped off your shoulder, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath.

The shower was already running, the sound of water hitting the tiles a sweet serenade to your senses.

You stepped in, the warm spray cascading over your body, the droplets dancing across your skin like a gentle caress. You closed your eyes, letting the water wash away the last traces of sleep.

Emerging from the steam-filled bathroom, the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air, you found the bedroom empty. A pang of disappointment flickered through you, quickly replaced by curiosity.

You searched the room, your eyes landing on the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Among them, a crumpled shirt and a pair of shorts.

The shirt was one of Charles's, the fabric soft from countless washes and carrying the faint scent of his cologne. The shorts were a pair you hadn't seen in a while, the fabric whispering against your skin as you slipped them on.

The smell of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee led you to the small kitchenette. And there he was. Charles, back to you, clad only in his pajama bottoms, a wooden spoon in his hand as he hummed softly to himself.

Sitting by Charles on the floor was Leo, his tail thumping rhythmically against the hardwood, eyes glued to the skillet with hopeful anticipation. His fur was a mess of sleep and happiness, his tongue lolling out as he watched the dance of breakfast being prepared.

“You’re looking very hot right now,” you said, your voice husky with sleep and lingering desire.

You trailed your hand down his bare back, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, before hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter.

Leo turned his head at the sound of your voice, his tail wagging even faster. His eyes, filled with love and anticipation, beseeched you for attention.

You couldn’t resist the furry charmer, so you slid off the counter and bent down to give him a good morning rub, his fur warm and soft beneath your palms.

His tail thumped against the floor in sheer joy as you scratched behind his ears, the sensation sending a delicious shiver through his body.

"Good boy," you whispered, planting a kiss on his furry forehead.

Leo's eyes closed in bliss, savoring the affectionate gesture.

As you slid back on the counter, the coolness of the marble sent a delightful shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with gooseflesh from the sudden change in temperature.

You watched Charles in quiet fascination, his broad shoulders moving with an easy grace as he flipped the bacon, the muscles in his arms flexing with each motion.

Charles chuckled, turning to face you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Morning, beautiful. Hope that shower wasn't too nice without me. Someone here was getting impatient for breakfast." He gestured towards Leo with a nod.

The smell of crispy bacon filled the room, mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee. Your stomach growled in response, the scents setting your mouth to watering.

"Ah, I see the food's ready," you quipped, watching as Charles plated up a generous portion for both of you, piling eggs, toast, and crispy bacon onto two plates.

He then moved to the dog bowl, scooping out a perfectly measured serving of Leo's kibble, a task done with such tenderness that it was clear how much he cared for his furry companion.

Leo's tail wagged even faster as he caught the scent of his food, his eyes darting between you and the bowl with unbridled excitement.

"Alright, Leo, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Charles chuckled, setting your plate on the counter next to you before placing the dog food on the floor.

When the breakfast preparations were complete, Charles wiped his hands on a dish towel and approached you, standing between your legs, effectively trapping you on the counter.

He leaned in, his eyes locking with yours, and kissed you senseless. It was a deep, soul-stirring kiss, filled with the comfort of familiarity and the excitement of renewed desire. He tasted of coffee and bacon, a decidedly potent and utterly irresistible combination.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, savoring the feel of his bare chest against your still-damp skin.

Leo, ever the opportunist, took the momentary distraction to scarf down a few mouthfuls of his breakfast, his munching a happy counterpoint to the passionate symphony of your kiss.

The sound of his contented chewing brought a smile to your lips as you pulled back from Charles' embrace, watching the dog devour his meal with such enthusiasm.

The sounds of a happy family morning filled the air, a perfect blend of love, warmth, and the promise of a beautiful day ahead.

Leo's munching grew louder as he dove into his breakfast, his tail wagging so vigorously it was a miracle he didn't knock over the bowl. Each crunch of his teeth was a declaration of delight, a symphony of satisfaction that echoed through the room.

His eyes remained locked on the two humans he adored, a silent acknowledgment that this moment of contentment was shared among the three of you. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The crisp morning air nipped at your cheeks as Charles and you wrestled with your overflowing suitcases. Today was the day: Zandvoort, the Dutch Grand Prix, and your first real trip as Charles Leclerc's girlfriend.

It had only been a week since you officially put a label on it, a week filled with shy smiles, stolen kisses, and a comforting sense of rightness.

Between you, nestled in his plush travel carrier, Leo, Charles' miniature dachshund, wriggled excitedly. His little nose twitched, sensing the adventure to come.

“Alright, Leo, behave yourself on the plane,” Charles said, ruffling the dog's ears. Leo responded with a happy yip.

"He understands every word you say," you chuckled, zipping up your own bag.

"Of course, he does. He's a Leclerc," Charles grinned, grabbing your hand and pulling me towards him for a quick kiss. A shiver ran down your spine – not from the cold this time.

The butterflies were still fluttering, even after a week.

Yesterday had been a whirlwind of telling your closest friends and family about you two.

Honestly, most of them practically rolled their eyes. Apparently, the simmering tension and obvious affection hadn’t exactly been a secret.

"Finally, guys!" Carlos had exclaimed, clapping Charles on the back. "Took you long enough!"

But the most heartwarming reaction came from Charles’ mother, Pascale. She had wrapped you both in a tight hug, her eyes glistening with happiness.

“Enfin, fils, tu as eu le courage de lui demander de sortir,” she’d murmured in French, meaning "Finally, son, you had the courage to ask her out."

Charles had turned a shade of crimson, but you’d just squeezed Pascale’s hand, warmth flooding your chest. It felt so good to be welcomed into his family.

Now, as you two navigated the airport security with Leo in tow, you felt a mix of excitement and nerves. Being a girlfriend to an F1 driver meant stepping into a world of intense scrutiny, flashing cameras, and a constant spotlight.

But holding Charles' hand, seeing the genuine happiness in his eyes, made me think you could handle anything.

"Ready?" Charles asked, his gaze meeting mine.

"Ready as I'll ever be," you replied, offering him a confident smile.

The flight was thankfully uneventful. Leo, true to his pampered prince nature, slept soundly in his carrier, occasionally letting out a soft snore.

Charles spent most of the time going over race strategies, muttering technical jargon under his breath.

You pretended to understand, but mostly just enjoyed the focused intensity that emanated from him.

Upon arrival in the Netherlands, the air was thick with the anticipation of the Grand Prix. The moment you stepped into the luxurious hotel suite, the grandeur took your breath away.

The space was bathed in a warm glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling city of Zandvoort. The scent of fresh flowers and the faint hum of the ocean beyond the dunes filled the room, creating an atmosphere of serenity amidst the racing chaos outside.

Leo strutted out of his carrier, his little legs moving at an impressive speed as he explored the suite, his nails tapping rhythmically against the marble floor.

He seemed to know that this place was as much his as it was yours and Charles'. You watched him with a fond smile, feeling a sense of belonging that you hadn’t quite anticipated.

While Charles took a call with his manager, discussing the upcoming race weekend, you unpacked your clothes with care, arranging them neatly in the walk-in closet.

Each item held the promise of a new experience, a story waiting to unfold in the days ahead. You felt a thrill as you touched the elegant dress you’d picked for the gala dinner, the fabric whispering secrets of the glamourous evening to come.

As you moved around the suite, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of surreality. This wasn’t just any hotel; it was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where the walls had surely seen countless moments of triumph and passion.

When Charles hung up, he found you standing in front of the floor-length mirror, holding the dress against your body. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, the fabric molding to your curves, painting a picture of the woman who’d be by his side this weekend.

"That looks..." His voice trailed off, thick with desire.

You looked over your shoulder, catching his gaze in the mirror. "You like it?"

He stepped closer, his breath hot against your neck, making you shiver. "I like it a lot."

"I can't wait to see it on you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through every inch of your body.

You grinned, feeling a playful spark ignite within you. "Well, you just have to wait," you teased, hanging the dress back in the closet and turning to face him, your eyes dancing with mischief.

Leo, ever the opportunist, took that moment to sneak out of the bedroom with something clutched in his mouth – something that looked suspiciously like the hat Charles had been wearing earlier.

"Hey!" Charles exclaimed, catching the thief in the act. "Leo, drop it!"

But Leo, with the stubbornness of his breed, took off at a sprint, the hat still firmly in his jaws. His tail wagged like a miniature flag, signaling his delight in the impromptu game of chase.

Charles, unable to resist the playfulness, let out a laugh that was a mix of surprise and exasperation. He took off after the dog, his long legs eating up the distance between them. "Leo, that's not a toy!"

You watched the chase unfold with amusement, your heart fluttering at the sight of your boyfriend in such a light-hearted mood. The suite's spacious layout made for a perfect racetrack for the miniature dachshund, and Leo took full advantage of it.

He darted around the plush sofas and the sleek, modern coffee table, his tiny legs moving in a blur as he weaved through the room.

The hat looked ridiculous in Leo's mouth, but the joy in his eyes was infectious. Charles' laugh grew louder as he pursued the dog, his own hat flying off in the process.

The hat's brim had caught the light just right, and you couldn’t help but admire the way the sun kissed the golden strands of his hair.

His blue eyes sparkled with humor as he chased Leo around the room, the two of them a whirlwind of motion and color.

The chase led them into the expansive bathroom, where the polished chrome fixtures reflected the playful chaos. The sound of their panting and the slap of their footsteps against the marble echoed off the walls, creating a symphony of laughter and excitement.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching as Charles scooped Leo into his arms, finally claiming victory over the stolen hat.

Leo, unbothered by the sudden capture, licked Charles' face enthusiastically, the hat now a forgotten prize between his teeth.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, the tension of the week melting away. . . . 

Once you arrived at the Zandvoort circuit, the atmosphere was electric. The roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber, the buzz of anticipation. You had to admit, it was intoxicating.

As Ferrari's social media manager, you had been to races before, but this time was different. This time, you weren’t just there for the job. You were there for him.

You watched as Charles disappeared into the Ferrari garage, his team already waiting for him. The pit lane was a whirlwind of activity.

Mechanics in their pristine overalls moved with balletic precision around the cars, while engineers huddled over screens and clipboards, discussing last-minute tweaks to the setup.

The weight of your new role as both Charles' girlfriend and Ferrari's social media manager settled on your shoulders. You had to capture the essence of this historic race weekend, while also managing the delicate dance of a new relationship in the public eye.

Your heart fluttered as you thought about the pressures he faced. The expectations, the rivalries, the desire to win. You felt a fierce protectiveness for him, and a burning need to support him through it all.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating scent of gasoline and hot asphalt, and set to work. The first order of business was to create a series of teaser posts for Ferrari's social media channels, building anticipation for the weekend ahead.

You snapped pictures of the iconic red cars lined up in the garage, the team's logo gleaming in the artificial light. Your fingers danced over the keyboard, crafting captions that hinted at the passion and determination behind the scenes.

As you moved around the bustling area, you noticed Charles deep in conversation with his engineers. His face was a study in concentration, his eyes darting between the car and the data screens.

You couldn't resist the urge to capture the moment. Raising your phone, you took a quick shot, the camera shutter clicking almost silently.

But in that fraction of a second, his gaze flicked up and met yours.

The intensity of his focus didn’t waver, but his features softened ever so slightly. The harsh lines around his mouth smoothed out, and his eyes crinkled at the corners – the barest hint of a smile that was just for you.

It was a look that spoke volumes without a single word exchanged. It was as if he’d allowed you a glimpse into the private world behind the racing helmet, a world of vulnerability and raw emotion that the cameras never saw.

The engineers, oblivious to the silent exchange, continued their discussion, gesticulating wildly as they debated over tire compounds and aerodynamic adjustments.

You felt the heat in your cheeks and looked away, the intimacy of the moment feeling almost intrusive.

You turned your attention back to the buzzing pit lane, the cacophony of sounds and smells washing over you like a wave. Your heart thudded in your chest, a reminder of the exhilarating world you’d entered.

The free practice days were coming through, and you had a meeting with the Ferrari press team. You had to juggle the excitement of being part of the race weekend with the professionalism of your job.

As you approached the makeshift conference room, you smoothed your hair and took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the onslaught of questions and demands.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee and the hum of anticipation. Journalists from around the world were setting up their equipment, their eyes sharp and hungry for the latest scoop. You took your place at the table next to the Ferrari team's PR manager, a woman named Isabella.

She gave you a nod of encouragement, and you felt a flicker of gratitude for her no-nonsense approach to the job.

The meeting was supposed to be about the Dutch Grand Prix, the focus on the team's preparations, the strategies, and the expected challenges of the historic circuit. But as the team principal droned on, all you could think about was Charles.

The way his fingers had felt when they brushed against yours as he handed you his phone to capture a candid shot. The sound of his laughter as he played with Leo.

The way his eyes had locked onto yours across the garage, a silent promise of what was to come.

The room was filled with the murmur of important voices, but your mind was elsewhere. The words blurred into a background hum as you recalled the feel of his arms around you, the way he’d whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you drifted off to sleep the night before.

The meeting was quick, thankfully, the agenda concise and to the point. You nodded along, making the appropriate noises, but your thoughts remained with him.

The Dutch Grand Prix was the talk of the town, but your heart was racing for entirely different reasons.

The anticipation of the race was a distant second to the anticipation of your stolen moments with Charles. The scent of the sea mingled with the adrenaline of the track, creating a potent cocktail of excitement that had you on edge.

The meeting room was a blur of faces and voices, but your eyes remained fixed on the spot where you knew Charles would be in just a few short hours.

The team's strategies and predictions swirled around you like the dust kicked up by the F1 cars, but all you could hear was the echo of his voice from earlier that day, the gentle way he'd called you 'mi amor' as you walked together under the Zandvoort sun.

The PR manager, a stern woman named Isabella, droned on about media appearances and social media strategies, but you found yourself lost in the thought of Charles' strong arms around you, the comforting beat of his heart against yours.

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you recalled the way he'd whispered sweet nothings in your ear during the flight, the way his breath had tickled the sensitive skin of your neck.

The meeting was quick, a testament to the team's efficiency and the no-nonsense approach that seemed to define Ferrari.

The moment it ended, you were out of your seat and making your way back to the suite, eager to get ready for the weekend's events.

The walk back felt like an eternity, the anticipation of the free practice weighing heavily on your mind.

The circuit's layout was a blur as you navigated the maze of corridors and stairs, the distant sound of engines revving up growing louder with each step.

Your heart raced, not just for the excitement of the impending race, but for the thought of seeing Charles in his element.

And then, just as suddenly as the engines had caught your attention, you were pulled into a room. The door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the cacophony of the track.

The sudden darkness was jarring, and your eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit space. The walls were lined with shelves of trophies and racing memorabilia, casting eerie shadows on the floor.

The faint scent of leather and oil filled the air, hinting at the countless hours of passion and sweat that had been poured into the sport.

You felt a warm hand on your arm, guiding you further into the room. It was Charles, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous twinkle.

"I stole you away from the chaos," he whispered, his breath tickling your ear. "I need a moment of peace before I go out there."

The room was small, a hidden sanctuary amidst the bustling circuit. It was clear this was a place for drivers to retreat, to collect their thoughts and find their focus before the madness of the race.

The walls were lined with signed helmets and photos, each one telling a story of triumph and defeat. But all you could focus on was the man standing in front of you, dressed in his racing suit, the Ferrari emblem emblazoned on his chest.

Your initial surprise slowly morphed into a bewildered smile. "Stole me away?" you echoed, your voice a little breathless, not just from the unexpected pull but from his sheer proximity.

The air around him seemed to crackle with an energy that was distinct from the roaring engines outside.

You were intimately aware of the gentle pressure of his hand on your arm, a warmth that seeped through your sleeve and settled deep within you.

His eyes, those impossibly captivating emerald pools, met yours. There was an unspoken challenge in them, a hint of the playful bravado that defined him both on and off the track.

He didn't release your arm immediately, his thumb idly stroking your skin. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the circuit and the unexpectedly loud thumping of your own heart.

You found yourself lost in his gaze, an eternity unfolding in the space between your eyes. It wasn't just the thrill of being in such close quarters with a man admired by millions; it was the quiet intensity he directed solely at you that stole your breath.

His smile was soft now, the mischievous sparkle softening into something deeper, more tender. He didn't look away, nor did you. It was a silent communion, a shared secret moment stolen from the demanding glare of the public eye.

"Yes, stole you," he confirmed, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the quiet room. "You looked… lost in thought. Or perhaps just lost." A teasing smirk played on his lips, and you felt your own lips twitch in response.

"Lost?" you scoffed playfully, though a blush was creeping up your neck. "I was navigating the labyrinth of Ferrari corridors. A feat in itself."

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made the small room feel even more intimate. "A feat indeed. But I suspect you were also thinking about something else."

His gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, from your eyes to your lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second, before returning to meet your eyes once more.

The simple movement sent a jolt through you, a clear signal that this wasn't just a friendly chat. This was something more.

Your breath hitched. The air between you thickened, charged with an undeniable current. You felt a desperate urge to lean into him, to close the minuscule space that separated your bodies.

He must have felt it too, for he subtly shifted his weight, closing that gap further.

You were so close now, you could feel the warmth radiating from his racing suit, smell the faint, clean scent of his skin beneath the fabric, mingled with the subtle, expensive tang of his cologne.

"Oh?" you asked, feigning innocence, your voice barely a whisper. "And what might that be?"

His eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you were thinking about how much you wanted to see me out on the track?" His voice dropped possessively, making it a statement rather than a question.

He then leaned in even closer, until his voice was a mere breath against your ear, "Or perhaps… you were thinking about how much you wanted to see me in here."

A shiver ran down your spine. The warmth of his breath on your neck was intoxicating. You could feel the soft fabric of his racing suit brush against your clothes as he moved.

Every fibre of your being was attuned to him. The trophies and helmets lining the walls, the very essence of motorsport, faded into the background. There was only Charles, and you, in this tiny, clandestine room.

You tilted your head back slightly, bringing your face closer to his, your eyes still locked on his. "And what makes you so sure, Charles?" you challenged, your voice laced with a playful defiance that belied the frantic flutter in your chest.

He smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips that made your stomach do a flip. "A feeling," he murmured, his gaze dropping back to your mouth, lingering again.

This time, the pause felt longer, more significant. You could almost feel the phantom touch of his lips on yours. He was playing with you, teasing you with his proximity, with his gaze, with the unspoken promise in the air.

"A feeling?" you repeated, your voice a little shaky now. Your eyes followed his, drawn irresistibly downwards. His lips were a perfect curve, currently parted in a slight smile, inviting. You imagined the softness, the pressure.

His hand, which had been resting lightly on your arm, now slid down to cup your elbow, gently pulling you a fraction of an inch closer. The contact was electric, sending a wave of warmth through you.

"Yes," he breathed, his voice rougher now, laced with an undeniable desire. "A very strong feeling."

He didn't move to kiss you immediately. Instead, he simply held you there, suspended in that exquisite moment of anticipation.

His thumb began to trace lazy circles on your skin, a feather-light touch that sent goosebumps prickling over your arm.

You could feel his steady breath on your face now, warm and sweet. Your eyes fluttered closed for a second, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, before opening again to meet his searching gaze.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips again, a silent question in the depths of his pupils. You gave him your answer with your own eyes, a silent invitation, a yearning that matched his own.

The teasing continued, a delicious torture. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, the soft hair on his cheek tickling your skin. You could feel the warmth of his body, the subtle tension in his muscles.

His other hand came up, gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, yet it grounded you, anchored you in this perfect, stolen moment.

"You know," he whispered, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through you, "it's not often I get to steal a moment like this."

"And you chose to steal it with me?" you whispered back, your voice barely audible above the frantic beat of your heart.

He gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod. His eyes, dark and intense, held yours captive. "Always you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

And then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he began to close the distance. Your eyes were locked, a silent promise passing between you. You felt his breath mingle with yours, saw the slight tremor in his hand as his fingers tightened ever so gently on your cheek.

The world outside, the roaring engines, the bustling paddock, ceased to exist. There was only the dizzying closeness, the anticipation that hummed in the air between your lips.

His lips, soft and hesitant at first, brushed against yours. It wasn't a forceful kiss, but a tender exploration, a feather-light touch that promised so much more.

You whimpered softly, a small sound of longing escaping your throat as you instinctively leaned into him, seeking more contact. He responded instantly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, deepening the kiss.

It was slow, exquisitely slow. A dance of lips and breath, a gentle push and pull that savoured every sensation.

You felt your own fingers curl around the lapels of his racing suit, gripping the smooth fabric as if to steady yourself against the delicious rush that swept through you.

His hand left your cheek, sliding down to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

The kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more urgent. His tongue lightly traced the seam of your lips, and you parted them willingly, inviting him in.

As you kissed, the world outside the door ceased to exist. The room with its storied trophies, the distant roar of engines, the weight of the racing weekend - all faded into a hazy background hum.

It was just the two of you, the taste of him, the feel of him, the heat of his racing suit beneath your palms.

But the call of the track was inescapable. "Charles! The first free practice is starting soon!" a voice echoed through the corridor, piercing the bubble of intimacy. You both froze for a moment, the spell broken.

He looked at you, his eyes dark with need. "I should go," he murmured, reluctance etched into every syllable. His hand slid from your neck, his fingertips trailing over your skin like a whispered goodbye.

You nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment, the commitment he had to the race, to his team, to his career. The weight of his decision to kiss you in the midst of such pressure was not lost on you.

You stepped back, giving him the space he needed to break away. The air between you was charged with a lingering electricity, the memory of your kiss still tingling on your lips. "Thank you for stealing this moment," you whispered, your voice a soft caress.

Charles looked at you with a mix of desire and reluctance, his eyes still smoldering. "For you, I'd steal more than just moments," he replied, his voice hoarse. His hand hovered in the air where your neck had been, as if the warmth of your skin still lingered on his fingertips.

The voice grew closer, the urgency more palpable. "Charles, we need you now!"

Charles looked at you, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The reluctance in his eyes was stark, a silent battle playing out behind them.

His hand, which had been hovering in the space between you, finally fell to his side with a soft sigh. "I have to go," he said, the words heavy with regret.

You nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment. You knew the race was his lifeblood, his everything. Yet, the intensity of the kiss lingered, a potent reminder of what awaited the two of you when the weekend's racing was done.

You watched as he turned away, his shoulders squared as he prepared to face the track, the expectations of his team, the roar of the crowd, the thrill of competition.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you remained rooted to the spot, the taste of him still on your lips. You touched your mouth, the warmth of his kiss a brand that seemed to pulse through your veins.

The room felt empty without him, the trophies on the shelves silent witnesses to the passionate interlude.

But the world waited, and so did the race. You took a deep breath, straightened your skirt, and stepped out into the bright, noisy paddock. The stark contrast between the quiet sanctuary of the room and the chaos outside was jolting, but it served to ground you.

You had a job to do, and you were good at it. Plus, you had the secret of that stolen kiss to hold onto, a precious gem nestled in the depths of your heart, to be pulled out and admired when the world grew too much. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Charles Leclerc! How does it feel to win the Dutch Grand Prix after the major setbacks from the last races?" an interviewer asked him by the parc fermé.

You watched from just beyond the barrier, lost in the roar of the crowd, the vibrant orange sea of Zandvoort. Your heart, which had been a drum against your ribs for the last two hours, suddenly fluttered, then soared.

Charles, your Charles, stood there, bathed in the setting sun, a wide, relieved smile on his face. The interviewer’s microphone was practically shoved into his face, but he handled it with the familiar grace you’d come to adore.

"I feel very proud," he began, his voice amplified across the circuit, clear and resonant even amidst the lingering euphoria of the fans. "Not just of myself, but also the team, my girlfriend, the fans who were watching online or in front of me now, the support has been incredible for everyone."

The mention of "my girlfriend" sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through you, mingling with the relief. A chorus of screams erupted from the crowd, a mix of adoration for him.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, but your eyes were locked on his. He glanced over, his eyes, usually so intensely focused on the track, now soft and full of a profound gratitude, meeting yours. A silent message passed between you: We did it. We finally did it.

With trembling fingers, you pulled out your phone and started typing, crafting the perfect post for Ferrari's social media channels. "Heartfelt congratulations to @CharlesLeclerc for his triumphant victory at the Dutch Grand Prix!"

You paused, your thumb hovering over the send button. It had to be perfect, a reflection of the emotional tsunami you felt in this moment. The camera lenses swarmed him like paparazzi around a Hollywood star, but it was his gaze that remained fixed on you, his anchor in the storm of flashes and questions.

As the cacophony of the race faded into the background, you couldn't help but reflect on the whispers that had circulated through the paddock for weeks.

The way some of the mechanics would smirk when they saw you together, the knowing glances shared between engineers, and the subtle nudges from other Ferrari staff members who had noticed the change in his demeanor, the new spark in his eyes.

You two hadn't made it public yet, but it was as if the very air around the team hummed with the secret of your love.

And yet, no one had breached the trust you'd built, not even when the pressure mounted and the rumor mill churned out gossip like a never-ending conveyor belt of speculation.

The pit garage was a flurry of activity, the Ferrari crew in a celebratory frenzy as they swarmed Charles, patting his back and offering congratulatory handshakes.

You stepped back, giving him space, but his hand reached for yours, tugging you into the fold.

His teammates offered knowing winks and smiles, their silent acknowledgment of your relationship's impact on the young driver's performance.

The tension that had once lurked in their gazes had transformed into something else entirely—respect, perhaps, or even a hint of envy.

As the podium ceremony approached, the whispers grew louder, the glances more pointed. You felt the weight of the secret you'd been keeping, a thrilling mix of fear and excitement. Would this be the moment you stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight?

Would you be able to handle the scrutiny that came with being the girlfriend of a Formula 1 star?

You took a deep breath, the scent of burning rubber and the sweet aroma of victory champagne swirling around you. You'd faced challenges before—the long hours, the constant travel, the pressure of the sport—but this was different.

This was personal, intimate.

When Charles ascended the podium, the crowd's roar was deafening. You watched from the pit lane, the wind playing with your hair, as he stepped onto the top tier, the trophy gleaming in the setting sun.

His eyes searched the crowd, finding yours again, and he winked, that cheeky smile playing at the corner of his lips.

As the anthem played and the cameras flashed, your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew this win was as much yours as it was his. The taste of victory was sweet on the air, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne that lingered on your skin from your last embrace.

As the Monegasque anthem played, swelling through the air, and the omnipresent cameras flashed, your heart hammered against your ribs, a visceral drum solo of pure emotion. Tears, hot and unexpected, pricked at your eyes and traced paths down your cheeks.

You didn’t care who saw. This win, this monumental triumph, felt as much yours as it was his. Not in the sense of racing the car, of course, but in the quiet, almost invisible ways you had supported him, shielded him, believed in him when he faltered.

The taste of victory was sweet on the air, mingling with the faint, comforting scent of his cologne that still lingered on your skin from your last embrace before he’d climbed into the cockpit, a deep breath of him before he faced the world.

You cried a little as you watched, tears of pride, relief, and an overwhelming, encompassing love.

The podium ceremony concluded, and the frenzy shifted to the media pen. Charles, the newly crowned champion, had his duties. He moved through the throng of journalists, answering questions with his usual blend of charm and thoughtful articulation.

Then, an interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman with a microphone perpetually poised, asked a question that cut through the noise, a question that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Charles," she began, her voice projected through the loudspeakers, "you’ve spoken before about finding balance, about managing the immense pressure. Today, we saw a performance of incredible focus. Many athletes speak of a secret weapon, a personal guiding light. Is there someone in your life who contributes to this newfound serenity, perhaps a girlfriend, about whom the public knows very little?"

The air seemed to crackle. A collective intake of breath from the assembled press. You felt your cheeks flush, a wave of heat washing over you. This was it. The moment.

Your heart began to pound a dizzying rhythm against your ribs. Charles paused, his eyes, still bright with victory, sweeping across the crowd, past the cameras, until they met yours.

A silent conversation passed between you, a question in his gaze, an almost imperceptible nod from you. Go on. Tell them.

He smiled, a slow, knowing almost mischievous curve of his lips. The microphone was close to his mouth. His voice, clear and amplified, filled the space.

"Sometimes," he said, his gaze still locked onto yours, a private acknowledgment in a very public space, "sometimes a lover’s touch is all you need."

The words hung in the air, simple, profound, and utterly devastating. A ripple went through the crowd, a sudden explosion of murmurs, flashes of cameras, and the frantic scribbling of notes.

"A lover’s touch."

Not an outright declaration, not a name, but enough. More than enough. It was an admission, a public acknowledgment of a deeply private bond. He’d done it, his way – subtle, poetic, undeniably him.

Later that evening, after the media obligations, the official photos, the endless handshakes, you found yourselves in the quiet sanctuary of his driver's room. The noise of the circuit was a distant hum, replaced by the soft whisper of the air conditioning.

Leo lay sprawled across your lap, a picture of pure contentment, his chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath. He'd been with you every step of the way, a silent witness to your love's evolution amidst the chaos of the F1 world.

Now, with the day's excitement behind you, he was fast asleep, oblivious to the monumental shift that had just occurred in both of your lives.

The room was dimly lit, the shadows playing across his angular face, making it appear almost sculpted by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. You gently stroked his hair, feeling the softness of his curls beneath your fingertips, your touch a silent reassurance that you were both still here, together.

The door to the private suite clicked open, and you tensed, expecting an intrusion from one of the team members or, worse, an overzealous journalist eager for a scoop.

But it was only him—Charles, his racing suit discarded, now dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored slacks that hugged his muscular frame.

The tension drained from your body as you took in his presence, his eyes dark and tired but alight with something else, something that had been building since the moment you’d watched him cross that finish line.

Yet, despite the exhaustion, they were alight with something else – a deep, resonant joy, and something more intimate, something that had been building between you two since the moment you’d watched him cross that finish line, a blur of red and triumph.

You were curled on the plush sofa with Leo, a comforting weight in your lap, his head resting against your chest, soft snores rumbling from his throat. Charles paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the intimate scene, a slow, soft smile spreading across his face.

It was a genuine smile, a private one, free from the obligation of the cameras and the expectations of the world. It was the smile that always melted any worries you carried, the one that meant he was truly, fully present.

He moved with a weariness that belied the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the lingering echoes of the roar of the crowd. With a soft thump, he dropped a small, embroidered pouch onto the glass coffee table – inside, you knew, resided the winner’s medal, still warm from his touch.

You shifted, Leo stirring slightly, before settling back into his slumber. Charles came and sat beside you on the sofa, the cushion dipping with his weight. Without a word, he leaned into you, his head finding its familiar resting place in the crook of your neck, his face burrowing into your hair, against your skin.

You felt the faint tremor in his body, the remnants of the race, the emotional high beginning its slow descent. He really loved your smell – a mix of your shampoo, the lingering scent of Leo’s fur, and something uniquely you, something warm and comforting and utterly safe.

"I won," he muttered, the words muffled against your skin, more to himself than to you, a quiet affirmation of a dream realized.

"You did," you whispered back, your voice thick with emotion, raising a hand to softly scratch his head, your fingers tangling in his damp hair.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Leo, sensing the shift, let out a soft groan but didn’t move, content in his position between your legs.

The silence that followed was not empty, but full, brimming with unspoken understanding, with shared relief, with the quiet hum of victory. 

"Are you… are you mad that I told them about our relationship?" Charles asked after a while, his voice still low, a hint of vulnerability in his tone. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours, seeking reassurance.

You met his gaze, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "I… no, I’m not. It was unexpected, certainly."

"But I liked the reveal," you continued, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "It was… very Charles. Impulsive, raw, and completely from the heart." You paused, a playful glint in your eyes. "And honestly, I think the whole staff of Ferrari knew already."

He chuckled softly, a deep rumble in his chest. "You think so?"

"Oh, absolutely," you affirmed, nodding decisively. "The way Lorenzo looks at me when I bring you your usual pre-race coffee, or the knowing smiles from the mechanics when they see you sneak a quick hug before a practice session. Or when Fred ‘accidentally’ leaves us alone in the hospitality suite for ‘important team debriefs’ that never quite happen. They’ve seen us. They’ve seen the way you look at me, and the way I look at you. It was an open secret, wasn’t it?"

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Maybe it was. But it felt… different, saying it out loud. Making it real for everyone." He let out a long sigh, a sound of profound relief. "It’s been hard, you know. All the secrecy. Always having to be careful. Never being able to just… be us, out in the open."

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "I know." Your own voice was soft, a gentle caress against the quiet of the room. "But it’s been worth it, hasn’t it?"

"More than you can imagine," he murmured, his eyes closing as he took in your scent, your warmth, the gentle pressure of your hand on his shoulder. His grip tightened around your waist, his thumb making lazy circles on your skin through the fabric of your shirt.

"I’m just so tired," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper now, the adrenaline completely drained. "So, so tired. But it’s a good tired. The best kind of tired."

"I know, my love," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Just rest now. We can talk about everything else tomorrow." You began to gently scratch his scalp again, a simple, repetitive movement that always seemed to soothe him.

Leo, perhaps sensing the shift in your focus, stirred, stretched noisily, then maneuvered himself until he was lying across both your laps, a furry bridge connecting you and Charles.

Charles chuckled softly, his hand finding Leo’s head and gently stroking his fur.

"He’s happy you’re back too," you said.

"He always is," Charles replied, his voice already sounding heavier, closer to sleep. "He’s a good boy. Best wingman a guy could ask for."

You smiled, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The world outside the private suite was still buzzing with the aftershocks of the race, the victory, and now, the unexpected revelation.

Tomorrow, the headlines would scream, the social media feeds would explode, and your lives would undeniably change. But in this moment, nestled together on the sofa, with Leo snoring softly between you, it felt like nothing had changed at all.

It was just you and Charles, tired and victorious, finally, openly, completely yourselves. And for the first time in a very long time, the future, whatever it held, felt less like a daunting challenge and more like a shared adventure you were both ready to embrace.

You closed your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against you, the warmth of his breath on your neck. You had won the race, yes. But you, together, had won something far greater. You had won the freedom to love openly, fiercely, and without reservation.

And that, you knew, was a victory far more precious than any trophy. . . .

The familiar click of the lock echoed through the quiet apartment, a sound as comforting as a warm embrace. You instinctively turned from the window, a soft smile gracing your lips. You knew those footsteps.

They were Charles’s, a rhythm you’d come to anticipate, a melody that always brought a flutter to your chest. Today, however, was different.

Today was Charles’s birthday, and your mission, your absolute delight, was to treat him exceptionally.

“I’m home!” his voice boomed, laced with the cheerful exhaustion of a long day.

You walked into the hallway, the scent of his familiar, slightly musky cologne already a comforting presence. He was shedding his jacket, and you couldn't help but let your gaze linger on the broadness of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched across his back.

As he turned, his eyes, that intoxicating shade of blue, met yours. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a smile that never failed to make your heart do a funny little skip.

“Hey, you,” he said, his voice already softening as he took in your presence. He crossed the remaining distance between you, pulling you into a familiar hug.

You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him, a mixture of his shampoo – that subtle hint of cedarwood you’d grown so fond of – and something uniquely, undeniably him.

It was a scent that spoke of late nights, fast cars, and a fierce, tender heart.

“Happy birthday, Charles,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands finding their way to his waist, feeling the firm muscle beneath his clothes.

He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that vibrated through you. “Thank you. But I thought you said you were treating me nicely today. You’ve been treating me nicely all week.”

You grinned, a private smirk playing on your lips. “Just warming up.” You leaned up, planting a small, quick peck on the corner of his mouth, then another.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you felt a warmth spread through your own cheeks.

“Speaking of treating me nicely,” he began, his voice taking on a slightly heavier, more teasing tone, “did you see the invitation on the table?”

You nodded, your eyes locking with his again. “Yes. Your family. It’s going to be… a lot of people.”

He shrugged, a hint of nervousness in the slight bounce of his knee as he stood. You recognized the tell-tale sign, the subtle shift in his posture that betrayed his pre-dinner jitters.

You reached out, your hand gently resting on his leg, a silent reassurance. He looked down at your hand, then back at you, his gaze filled with gratitude.

“They’re excited to see you,” he said, his voice a little breathier than before. “They really like you, you know.”

“I like them too,” you replied, and you meant it. His family, with their boisterous laughter and warm embraces, had welcomed you with open arms since the day you met them.

But before you could say anything else, his hand found the back of your neck, gently pulling you closer. He leaned down, his breath a soft tickle against your skin, and pressed his lips to the tender spot just below your ear.

A shiver ran down your spine as he kissed his way along your neck, placing feather-light pecks along the sensitive line to the base of your throat.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you leaned into the touch, the warmth of his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His hands roamed to your shoulders, gently pushing you back against the wall as he continued to kiss and nuzzle the column of your throat.

The intimacy of the gesture made your knees feel weak, and you gripped his biceps for support.

"You're driving me crazy," you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him better access, exposing your neck further.

He chuckled against your skin, the sound sending waves of pleasure through your body. His kisses grew bolder, moving up to the sensitive spot just below your jaw, before finally capturing your mouth in a kiss that was as soft as it was intense.

His thumbs traced lazy circles on your shoulders, sending a delicious shiver down your arms. The warmth of his body was like a brand against yours, and you could feel your resolve to keep things PG-13 for the sake of his family dinner slipping away.

But before you could lose yourself entirely in the moment, he pulled back, leaving you panting and slightly disoriented. His eyes searched yours, the mischief in them unmistakable.

“Just a little appetizer,” he murmured, his own breathing ragged. He took a step back, his hands sliding down your arms before releasing you entirely. “Now, let’s get ready for dinner, shall we?”

You nodded, trying to compose yourself. The way he looked at you, the way his eyes smoldered, it was as if he could see straight through to your soul.

“I hate you,” you muttered, but the words lacked any real venom, coming out more like a sigh of surrender. The heat of his kisses still lingered on your skin, a tantalizing promise of what the night could hold if it weren’t for the looming dinner.

“Oh, come on, love. You know I just want to save the best for later,” Charles replied with a cheeky wink, already moving towards the bedroom to change.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound a little shaky, as you followed him with unsteady steps. The anticipation was intoxicating, a fine line between sweet torture and heavenly bliss.

In the bedroom, you both began to change, your eyes meeting in the mirror as you slipped out of your clothes. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his hands paused over his shirt buttons.

The room was filled with a charged silence, the air thick with the promise of what was to come. Each movement was a dance, a silent seduction that had you both breathing a little heavier, a little more aware of the electricity crackling between you.

As he shed his clothes, you couldn’t help but appreciate the way the light played over the contours of his body, highlighting the muscles that rippled with every flex.

You felt a warmth spreading from your chest to your cheeks as he caught you staring. He smirked, a knowing look in his eyes, as he stepped closer, his chest bare, the scent of him wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’ve missed you too,” he murmured, his breath fanning over your neck, making your pulse quicken.

You stepped away, a laugh escaping your lips despite the gravity of the moment. “We saw each other this morning,” you pointed out, trying to lighten the mood.

He rolled his eyes playfully. “You know what I mean. The real you, the you that’s just mine. No cameras, no interviews, no racing suits. Just you, in my arms, whispering sweet nothings and making everything right again.”

The sincerity in his voice had you melting, your heart swelling with love for this man who could be both a fierce competitor and a gentle lover.

You turned, a smile playing on your lips as you faced him. You stepped closer, letting your own hands roam over his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate beneath your touch.

“I’ve missed that too,” you admitted, your voice a breathy whisper.

The moment stretched out, a single heartbeat that seemed to last an eternity, until the shrill of the phone shattered the quiet, pulling you both out of your trance.

With a sigh, you stepped away, reaching for your dress. It was time to get ready for dinner, to put aside the desire that was simmering between you like a pot left unattended.

But as you slid the silky fabric over your head, you couldn’t help the way your body responded, the way your skin seemed to remember his touch, craving more.

The dress was simple but elegant, hugging your curves in all the right places, the neckline dipping low enough to leave a hint of mystery. You knew it was his favorite, the way his eyes always lit up when you wore it.

You stepped into your heels, the click of the leather against the hardwood floor a steady rhythm that seemed to match the pulse in your veins. You were ready, or as ready as you could be to face the evening ahead.

Taking a deep breath, you turned to him, his gaze sweeping over you, a look of pure hunger in his eyes.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with need.

You stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek, feeling his stubble graze your skin. “Later,” you promised, a wink in your voice. “But first, we have a birthday dinner to get through. No funny business until we get back.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and deep, his eyes still glued to your form. “Fine,” he said, his voice tight with restrained desire. “But the moment we’re back here, all bets are off.”

The promise hung in the air, a heady perfume that had you eagerly counting down the hours until you could be alone again, until you could explore the depths of each other’s bodies and souls.

You took his hand, leading him out of the bedroom and into the living room where Leo lay, his eyes watching you both with unabashed curiosity.

The little dog looked up as you approached, his tail wagging in excitement. He knew something was up, the air charged with anticipation and love.

"You look absolutely stunning," Charles said, his voice low and filled with awe as he stepped back to take you in.

You felt your cheeks heat up, his compliment warming you more than the soft embrace of the dress. "Thank you," you replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

He had opted for a classic black tuxedo, the material hugging his broad shoulders and tapering to his waist, showcasing his athletic figure. The crisp white shirt contrasted sharply with his tanned skin, the bowtie a dash of playfulness in an otherwise serious ensemble.

You couldn’t help but admire him, feeling a rush of desire that had nothing to do with the impending dinner and everything to do with the man standing before you.

But the clock was ticking, and the promise of passion had to be set aside for the evening. You both took a moment to breathe in the charged air before heading out, the anticipation of the night to come a delicious secret between you.

The evening unfolded as a whirlwind of familiar faces and affectionate chaos. His mother, Pascale, with her ever-present smile, fussed over the table settings. His brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo, chimed in with their own anecdotes, each one eliciting a playful nudge or a mock glare from Charles.

You watched it all, a comfortable observer, your heart swelling with a quiet joy.

During dinner, you made it your mission to keep Charles at ease. When a particularly embarrassing story about his early karting days was told, you met his eyes across the table and offered a small, knowing wink.

He responded with a subtle smirk, a silent acknowledgment of your shared understanding. You caught him glancing at you several times, his expression a mixture of amusement and genuine affection.

“What’s your opinion on this, Charles?” his uncle asked, gesturing with his fork towards a plate of pasticciotti.

Charles turned to his uncle, his gaze momentarily flicking back to you as he answered, “They are very good, Uncle. Almost as good as Mama’s.” Pascale beamed.

Later, as the dessert plates were cleared, you found yourself seated beside Charles on the sofa. The chatter of the family had died down to a low hum, creating a bubble of quiet intimacy around you.

He leaned back, his arm resting casually on the back of the sofa, but you shifted closer, your shoulder brushing against his. You reached out, your thumb finding its way to his cheek, tracing the strong line of his jaw.

He turned his head, his blue eyes meeting yours, and you felt yourself sinking into their depths, the rest of the world fading away.

“You okay?” you whispered, your breath ghosting against his skin.

He let out a soft sigh, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “Yeah. Just… happy.” He opened his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch. He reached up, his hand covering yours, his fingers intertwining with yours.

“I’m happy too,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. You leaned forward, resting your chin on his shoulder, feeling the warmth emanating from him. The familiar scent of his shampoo filled your senses, and you couldn't resist bringing your hand up to gently sniff his hair, a small, private gesture of adoration.

He tilted his head, his breath tickling your ear as he murmured, “What are you thinking about?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands now cupping his face. His skin was warm beneath your touch. “Just about you,” you admitted. “About how much I love hearing you laugh.” You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Did you know I sometimes try to make you laugh just to hear that sound again?”

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, widening into a laugh that was pure, unadulterated joy. It was the sound you’d been hoping for, the sound that always made your heart feel lighter. You grinned, the sight of his happiness infectious.

“You’re trying to butter me up for something, aren’t you?” he teased, his voice a little husky now.

“Perhaps,” you replied, your gaze holding his. You leaned in again, this time planting a soft, lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, then another, a little deeper this time.

His hands moved, one caressing your cheek with his thumb, the other finding your waist, drawing you closer.

The evening continued, filled with quiet moments of connection amidst the family’s merriment. You found yourself tracing the faint scar above his eyebrow, a relic from a childhood mishap, and then the faint lines etched around his eyes from too much sun and too much smiling.

Each imperfection was a testament to his life, a story you loved to explore.

Later, as the last of the family members were saying their goodbyes, Charles pulled you into a quiet corner of the living room. The residual warmth of the evening seemed to cling to the air.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, his voice softer now, rougher around the edges. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “It was… perfect.”

You looked up into his eyes, so impossibly blue, so full of love. “It was your birthday,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

You raised a hand, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, then moving lower, towards his neck. You could feel the pulse there, a steady beat against your fingertips.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and utterly consuming. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was an affirmation, a silent promise of all the love and happiness that lay between you.

As the kiss deepened, you felt his hands move from your waist to your shoulders, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice heavy and laced with a longing that mirrored your own, “I think I might have to keep you around.”

You chuckled, a soft, breathy sound against his lips. “And what makes you think I was planning on leaving?”

He grinned, a flash of that boyish charm that still captivated you. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your neck, just beneath your ear.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively tilted your head, granting him better access. His lips then moved to your shoulder, a slow, lingering caress that made your knees weak.

You whispered his name, a soft sigh against his hair. He responded by pulling you closer still, his body a solid, reassuring presence against yours.

You felt his hand slide up your arm, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending waves of warmth through you. He then brought your hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your palm, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Happy birthday, Charles,” you whispered again, your voice thick with love.

He met your gaze, his eyes reflecting the soft lamplight, and you knew, with absolute certainty, that this was just the beginning of many more birthdays, many more shared moments, many more kisses that stole your breath and made your heart sing. . . . .

The Monaco sun felt different today. Usually, it kissed your skin with a playful warmth, a promise of endless azure skies and champagne sunsets.

Today, it felt heavy, a tangible weight pressing down on your shoulders, mirroring the ache in your chest.

You walked in silence, hand in hand with Charles, the familiar comfort of his touch doing little to ease the knot of sorrow tightening with each step you took.

The pristine streets, usually bustling with the vibrant energy of millionaires and tourists, seemed subdued, as if even Monaco understood the solemnity of your mission.

You had a plan, a bittersweet, heartbreaking plan. Today, you were going to the cemetery. You were going to introduce yourself to Charles’s father, Hervé.

And Charles, in turn, would finally meet your mother, a woman he'd only known through faded photographs and whispered stories.

You tightened your grip on Charles' hand, your knuckles white. He squeezed back, a silent acknowledgment of the wave of grief cresting within you. You glanced at him, his profile etched with a pain that mirrored your own.

The strong jawline, usually radiating confidence, was set with a grim determination. The mischievous glint that typically danced in his eyes was replaced by a profound sadness, a melancholic sea reflecting the weight of unspoken memories.

You remembered the first time Charles had told you about his father. You were curled up on his sofa, the Monaco skyline twinkling outside the window.

He had spoken of Hervé with a reverence, his voice softening as he recounted stories of karting races, shared victories, and the unwavering support his father had provided throughout his racing career.

He spoke of Hervé's unwavering belief in him, a belief that had fueled his dreams and driven him to succeed.

"He would have loved you," Charles had said that night, his voice thick with emotion. "He would have loved your kindness, your strength, your spirit."

And now, here you were, finally ready to meet the man who had shaped the love of your life, not in a vibrant Italian restaurant, but in the silent embrace of a cemetery.

As for your mother… Charles had only seen her through the faded photographs you kept tucked away in a velvet-lined box.

He knew her infectious laugh from the stories you told, her unwavering optimism that had always been your guiding light.

He knew of her passion for art, her love for the ocean, and the fierce protectiveness she held for you.

Your mother had passed away unexpectedly 14 years ago, a cruel twist of fate that had left a gaping hole in your heart.

You often wondered what she would have thought of Charles, this whirlwind of charisma and talent who had swept into your life and painted it with vibrant colors.

You knew, deep down, that she would have adored him.

The wrought iron gates of the cemetery loomed before you, a stark reminder of the finality of death. You hesitated, your breath catching in your throat.

Charles stopped, turning to face you, his eyes filled with understanding.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

You nodded, unable to speak, the words caught in the labyrinth of your grief. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch sending a fragile warmth through you.

"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he said softly. "We can come back another day."

But you knew you had to do this. For Charles, for your mother, for yourself. You had carried this weight for too long, and it was time to share it, to introduce the two most important people in your lives to each other, even in this somber setting.

"No," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "I want to. We need to."

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. He took your hand again, his grip firm and reassuring, and together, you walked through the gates.

The cemetery was a quiet sanctuary, a sea of marble and granite bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun.

You navigated the rows of headstones, the silence broken only by the chirping of birds and the distant hum of traffic. You felt a strange sense of peace settle over you, a quiet acceptance of the inevitable.

You found Hervé's grave first. It was marked by a simple, elegant headstone, adorned with a small bouquet of fresh flowers. Charles knelt down, gently touching the cool stone.

You stood beside him, your hand resting on his shoulder.

"Papa," Charles began, his voice thick with emotion. "I… I wanted you to meet someone. This is… this is Y/N."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a vulnerability you rarely saw. You knelt beside him, reaching out to trace the inscription on the headstone.

"Hervé Leclerc," you read aloud, your voice trembling slightly. "Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend."

You closed your eyes, summoning the image of the man you had only heard about through Charles's stories. You imagined his warm smile, his encouraging words, the unwavering support he had given his son.

"It's an honor to finally meet you, Hervé," you said softly. "Charles talks about you all the time. He misses you terribly. I promise you, I'll take care of him. I'll love him with all my heart, just like you did."

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, and Charles reached out to wipe it away. He squeezed your hand, his silent gratitude a balm to your aching heart.

He began to speak in French, sharing stories about his recent races, his triumphs and setbacks, the challenges he faced on and off the track.

He spoke of his love for you, of the unwavering support you had given him, of the way you made him laugh, even on his darkest days.

You didn't understand all the words, but you understood the sentiment, the deep love and respect he held for his father.

After a while, Charles fell silent, his gaze fixed on the headstone. You knew he was lost in his memories, reliving moments shared, feeling the absence of his father with a profound ache.

You simply held his hand, offering your silent support, letting him know that he wasn't alone.

Finally, he stood up, his shoulders squared. He took a deep breath, as if gathering strength from the earth beneath his feet.

"Thank you, Papa," he said, his voice clear and strong. "I hope I'm making you proud."

Together, you walked hand in hand to your mother's grave. It was a bit further away, in a quieter corner of the cemetery, overlooking the sparkling expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.

Her headstone was made of white marble, etched with a delicate floral design.

Charles knelt down, gently placing a single red rose on the stone. You stood beside him, your heart pounding in your chest. This felt different, more personal, more raw.

"Mama," you began, your voice cracking with emotion. "This is Charles. He's… he's the one. The one I told you about in my letters."

You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself. You had imagined this moment so many times, picturing yourself introducing Charles to your mother, imagining their laughter and easy conversation.

But now, standing here, in this silent sanctuary, the reality was far more painful than you had anticipated.

"He's kind, and funny, and incredibly talented," you continued, your voice trembling. "He makes me laugh, even when I don't want to. He supports my dreams, and he loves me unconditionally. I know you would have loved him, Mama. He reminds me so much of you."

You looked at Charles, his eyes filled with a deep understanding. He reached out and took your hand, his touch grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

He began to speak, his voice soft and respectful. He told your mother about your kindness, your intelligence, your unwavering spirit.

He spoke of your love for art and music, your passion for life, and the way you made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

He told her about your struggles, your fears, and the strength you had shown in overcoming adversity. He spoke of your unwavering love for her, of the way you kept her memory alive through stories and photographs.

"I promise you, Madame Y/L/N," Charles said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I will always take care of Y/N. I will cherish her, protect her, and love her with all my heart. I will never let her forget you."

Tears streamed down your face, blurring your vision. You knelt beside Charles, burying your face in his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace.

The air was thick with unspoken emotions, with grief and love and a profound sense of loss. You felt your mother's presence, a gentle warmth surrounding you, a silent blessing on your relationship.

After a while, the tears subsided, replaced by a strange sense of peace. You looked at Charles, his eyes filled with tenderness.

He wiped away the remaining tears from your face, his touch gentle and loving.

You stood up, hand in hand, and gazed out at the sparkling sea. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky with vibrant hues of orange, pink, and gold.

It was a breathtakingly beautiful scene, a reminder that even in the midst of sorrow, there was still beauty to be found in the world.

"Thank you," you whispered to Charles, your voice full of gratitude. "For being here, for understanding, for loving me."

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Always," he said softly. "Always and forever."

You knew that the pain of loss would never truly disappear, but today, you had taken a step towards healing.

You had introduced the two most important people in your life to each other, and in doing so, you had created a bond that transcended death. You had honored their memory, celebrated their lives, and reaffirmed the enduring power of love.

As you walked out of the cemetery, hand in hand, the Monaco sun felt different again. It was still warm, but now, it felt lighter, gentler, as if it was carrying a message of hope, a promise of a brighter future.

You knew that the road ahead would not always be easy, but you also knew that you had Charles by your side, and together, you could face anything.

The silence between you was no longer heavy with grief, but filled with a quiet understanding, a shared bond forged in sorrow and strengthened by love.

You squeezed Charles's hand, and he squeezed back, a silent promise of forever.

You knew, with unwavering certainty, that you would carry the memories of Hervé and your mother with you always, their love forever etched in your heart.

And as you walked towards the twinkling lights of Monaco, you knew that they were watching over you, their love a constant beacon guiding you on your journey. . . .

[ko-existing]

https://www.tumblr.com/ko-existing/787662538590584832/do-you-ever-grieved-for-the-dream-once-you?source=share

how so?

You're "grieving" because there's still misidentification happening — a sense that you, the person, are watching something meaningful slip away. But if it’s really seen that it was never real to begin with, not even for a second, what’s left to grieve? It doesn't matter if you use the words 'illusory''. It doesn't mean you see it like that.

It’s like realizing a shimmering oasis in the desert is a mirage. Once you see clearly that there was never any water, do you walk away heartbroken? Of course not. There’s nothing to mourn because there was nothing there. Just like you wouldn’t wake up from a dream where you were famous or in love or flying and grieve it the next morning — it was a passing appearance. It never had weight. It never actually happened.

The phrase “I grieve the illusion” sounds poetic, but it doesn’t make sense when it’s seen clearly. If the world is illusory and the person is illusory, what is grieving what? It’s just thoughts looping on themselves, trying to find ground in something groundless. The grief arises only if it’s believed something real was lost.

But here’s where a big misunderstanding shows up for a lot of people — especially if they’re just reading and reading without truly seeing it for themselves: they start thinking I’m saying you should feel nothing, like you should become some robot or mountain monk detached from all emotion, sitting silently in the Himalayas next to a snow lion or something. That’s not it at all.

Look — feelings come and go. Happiness, grief, laughter, joy — they appear, they stay a while, and they subside. That doesn’t mean they’re “real” in the solid, lasting sense. They’re just part of the play, like weather passing through an open sky. No one needs to suppress anything. No one can — because there’s no person doing it to begin with.

I mean, just yesterday (actually not even 24h ago) I found a rare jacket I’ve been wanting for months, and I was grinning like someone who solved a centuries-old math puzzle. If it had sold out before I could grab it, I would’ve been devastated. That’s how it plays out sometimes. It's all spontaneous and planned at the same time. One big Paradox for no one experienced by no one. The difference is: none of that touches what 'I Am'. The joy or devastation is a movement within the field, not evidence of a solid “me” living a life. "Awareness" isn’t being stoic or detached. It’s not a monk. It’s not a robot. It’s not even something you become. It’s simply what is — beyond description, yet effortlessly present.

So — PSA for everyone, not just that anon — stop turning this into some mental maze. People message me all the time saying “I’m so sad my family isn’t real,” or “so if I’m real and the world isn’t, what’s the point?” But that’s not it either. That’s still personal identity trying to survive by splitting reality: “I’m the special one and the rest is fake.” No. If one thing is unreal, everything is. If one thing is real, everything must be. It’s not pick-and-choose. This is total. Either the whole dream is a dream — or none of it is.

And yes, it can be very simple. People don't believe that when I say it didn't take me long. They ask, “Then why does it take others years?” How would I know? Go ask them! Maybe they keep reading instead of seeing. Maybe they overcomplicate. Maybe they want an experience. I didn’t. I wasn’t even lurking on Tumblr or endlessly scrolling. I just stopped and looked.

So stop thinking reading will save you. You’re not trying to collect information — you’re trying to notice what never stopped being here. And for that, no books, posts, or teachers can do it for you. Just look.

[karaswnee]

Cho Sang-woo’s NSFW Alphabet

[ Headcanons ]

A – Aftercare:

Efficient.

He’ll clean you up, hand you water, straighten the sheets—but affection is subtle.

A hand on your back, a glance, nothing more.

B – Body Part:

Your hands.

He watches them constantly—how you grip him, pull at his tie, trace his skin.

They say everything you won’t.

C – Cum:

Quiet, controlled, always with a hiss of breath through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t lose composure—even when he’s falling apart.

D – Dirty Secret:

He fantasizes about being ruined.

Not gently—utterly.

By someone who makes him forget the job, the lies, the numbers.

E – Experience:

Polished. He’s had partners, all discreet.

He approaches sex like a negotiation—until someone breaks his routine and gets too close.

F – Favorite Position:

Missionary, but intense.

Deep eye contact, firm grip, his body pinning yours.

It’s not tender—it’s a claim, a focus.

G – Goofy:

Almost never.

Maybe once, drunk, he laughed during sex—and instantly shut down.

He doesn’t know how to be both vulnerable and light.

H – Hair:

Trimmed and tidy.

No-nonsense grooming.

He keeps everything presentable, just like his suits and spreadsheets.

I – Intimacy:

Complicated.

He wants it—fears it.

He’ll touch you like he’s starving, but if you call it love, he might leave.

J – Jack Off:

Infrequent, clinical.

Usually when stressed.

No fantasies, just friction and frustration.

He hates how much he needs it.

K – Kinks:

Control, denial, subtle power games.

He enjoys keeping you on edge—making you beg without raising his voice.

L – Location:

His apartment, clean and minimal.

He doesn’t do public.

Sex is a controlled environment—until someone throws him off-balance.

M – Motivation:

Obedience, restraint, being outsmarted.

A quiet challenge turns him on more than nudity.

The moment you disobey with a smirk—he’s hard and furious.

N – No:

Public displays, romantic theatrics, messy emotions.

He shuts down if it feels too exposed, too unscripted.

O – Oral:

Slow and focused.

He doesn’t brag—he just learns what you like and executes it perfectly.

He treats it like strategy, and wins every time.

P – Pace:

Deliberate. Measured.

He wants to feel every inch of you—every gasp, every reaction.

If he’s rough, it’s precise.

Q – Quickies:

Rare, unless he’s under pressure.

Then it’s brutal, fast, and silent—half-dressed and breathless, like it never happened.

R – Risk:

Low tolerance.

He values control too much.

But if he’s truly losing it?

That’s when the mask drops—and it’s unforgettable.

S – Stamina:

Impressive.

He doesn’t rush.

He’ll go until you’re too sore to argue, then act like it was nothing.

T – Toys:

Clean and discreet.

Silk ties, maybe a vibrator—things he can hide in a drawer.

Nothing flashy, everything effective.

U – Unfair:

Devastatingly so.

He knows exactly how to drag things out—how to almost let you come, then stop with that cold little smile.

V – Volume:

Low.

He grits his teeth, breathes hard, maybe groans into your skin.

You’ll never hear him shout—he holds himself too tight.

W – Wild Card:

He keeps your old texts, voice messages—replays them when alone.

He pretends it’s just data, but it’s the only time he smiles.

X – X-Ray:

Toned, well-kept, clean lines.

A body shaped by quiet discipline—but you’ll find stress in every tense muscle, scars he won’t explain.

Y – Yearning:

Moderate, but repressed.

He wants more than he acts on—buried under guilt and control.

When it breaks through?

Intense, almost obsessive.

Z – Zzz:

Falls asleep fast—but only if you’re there.

Your breathing steadies him.

Without it, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

ㅤㅤ