sph63

[sph63]

But Daddy I Loved Him (GR63)

Summary : In a small town where expectations run as deep as tradition, two young lovers find themselves caught between desire and disapproval. George Russell is charming, steadfast, and unafraid to break the rules—but loving him comes with a cost. As whispers of judgment echo from family and neighbors alike, their secret bond grows stronger, daring them to defy convention and fight for a love that feels worth every risk. Small Town AU

➢ Boyfriend! George Russell x Fem Reader (no use of y/n)

➢ Word count : 3.8k

➢ Inspired by: But Daddy I loved Him by Taylor Swift

➢ A/N : This one is kinda cliché and just filled with cute lovey dovey stuffs. I got this idea when I was listening to my ts playlist and since George is a swiftie himself so I figured, why not?.

────────────

You didn’t exactly remember the day George William Russell became more than George — or maybe you did, in that quiet, almost imperceptible way memory sometimes sneaks in, when you catch someone leaning against the stairwell railing on campus, phone pressed carelessly to his ear, laughter spilling unguarded into the air. It was the kind of laughter that belonged only to those who believed no one was listening, the kind that should have seemed reckless but instead felt entirely natural, entirely him. Perhaps it was then, as you watched him tilt his head back, eyes half-closed, lost in some private amusement, that you realized he had never looked at you the same way he looked at everyone else. His gaze was lighter, softer, yet it burned with a focus that unsettled you — the sort of gaze that could see past pretense, past caution, and make the parts of you you hid feel unavoidable.

By the time summer pressed heavy and relentless against your skin, it didn’t matter when it had started. What mattered was that it had, that something inside you had shifted, that fire had been lit and now demanded attention, demanded care, demanded surrender. You could feel it crawling along your veins, threatening to consume you whole if you didn’t hold onto it, and you realized that you wanted to hold onto George — and only George — above all else.

The problem, of course, lay in everyone else.

Your father. The man who wore composure as armor, suits sharp enough to cut glass, a smile so perfect it could disarm anyone. He didn’t say outright that he disliked George — he didn’t need to. You had grown up under his roof; you had memorized every subtle inflection of judgment, every microexpression that betrayed the polite facade. You knew the tension in his jaw whenever George’s name was mentioned. You knew the clipped precision of his words: “And what exactly does he do?” You knew how he dismissed any answer, no matter how skillfully you tried to describe George, how you tried to make the startling blue of his eyes sound worthy, soft enough to soften your father’s skepticism. But the dismissal always remained. You had grown too familiar with it to ever believe that effort alone could bridge the distance.

And then there was the town. Small. Suffocatingly so. Every secret belonging to everyone else within twenty-four hours, every glance and whisper carrying the weight of judgment. Your mother’s friends looked at you with glossy sympathy, condescension masked as concern, lips pressed into the shape of disapproval.

She could do better.

He’s not from here.

He isn’t one of us.

But what did better mean? A boy with the right last name, the right bank account, the right pedigree to stand proudly at your father’s side at the next dinner party? A boy whose accomplishments looked perfect on paper, yet left your chest hollow? You had tasted “better” before, and it had been bitter, empty, and cold.

Now you wanted more.

Wanted him.

George Russell.

You remembered the first kiss as though it had been carved into you, a lightning strike of sensation and certainty. It was one of those nights where the cold breeze bit differently, when city lights surrendered reluctantly to the countryside darkness. You sat on the hood of his car, conspirators against the rigid world, laughing until your ribs ached from a disastrous story about a team dinner, until his voice softened and the punchline faded into a silence that pulled at your chest.

When you turned, his eyes were already on you.

The kiss wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t choreographed like the carefully measured moments of your life. It was reckless, abrupt, fire in your veins, and it stole the breath right out of your lungs. You kissed him back, harder, because you could not stop, because you knew — even in that first stolen second — that this boy would set your world ablaze.

After that night, it was impossible to stop.

The feeling you had buried, hidden beneath the quiet hum of normalcy, unfurled itself like wings, too long restrained, demanding presence. You began meeting in secret, sneaking around like teenagers even though both of you had passed that age long ago. He would park blocks away from your house, headlights dimmed, music low enough to feel more than hear. Sometimes you drove with no destination, looping through streets until the world seemed too vast, too fragile to contain the two of you together.

Other nights ended in his apartment, quiet filled only with the soft murmur of his voice against your skin, the subtle laughter and touches that left your heart unmoored. You told no one. Not your friends, not your family. Secrecy became a thrill, a private pulse that quickened whenever you saw him, whenever his hand brushed yours.

And yet, beneath the thrill, there was something stronger. Something deeper.

It was in the way he looked at you mid-argument, amused but tender, eyebrows lifted in a challenge that made your fire feel recognized instead of subdued. It was in the way he listened — truly listened — to your thoughts, your stories, your chaos. It was in the way he folded his life around yours without effort, like the world had always meant for you both to fit side by side.

With him, you felt unshackled.

With him, you felt entirely, irreversibly yours.

But then, everything began to unravel the night your father saw you climbing out of George’s car.

You had been too careless, too caught up in the warmth of George’s laughter, in the pull of his jokes and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. You hadn’t noticed the porch light flicker on. You hadn’t seen the silhouette in the window until it was too late.

You slipped inside, adrenaline thrumming in your veins, hearts still racing from shared kisses, both of you reluctant to let the moment end.

“Who was that?” His voice, calm but icy, sliced through the house.

“Just… a friend.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, voice precise, cutting.

You wanted to fire back something sharp, something that might crack the authority he wore like a second skin. But George’s scent lingered on your sweater, and your lips still burned from his kiss. Lying felt useless.

So you squared your shoulders and spoke the truth.

“George Russell.”

The name fell into the air like a weight.

Your father’s jaw tightened. “You’re not seeing him again.” The finality of his tone was suffocating, as if your choices had already been stripped from you.

Something inside you snapped.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you fired back.

“I do, actually. As long as you live under this roof—”

“This isn’t about the roof. It’s about you hating him because he doesn’t fit into your neat little picture of what my life should look like.”

His eyes flared. “He’s not good enough for you.”

The words cut, not because you believed them, but because they echoed the whispers that had chased you through town for months.

“He’s good enough for me.”

You slammed your bedroom door, pulse racing, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. George texted: Everything okay? And you almost laughed at the absurdity. Nothing was okay — not your father, not the town, not the weight of their expectations pressing down on you.

But when you typed back, your fingers moved before your fear could catch up:

I’d choose you anyway.

The fallout was immediate.

Your father ignored you for days. Silence stretched across the house, louder than any shouting match could have been. Your mother tried to mediate, but her sighs carried the same disappointment, the same subtle pressure to conform.

And the town? Of course, they knew. Word traveled faster than you could blink. Suddenly, you were the girl — whispered about, pitied, judged at every corner.

But George never wavered.

He didn’t flinch when you spoke of stares, of whispers, of the small cruelty of idle gossip. Instead, he cupped your face, steady and unwavering. “We’ll get through it. You and me.”

You believed him. Because when he said it, it sounded less like a promise and more like fact.

You and George found solace in stolen moments, tender touches, whispered words. You reminded each other why you had chosen this path, why love was worth the fight.

“You really said that?” His voice was half awe, half teasing, carrying a disbelief when you told him about the story of the dinner.

You leaned your head against the window, watching the blurred streaks of streetlights smear across the glass as the car moved. “Yeah… I know. I really did,” you murmured, a faint, nervous chuckle escaping your lips, betraying the flutter of adrenaline that still lingered.

George exhaled, a low, incredulous sound, and then let out a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching in the way that always made your heart soften. “You’re braver than I am,” he said, half in jest, half in wonder.

“No,” you murmured, tightening your grip on his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into yours. “I’m just tired of pretending I don’t love you.”

The word lingered between you like smoke — heavy, terrifying, irreversibly true. Love. Simple yet complicated, a weight that could crush and liberate at the same time. When his eyes met yours, soft and luminous, lips curved in that subtle, knowing smile, you understood that you meant it, wholly and irreversibly.

For days, your father’s silence pressed in around you, oppressive and suffocating. He spoke little, only a few clipped interactions, polite gestures like pressing a kiss to your cheek before you left for campus, or disappearing before he could cross paths with you. Those absences gnawed at you in the quiet hours at home.

You sprawled on the sofa one night , the dull glow of the television flickering across your face as George worked his part-time job elsewhere— so you didn't have anything to do. The soft fabric swallowed you in its embrace, a comfort against the tension lingering in the house. You tried to ignore your father, engrossed in the monotony of channel surfing, until the silence cracked.

“You’re throwing your future away.”

His voice, sharp and deliberate, cut through the quiet, trying to pierce your defenses. Your fingers hovered over the remote, hesitant, aware that engaging might ignite a firestorm. But he pressed on, drawing your gaze with words loaded with authority.

“I didn’t work this hard, invest this much, just for you to waste your future on someone who has nothing to offer.”

A sigh escaped you, a mixture of exasperation and defiance, before you pushed yourself upright and faced him. “Do we really have to do this?” frustration lacing your words. “George isn’t nothing, Dad.”

“Well, he isn’t enough,” he snapped, the words striking like cold steel.

They cut sharper than you expected. You wanted to shout, to enumerate the ways George surpassed any superficial metric of worth — his warmth, his humor, the way he made the world feel bearable when everything else seemed suffocating — but you knew it wouldn’t penetrate. Your father had already dismissed him, reducing the measure of a man to wealth, status, and appearances.

“Whatever, Dad,” you spat, rising from the sofa and retreating toward your bedroom, chest tight with frustration and helpless anger.

George tried to be strong, but you could see the subtle toll the scrutiny and gossip exacted on him. At the café, at the gas station, the sideways glances, whispered mutterings — small, relentless tests of resilience. At first, he shrugged them off, joking lightly, but then the tension would flare, a tightening of his jaw, a slight hunching of shoulders as though bracing against an unseen storm.

One evening, as you prepared to leave his apartment, you noticed him lingering by the doorway.

“What?” you asked softly.

He hesitated, shook his head. “Nothing.”

“George,” you pressed, moving closer, intuition whispering that there was more.

Finally, he sighed, voice heavy with worry. “I just… I don’t want this to ruin your life. Your father, the town… they’re not going to make this easy. I don’t want you waking up one day resenting me for it.” The thought struck like a jagged blade — the idea that he might doubt your choice, that love could ever be a burden rather than a freedom.

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him, pressing your cheek to the steady thrum of his chest. “I could never resent you,” you whispered. “The only thing I’d resent is letting them scare me into giving you up.”

For a long, tense moment, he said nothing. Then his arms tightened around you, desperate and fierce, as if anchoring himself against a world intent on tearing you apart.

The confrontation arrived sooner than you anticipated.

It was a Friday evening when your father summoned you to his study. The familiar scent of leather and old books greeted you, the polished surface of his desk gleaming under the warm lamplight. You’d been in this room countless times, but never with your stomach knotting so tightly, nerves clinging to every fiber of your being.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

You obeyed, though every instinct screamed to stand your ground.

He steepled his fingers, eyes sharp, voice cold. “I’ve tolerated this long enough. You’re done seeing him.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, incredulous and raw. “You can’t control who I see.”

“I can control your future,” he replied, words heavy and final.

The room seemed to contract, every shadow amplified, every surface conspiring against you. He outlined, methodically and with chilling precision, the ways he could make life unbearable — withdrawing financial support, restricting opportunities, closing doors before you could even approach them. It was a calculated threat, executed with the calm ruthlessness of a man accustomed to having the world bend to his will.

You wanted to be fearless— to declare none of it mattered, but you knew the truth: it did. He had the power, and he wielded it with practiced efficiency.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice low, almost a threat.

“Maybe,” you admitted, pulse pounding. “But at least it’ll be my choice.”

You left the study before he could respond, hands trembling, chest tight with adrenaline, yet beneath it all, a fierce, liberating relief coursing through you. You had chosen.

That night, tangled together in the half-light of his apartment, George murmured, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You traced circles on his chest, gaze soft and adoring. “You loved me when it wasn’t easy,” you whispered.

He pressed a tender kiss atop your head, a gesture so simple yet suffused with everything you’d ever hoped for.

George chuckled softly, letting your fingers weave through his, kissing the back of your hand with deliberate tenderness. “I love you,” you breathed, voice barely audible.

“I love you more,” he countered, as if swearing an oath, eyes bright with unwavering sincerity.

He leaned closer, drinking in every detail of your face with his glistening blue eyes before closing the distance in a kiss filled with relief, longing, and devotion. You pulled him closer, tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt, refusing to let him slip away even for a moment. Close. Intimate. Yours.

And in that kiss, you remembered it all too well: this was the night he made you his.

George’s bravery had always been quiet, steadfast — enduring whispers, bearing the weight of disapproval without faltering. But standing outside your father’s study, you could see a different courage. This was the courage to step into the light, to love openly, without hiding in shadows.

“I don’t have to do this,” he murmured, hands in pockets, voice steady but thumb nervously rubbing the seam of his jeans.

“You do,” you whispered. “Not for me. For you. For us.”

He nodded, squared his shoulders, and knocked.

Inside, your father’s voice was sharp, tired. “Come in.”

The study was as familiar as ever — shelves lined with law journals, the lingering aroma of coffee, your father seated like a monarch behind his polished desk. Surprise flickered across his face as he saw George, and widened when George closed the door behind him.

“Sir,” George began, unwavering.

“You’ve got nerve showing up here,” your father remarked.

“I know I’m not who you wanted for her. I know I don’t come from the family you respect. And I know you think she deserves better.”

“She does,” your father interrupted coldly.

George swallowed, voice steady. “Maybe she does. But I love her. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence was taut, suffocating, charged with unspoken challenges.

Finally, softer but firm, George said, “I’m not here to prove I’m good enough. I’m here because she chose me. And I’ll spend every day making sure she never regrets that choice.”

No grandeur, no plea for approval — just honesty. Pure, unflinching, exactly who George was.

Your chest swelled with pride.

For the first time, your father didn’t respond immediately. He studied George, then looked at you, and you saw the smallest crack in the wall he had built, a flicker of something unspoken.

“You really mean that?” he asked.

“I do,” George replied simply.

Your father pressed a hand to his temple. “God help me,” he muttered.

And in that begrudging, complicated way, you realized: it was the closest thing to acceptance he could offer.

It wasn’t a miracle. George didn’t suddenly become the son-in-law of dreams, and your father didn’t start inviting him to football games overnight. But the air shifted, subtle yet undeniable. Dinners became bearable, conversations more measured. Effort replaced indifference. An effort, you realized, was enough to start.

There were dinners where George sat at the table, awkward but present. There were afternoons where your father asked careful, clipped questions about his work, his plans, his intentions.

One evening, after George had excused himself to the kitchen, your father leaned across the table toward you.

“He’s stubborn,” he muttered.

“So am I,” you shot back.

To your shock, your father almost smiled. “I can see that.”

The breakthrough came on a quiet Sunday afternoon. You and George were in the backyard, helping your mother set up for a family barbecue. Your father came outside, coffee in hand, and stopped at the edge of the patio, watching George hammer posts into the ground for the string lights.

“You ever done that before?” your father asked gruffly.

George glanced up, sweat beading his forehead. “Not exactly, sir. But I figure I’ll get it eventually.”

Something softened in your father’s eyes — a flicker of recognition, perhaps, that George wasn’t a quitter.

When George finally straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans, your father didn’t look away. “You take care of her,” he said. Not a question. Not a command. A test.

George met his gaze. “Always.”

And somehow, you knew he believed it.

A week later, Sunday dinner carried the usual tension, thick as gravy. Your father had already asked George about his long-term plans—again—and the table had fallen into a strained, brittle quiet. You could feel George’s hand squeeze yours beneath the table, grounding you, anchoring you in the familiar warmth of shared defiance.

You cleared your throat, feigning casualness, fork clinking against the plate in exaggerated normalcy. “Well,” you began lightly, “since you’re so worried about the future… you should probably know.”

Your father's head snapped up. "Know what?"

You kept your face perfectly straight, tone deadpan. “I’m having his baby.”

The silence that followed was glorious, stretching, taut with disbelief. Your mother’s glass slipped in shock, clinking against the table. George choked on his water, coughing violently, eyes wide and sparkling with panic and disbelief. Your father went pale, then red, his mouth opening and closing like a man trying to summon a divine wrath against you.

It was exquisite.

vYou couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tension broke like a dam as laughter erupted from you, tears of amusement stinging your eyes. “Oh my God, Dad! I’m kidding!”

George, still coughing, wheezed, “Not funny—” before the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward, giving away the fact that he was laughing too.

Your father pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering an unintelligible string of words, equal parts exasperation and outrage. “You think this is a joke?”

“Of course it is,” you grinned, still laughing, cheeks flushed. “But admit it—just for half a second—you believed me.”

He gave you a look only a father could: a mixture of irritation, exasperation, and, beneath it all, the faintest glimmer of relief, the tiniest crack in his armor. For a brief moment, you thought you even saw a flicker of affection.

Later, walking with George under the mellow glow of streetlights, your laughter bubbled still, light and unrestrained. You leaned into his side, savoring the way his arm naturally curved around you.

“You should’ve seen your face,”You muttered.

George chuckled, shaking his head, eyes sparkling with mirth. "You can't blame me. I thought your dad was going to throw me through a wall.”

“Worth it,” you said smugly, shoulders relaxed, heart light.

He glanced down at you, lips quirking in a smile that always sent little shivers down your spine. “You really are trouble,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, grinning up at him. “But I’m your trouble.”

And when his hand found yours, squeezing gently, when he bent down to press a quiet kiss beneath the halo of the streetlight, it all became clear. Approval, perfection, acceptance—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was this: freedom to love, stubbornly, openly, and unapologetically, together, without shame or fear.

bIn that moment, with your fingers intertwined, hearts beating in tandem, you knew you had everything you truly wanted.

[sph63]

time out! - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which charles makes an offensive comment and you put him on a sex ban OR you and charles tease each other for an entire week and charles wants to fuckin’ ruin you for it warnings: smut!, basically all smut, teasing, edging, horny horny charles, some fluff (I guess lol), language, p in v, idk what I'm missing, NOT PROOFREAD word count: ~8.1k author's note: hi this is in my queue and I suck at using it so not sure what time this will be posted at. just whenever the queue does it I guess (it has a mind of its own)... so I hope u enjoy!! I missed writing for Charles and he's such a cheeky horny fucker in this. hope y'all enjoy!! let me know what you think :))) love hearing from y'all! xoxo

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

It starts with a comment.

One of those offhand comments when his mind is somewhere else. And its not cruel or even intentional. It’s just….careless.

Charles is standing near the front door, one of his feet propped up against the wall, bent at the knee as he ties the laces of his sneaker. The hem of his faded Ferrari hoodie rides up a little. Giving you a quick look at his freshly tanned skin from summer break a few weeks ago, and black boxers peeking out above the waistband of his jeans.

Hair is still damp from the shower. Jaw sharp, freshly shaven. There’s a faint flush across his cheeks…like always when he’s in a rush.

You’re standing in the kitchen, mug in hand, kitchen drawer still open from where you were reaching for a spoon.

And then you hear it.

He mutters it under his breath. Casual and dismissive. Like he thinks you won’t really hear him.

“You always have to make everything a big deal, don’t you?”

You pause. Hand still on the kitchen drawer handle. Slowly turning your head.

“Excuse me?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He’s so focused on his shoe, tugging the laces. “I just mean…” he huffs a laugh before standing upright. Tossing his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “It’s not that deep, yeah? I just forgot to text. It happens.”

He shrugs his shoulders while he turns toward the door. One hand on the door handle, jaw tilted casually at you like that’s the end of the conversation.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s done. That’s the funny part.

He’s all warm and beautiful. And stupidly smug. Voice still slightly raspy from sleep. And the soft pink flush across his cheeks that always appears whenever he’s in a rush is in full bloom.

You don’t yell. Or even move fast.

Just set your mug down with a soft clink. Walk toward him all soft and sweet.

He blinks when you get close, one brow lifting as he leans across the door as you place a hand on his chest. His heart beat steady beneath the palm of your hand.

And then you smile. Sweetly.

“No sex,” you say.

His expression falters.

“What?”

You tilt your head. “One week.”

He frowns. Confused. “Wait…mon amour…what are you…”

“Maybe then you’ll remember to think before you speak.”

His mouth parts open a bit. “Mon amour, c’mon. You’re not actually…”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Step back.

“Have a good day, baby.”

And then walk back into the kitchen without another word. Behind you, you hear him huff a deep breath and then the front door click shut.

And you smile into your coffee mug with a soft laugh.

-

You don’t see him again until just after dinner time. When the sun has gone down, the sky still a  dark mix of fading pinks.

The door creaks open a little slower than usual. His keys rattle as they fall into the dish on the entry way table. You’re standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through your phone. A glass of wine half-full beside you.

You don’t look up right away. But you can feel his stare burning you as he stands in the arch way.

And when you do, you can see the slight tension in his bones. Like he’s unsure if this ban was serious. Or if maybe…he can charm his way out of it.

“So,” He says, easing up toward you as he pushes off the frame. “About this no sex thing…”

You drop your phone to the counter. Grab your glass of wine and sip it. “What about it?”

“I think it was just a heat of the moment decision, yeah?” He says. “I mean…you were emotional.”

You glance at him slowly, still holding the stem of your wine glass. “Emotional?”

He winces. “M’sorry…I didn’t mean it like that.”

You hum, a small smile curling on your lips. Set the glass down. “Right. Just like you didn’t mean to call me dramatic.”

Charles leans against the counter beside you, his hand slipping onto your lower back. Fingers brushing against the hem of your shirt like it’s innocent. 

“I mean, you don’t really wanna do this…like we both know you’ll suffer too.” His voice dropping lower. Deeper.

And its not like you guys can’t live without sex. But you guys had a very healthy sex life…to say the least. Especially when he was home and not traveling for work.

You look at him.

And his face is so fuckin’ smug. Cocky. So overconfident like when he thinks he’s about to win something. 

“Y’sure about that?” You raise one brow.

He flattens his palm against your spine now. Firmer. The heat of his palm pressing into you.

“Oh yeah…you’ll last, like what, a day?” He leans in, mouth at your ear. “Y’always get so needy at night, baby.”

You feel your breath hitch as his teeth nip your ear lobe, hand slipping underneath the hem of your shirt to feel your skin. 

You smile. “Good thing I’ve got toys then, yeah?”

He freezes.

And you walk away.

-

You wake up rather slowly. With your eyes still closed and body tangled in the sheets, you roll to your side. Instinctively reaching out across the bed to find…nothing. The warmth of his body has faded, making you aware that he’s probably been up for a while.

And then the smell of coffee hits you. And something sweet? Like honey or warm butter.

You blink your eyes open. The room is still pretty dim with the curtains drawn. Your robe has fallen open in the duration of your sleep.

You yawn and stretch your limbs. Toes pressing into the cool floor when you finally lift yourself out of bed.

And then you hear him.

A quiet thud of a drawer closing. The clatter of a pan. And humming.

His voice. No particular song. Just something under his breath and soft. 

You move down the hall slowly, still trying to wake up. And when you turn into the kitchen, you halt.

Because he’s there.

Charles. Shirtless. Standing at the stove with his back to you. His hair is a mess…but that wild morning look only makes him prettier. 

And he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. Low on his hips, hugging his ass perfectly. Giving you a perfect view of the slope of his spine, the toned back muscles, and his tanned skin. 

There’s a pot of coffee on the counter with two mugs. Toasted bread on a plate, gleaming just a bit…most likely honey butter melted onto them. Even a bowl of fruit. The pieces are cut unevenly but it looks like he tried to make it nice. Only to get impatient with it.

And he’s just humming. Like nothing’s wrong. Like he isn’t currently under a sex ban.

He turns when he hears your footsteps near. Looks over his shoulder and gives you that slow, stupid smile.

“Morning, baby,” he mutters. His voice sweet as he turns back toward the pan. “Hope you’re hungry, mon amour.”

You don’t answer. Just move to the coffee pot and pour yourself a mug. His eyes flick toward you for a moment. Quick. Tracking the way your hands wrap around the mug. The way the mug lifts to your lips.

“Made your favorite,” he says it lightly. “Put some honey butter on the toast too…figured you’d want somethin’ sweet today, yeah?”

You take a sip.

“Mmm. What tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

He shrugs. “Just wanted to take care of you.”

You eye him suspiciously. And that’s when you notice it.

The way his jaw is clenched a bit tighter today. How his fingers tap against the stove. The way his voice sounds like he’s trying so hard to swallow every filthy thought.

He wants you to forgive him. 

But he’s horny. And he’s dying.

Because the thing is…Charles was always like this in the morning.

Not just sweet and domestic. But horny. Like ridiculously horny.

And mornings had always been your thing.

Half the time you both wouldn’t even make it out of bed. You’d feel him pull your body into his, his breath warm against your neck as he rutted himself between your thighs. Lazy, greedy grinds that made you wetter with every stroke. No prep or talking. Just the heat of his skin against yours. The push of his cock against your underwear.

Sometimes he didn’t even bother pulling them off. Would just push them to the side, while one hand gripped your hip and the other fisted the fabric of the pillow beside your head as he shoved himself into you. With a grunt and a fuck, you’re so tight in the morning.

Sometimes there were mornings when he’d drag you out of the bed, drop to his knees, and eat you out like a starved man. Tongue fucking you, fingers digging into your ass, as he moaned against your cunt. Always messy and loud. 

Mornings when he’d flip you over onto your stomach and fuck you deep. His hand pressed into the nape of your neck as he leans forward and pants in your ear like look at this fuckin’ messy cunt. Pussy’s dripping all over.

And then there were desperate mornings. Like the ones when he got home late from a red-eye flight after a race weekend. And you’d barely even get to open your eyes before he was on you. Pulling your legs apart. Muttering things like need you so bad, baby and need this cunt around me right fuckin’ now.

And you’d let him every single time. Because he sounded absolutely wrecked every time. Soft whimpers pushing past his lips at the feel of you wrapped around him. And when he came? Fuck…he’d make a mess. All over your stomach. Your breasts. Your thighs. Sometimes your back.

So watching him stand at the stove, humming, like he’s not hard. Like he didn’t jack off in the shower just to take the edge  off. And you almost feel bad. Key word: almost.

Especially because you know what that cock feels like inside you first thing in the morning. How desperate he gets for you. How desperate he gets when he can’t have it.

And now he’s trying to be cute. As if he didn’t spend the last three years fucking you before breakfast like it was the only way to start his day.

You take another sip of coffee.

And smile.

He’s still humming. Still standing there like his cock isn’t straining against his boxers. Like he didn’t look at your bare legs and have to press his hips into the counter for just a second longer for some relief.

He’s trying so hard to act unaffected. And completely failing.

“Can’t believe you’re up this early,” you mutter into your mug. Taking another small sip with a groan.

Charles glances over his shoulder. Smirks.

“Couldn’t sleep that well.”

You hum. Take another sip. 

“You jerked off in the shower, hm?”

His shoulders tense immediately. And that’s how you know.

He huffs a small laugh. “Thought I was quiet.”

You shrug. “Mm not really. Heard it.”

He turns the stove off. Turns to look at you and leans his hands on the edge of the counter.

His eyes darker. Smile vanished.

“You’re mean, y’know that?”

You raise a single bow. 

“Walkin around half-naked. Sitting there with those fuckin’ thighs out.” He tilts his head a bit. “And then asking me about jerking off like it’s not big deal.”

You take another sip. “Just makin’ conversation, baby.”

His tongue darts out to lick his lips. A slight twitch in his jaw before he’s moving across the room. Until he’s standing right in front of you. Between your knees.

And when he bends forward, he rests one hand on the stool. His face right near your ear.

“I came thinkin’ bout your cunt,” he whispers. “The way it clenches around me even when you’re half-asleep. So fuckin wet, mon ange. Always fuckin’ soaked.”

You feel your thighs squeeze together. And he smiles because he knows. 

“Wanted to wake you up with my tongue,” he mutters. “Wanted to push those knees into your chest and lick you clean…but nope, you wanna play this stupid fuckin’ game.”

You swallow hard. “I told you…just one week.”

His hand drops to your thigh, slipping up toward the hem of your robe. His touch warm and enough to make you twice.

“I give it two more days…max.” He says. “Before you’re begging me to put my cock in you.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. Just like the first day. Sip your coffee and smile.

-

You hear the door open and shut.

Then a voice.

“Baby?”

You don’t answer. You’re just sinking into the couch cushions. Scrolling on your phone. But as soon as he takes one step into the living room, you glance. And instantly regret it.

Because he’s shirtless.

Chest flushed and glistening with swear. Hair pushed back, damp and messy. A small towel slung over his shoulder. A pair of black gym shorts low on his hips. Like really low. And the outline of his cock is absurd.

Your mouth goes dry.

Charles notices the way your thighs press together. The way your eyes drop once. But then quickly dart back up like you didn’t just stare at his cock.

He smirks.

“Miss me?”

You don’t answer. And you don’t really have to cause he’s already towering over you. Looking at you like he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck you or put his mouth on your cunt.

“Didn’t even shower…” His voice low. “Figured I’d come give you a little show first.”

He presses one hand to his cock. Palms himself.

A faint dark spot…wet spot…visible.

“Was hard the entire time,” he mumbles. “Had to run laps with my cock leakin’. Thinking about your little cunt.”

You don’t move an inch.

“Everyone at the gym was trying to talk to me…all I could think about was bendin’ you over on one of the benches and fucking you in front of the mirrors.”

“Charles…”

“Don’t even care if someone watched…just would let them,” he groans. “Let them watch me shove my cock into you while you sob.”

You let out a breath of air.

And he grins. Mean.

“Ohhh,” his eyes crinkle. “Got you now?”

“No.”

“Could make you come like this,” he whispers. “Rubbin on you. Bet you’d let me.”

“Nope.”

“You would.” He demands. Ruts a little harder against his palm. Groans. “Clenching your thighs like that. Can tell you’re dripping, yeah? Bet you woke up soaked…needing my cock like y’always take it in the morning.”

You inhale. Shaky.

And he’s right. Thats the fucked up part of it.

“M’gonna go shower,” He palms himself one more time. Calling over his shoulder as he says, “Feel free to join, baby.”

He turns. Walks away.

Grinning.

And you let your head fall back against the couch with an audible sigh.

-

Usually, when you and Charles go out to dinner, you don’t sit on the same side of the booth. But tonight, Charles insisted. Said he wanted to be close. Something about how romantic it was.

But really…he’s hunting.

The restaurant is dim and warm. Small tea-light candles flicker in the midst of every table. The clatter of silverware against plates, hushed by conversations.

Your skin is still warm and flushed a bit red from the bath you took earlier. And Charles?

Well….he’s a fucking nightmare. A beautiful, horny nightmare.

Dressed in a white dress shirt with he buttons half-undone at the collar. Just enough to show the flush skin of his neck. Sleeves rolled up his forearms. 

He’s been quiet for most of the dinner. Not in a moody or sulking way. The kind of way that tells you he’s up to no good.

You’re wearing a black dress. Slit high. The fabric soft but short, causing your thighs to slightly stick to the leather booth. His hands rest behind you, knee slightly pushed into yours.

He starts out subtle. 

A quick brush of his fingertips along your shoulder. Then your back. All while he nods attentively to whatever you’re saying. 

But his hand just dips lower and lower with every second that passes. Eventually reaching the skin of your thigh.

And you shoot him a look. Which he just responds with a sly smile as if to say m’not doing anything.

The water comes by with a dessert menu. Charles lets you order claiming that you’ll just want to share anyways. So he doesn’t even bother to look at the menu.

And when he walks away, he lets his fingers graze higher up your thigh.

Your breath falters. Fingers gripping into the edge of the tablecloth.

“Charles.”

“You said no sex,” he mutters, not looking at you. “Didn’t say anything about touching.”

Your jaw clenches tight.

He hums. “Don’t make a scene now, mon ange.”

His fingers graze the skin right where your dress ends. Then slips beneath it. And you try to shift your thighs to trap his wrist, but he’s faster. Smarter.

“You’re wearing the red ones,” he groans into your ear. “The lace ones…my fuckin’ favorite.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer.

He keeps his eyes steady on the flickering candle on the table as his middle finger drags slowly up the center strip of your panties.

“Already wet,” he groans.

You reach for your wine glass with both hands. Needing something to hold onto. Take a long sip.

“Tell me to stop,” his lips brush against your ear. “C’mon, I dare you.”

He’s barely moving his fingers. Just softly tracing the outline of your cunt through the barely there fabric. Back and forth. Over and over. Occasionally pressing the pad of his finger right over your clit.

“M’god baby, can feel how hot you are.” He whispers.

You glance around the restaurant in a panic. Cheeks flushing red from his touch. But no one is paying attention. And the table and tablecloth cover everything.

“Y’know what I’d do if you just let me fuck you?” He breathes, mouth lingering near your jaw as he presses a single soft kiss. Quick. So quick you almost thought you imagined it.

You feel the air catch in your throat as your hands grip even tighter onto the wine glass.

“I’d drag you right into that bathroom, baby. Sit you in the edge of the sink. Rip these pathetic panties to the side and slide into you nice and slow. Deep. Sit there until your eyes roll back.”

“Charles,” you hiss through your teeth. Placing the wine glass down on the table.

But your thighs are shaking. And you don’t want him to stop either.

“I’d make you say my name. Over and over…” He presses his finger to your clit again, then drags his finger in a rubbing motion over.

You press your hand over his wrist, gripping it as tightly as you did with the wine glass. 

And then he stops. 

Smiling sweetly. Casually. Like he didn’t just rub your cunt in a fucking restaurant.

“Mmm, so how ‘bout dessert?”

You blink.

And he grins.

-

It’s late at night and Charles swears he’s about to lose is fucking mind.

The room is dark. Well, aside from the faint glow of the TV playing a random re-run of something neither of you are really bothering to watch.

You’re turned up on your side, facing the wall. Back to Charles. Breathing even and eyes shut. But you’re not asleep…and Charles knows it.

Behind you, you hear the faint movement of the sheets rustling. A shift of weight. One heavy, slow breath. And then…the sound.

That slow and slick sound of skin dragging over skin. The wet stroke of his fist wrapping around his cock. Up and down.

You stay still. Halt your breathing.

“Fuck,” Charles groans behind you. “Y’killing me.”

You say nothing but your body has gone rigid as you face away from him.

He grunts softly. The mattress dipping with each rock of his hips. And you can hear how wet he is. His precum loud and coated all over his cock. He’s been edging himself all fucking day. 

And now this is what it’s come to.

Charles, flat on his back, fucking his cock under the covers like some desperate fucking animal.

“Y’not even gonna look at me?” He pants. A small whimper pushing past his lips in the middle of his sentence.

You don’t respond.

He strokes himself harder. “Layin’ here with my cock in my hand, leaking all over the place. Y’know how messy I get for you, baby.”

Your thighs clench under the sheets. But still, you remain silent.

“Pussy’s so fuckin’ good,” he groans, throwing his head back deeper into the pillow. “So fuckin’ tight. Always fits me so good…and I’d…I’d come the very second I slid in, y’know that?”

You swallow hard. And he hears it.

“Oh,” he huffs out a small laugh. It’s dark and mean. “Y’liked that one, yeah?”

You shift a fraction. But it’s more than enough to keep Charles talking.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he mutters, his hand moving faster. Slowing down at the tip of his cock. “Wish you’d sit on my cock…wish I could just drag you over here and split you open on it.”

Your thighs clench. 

“Wouldn’t even do it slow,” he adds. “Not after this fuckin’ shit you pulled. Would’ve bent you over, yanked your hair, and make you cry for it.”

His voice ends in a moan. The face of his hand faltering as he ruts his hips upward. He’s close.

You finally turn your head to catch a glimpse of him. The faint TV light outlining his figure.

He’s flushed. Hair a tousled mess. Brows furrowed in concentration but as if he’s in pain. Mouth cracked open and lips pink and slip.

His abs flex. Chest heaving as he jerks in sharp strokes.

But his eyes? 

Already locked on you.

“Want you to sit on it,” he groans. “Wanna feel that cunt stretch open around me…fuck, baby…just lemme feel it, yeah? Let me feel you..just this once.”

You shift again. A small whimper pushing past your lips that you didn’t mean to let out.

And that’s all it takes.

“Fuck…fuck,” he hisses as his hips lift off the bed. “Fuck..fuck, I’m coming.”

And he does. Hard.

Like body convulsing, throat tight with a moan, as he spills across his stomach. And its so much that it coats his hand, bits of hit reaching up to his chest. A messy release that drags on for what feels like forever. He groans again, dragging his hand slowly over himself, milking it.

And it’s so fucking hot.

That you can’t move. Or even speak.

You just keep watching with your thighs clenched. Nipples hard.

And when Charles finally looks back at you, “You’re fucked, mon amour.”

You blink. Eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Me?”

His voice is hoarse. “Oh yeah, you. M’gonna fucking ruin you for this.”

-

The sun is violent. Bright and beaming, beating down on the tiles around the pool. The pool water shimmers in its reflection. Skin glistening.

Everything seems totally calm and normal. Just two people, a loving couple, sunbathing and enjoying a relaxing pool day.

But if you look closer…it’s unbearable.

You’re lounging on your back, a pair of black sunglasses you stole from Charles perched on the bridge of your nose. And the tiniest bikini across your skin. The one he bought you while in Mallorca one year. The one that always made him nearly foam at the mouth.

And Charles hasn’t moved in nearly ten minutes.

He’s just sitting on the edge of the lounger, elbows pressed into his knees, face buried into the palms of his hands. Every few moments, the only motion he does is dragging his fingers into the roots of his hair. Like it will reset his brain or something.

You glance over at him.

His bathing suit hangs low on his hips. Like dangerously low. The muscles in his back twitching every time you so much as shift in your seat. And when you stretch…back arching, tits straining against the tiny triangles of the suit…he actually groans.

“Baby…you’re killing me,” he says. His voice rough.

He shifts slightly. Adjusting the obvious bulge forming in his shorts while exhaling a laugh that sounds more like he’s in pain than anything.

“I love you,” he says. “Y’know that right?”

Your heart clenches, cheeks burn at the words of endearment. “Yes?”

“No…like I fucking love you. I’d die for you.” He looks at you as if he’s unraveling. “But if you keep lying there like that…tits barely covered, arching…knowing that I can’t touch you…”

He drags a palm over his face. “M’trying to be good, I swear…” Dropping his head back between his shoulders.

The corners of your lips curl upward, amused. “Are you really?”

He snaps his head back up to look at you. And his eyes are dark. Feral almost.

“I could go weeks without sex, easy. I don’t need it like that.” His voice softens. “I love you for you.”

But then his voice drops lower. Deeper. More desperate and needy. “But this? Tellin me that I can’t have you? While walkin’ around like that?”

He leans back on his lounger, hand palming his cock. Shameless. Doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Bet you want me to fuck you against this chair…drag you over my cock ’til you’re crying.” He lets out a groan.

“Charles…”

He hums. “Still not giving in?”

You exhale shakily. You want to so bad. “Y’know the rules.”

He lets out a soft laugh. Closes his eyes for a few moments. His hands pressing down harder on his cock.

“Do you know how fucking hard it is not to make love to you right now?”

Your body stills. Pulse thrumming. 

“You’re everything to me,” he says. “Not just the sex. Not just your body. You.” His voice cracks a bit. Fingers still teasing the base of his cock through the fabric of his suit.

“I’d wait forever if I had to.”

He turns to look at you. Eyes locking with yours. “But if you don’t let me fuck you soon, m’gonna come in my hand thinking about how tight your cunt squeezes me.”

You bite your lip. Thighs pressing together. Nipples aching.

His smile widens.

“Thought so.”

And then Charles gets up, fists his towel over his shoulder, and heads inside.

-

You’ve barely made it thirty minutes outside of Monaco before Charles starts being a menace.

And the Ferrari is too sleek, too fast, and too tiny for the kind of restraint he’s pretending to have.

It starts with his hand.

Resting casually on the gear shift before innocently slipping to your thigh. You don’t look at him. Just take a small sip from your water bottle like you barely know he’s there.

The heat of his palm slipping through the thin fabric of your sundress.

His hand trails a little higher.

You glance at him. Eyes narrowed. “Really?”

His lips twitch, but his eyes stay focused on the road ahead. “What?”

“Your hand.”

“Oh.” He squeezes your thigh. “This one?”

You shake your head, pushing his hand playfully off your leg.

He laughs, moves his hand to lower the air conditioning, then places it back on your thigh like you didn’t just shove him off. “Just lovin’ on you, baby.”

“More like manipulating me.”

“Can’t a man touch his girlfriend?”

“Not one that can’t keep it in his pants.”

He hums. Pretending to think. “Technically, I’ve kept it in my pants for…” His eyes shift to look at the clock. Doing math in his head. “Four and a half days.”

You snort. “Want a trophy?”

“No,” his lips curl. “Just your cunt.”

You choke, turning your head abruptly to him. “Charles!”

“Mon amour,” he groans, tossing his head back against the seat. “You’ve no idea how hard this is.”

“I do,” you cross your legs.

“Oh, don’t fuckin’ do that,” he nearly whines. “Don’t squeeze your thighs like you’re the one in pain.”

“Keep your hands to yourself” You look back at the road.

“I’ve kept my cock to myself…doesn’t that get me a reward?”

“You jerked off twice yesterday.”

His eyes widen slightly. Cheeks redden. “Because you wore that little fuckin’ robe all around the house. Teasing me. M’gonna burn it after this week, I swear.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Me?” He scoffs. “You’re the one who said no sex for a week because I forgot to text back.”

“You called me dramatic.”

“I called you beautiful,” he argues. “And then I called you dramatic. Which you then proved by banning sex for a week. So honestly, I was right.”

You groan.

He smiles.

There’s a pause of silence. Just the low rumble of the car engine. The low music humming. 

“Are you wet right now?”

You feel your back stiffen.

“Charles.”

“I just wanna know,” His eyes still on the road. Fingers dragging slowly up and down your leg. “I mean..you’re wearin’ this little dress. It’s warm out. And you’ve barely touched me in four days.”

“You’re acting like its been a year.”

He smirks. “Just tell me.”

He inches his fingers a little higher, fingers toying with the hem of your dress.

You clench your jaw. Turn to look out the window.

He hums. 

“That’s what I thought.”

-

You’re lying back against the pillows with your robe loosely tied. Legs parted just enough to let him between them as he hovers over you. One knee between your thighs and the other digging into the mattress near your hip. His skin is warm. Like it usually is, but it’s also flushed a light shade of red from his recent shower. And he smells like the mint toothpaste and your vanilla scented shampoo that he always loves to steal whenever you buy it

And his lips are already on you.

It’s gentle. Just the slow sweep of his mouth on yours. Sweet. But then he sighs into it. A deep, frustrated, and needy sound..and then he’s deepening it.

His lips parting yours. Not rushed or anything but full. His tongue slipping in with a kind of insatiable hunger he always has.

You let him in deeper, lips parting for him, and his tongue slides against yours. Slow and smooth. Until you let out a soft whimper, and then it gets dirtier.

Sloppier.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your lips. “Don’t make that sound.”

You whimper again anyways. His hips pressing down to meet yours. Cock heavy and hard beneath the grey sweatpants. And you feel the thick outline of it against your core through the thin fabric of your panties.

Not thrusting. Just a slow, grinding drag of his cock against you.

Your breath catches. And he groans at the feeling.

“Y’feel that?” He pants against you. “Fuckin’ aching. Have been for days, mon amour…thought you’d break by now.”

You open your mouth to respond but he cuts you off with another kiss. And his hand slips beneath your robe, gliding over your skin before settling on the space beneath your breast. Not grabbing or groping. Just holding you.

“I love you,” he mutters into your mouth. “So much…like so much it’s make me fuckin’ stupid.”

Your head tips back and he kisses down your neck. A few slow, wet drags of his mouth over his throat while he drags his hips against your core again.

You whimper. And he grunts.

“You’re not helping,” his voice cracks. Hoarse. “You sound like you want it.”

And you do. Fucking god you want it. But you won’t say it. Not yet. Instead, you keep your fingers woven into his hair, tugging gently, with your mouth parted as he grinds against you again.

Another kiss. Deep and desperate. Tongue licking yours like he needs it to breathe. And he groans when he feels you arch up into him.

“Mon amour…” He pants, dragging his lips back toward your neck. Peppering kisses to the skin right beneath your jaw. “Fuck…you’re killing me.”

And then you feel something shift in him. You feel it in the way his hips slow. In the way his hold tightens. Like he’s trying to pull himself back from the edge with everything he has left in him.

You open your mouth to ask why did you stop. But he shakes his head before you can get any words out.

“Can’t do this,” his voice is soft. “Not yet…”

You furrow your brows.

“I want to,” he breathes, eyes flicking shut for a moment. “You’ve got no idea how fuckin’ much I want to.”

His mouth is close enough to kiss. But he doesn’t move.

“I thought you’d break by now,” he whispers, a soft smile near your cheek. 

You smile. A little breathless.

“I’ve never seen you this worked up,” you drag your hand to cradle his jaw. Brushing your thumb along his cheek.

And he laughs under his breath. More of a frustrated sigh. “Yeah…well, I’ve never been told I couldn’t fuck you. It’s messing with my head.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. Then your forehead.

“I love you,” he says again. Slower. Quieter. “More than I want to fuck you. Which is saying a lot.”

You laugh, and he grins.

Then he’s pulling back completely. Settling beside you on the pillows, one hand still on your thigh.

“And when you do give in…” His voice lowers. “You won’t be able to walk the next day.”

-

The water is hot. Clinging to your skin as the steam fogs up the mirror and waves around the bathroom. A slight scent wafting in the air from the bubbles that used to be in there, but have gone down after sitting in there for some time. The candle on the table beside the tub has burned low. 

It’s peaceful. But your body just is not.

You’ve been on edge for days. Muscles aching with tension that no amount of sleep or stretching can remove. You’ve spent every night tangled in the sheets with your thighs pressed tight, occasionally grinding into nothing. You’ve been waking up with slick between your legs. The echo of Charles’s voice in your head whispering the things he’d do if you just caved.

Charles leans agains the frame of the bathroom, arms crossed over his bare chest. Eyes trailing down the curve of your wet body. Just watching.

He’s in those sweats again. Low on his hips, a little damp from where they clung to his freshly showered skin. And yet again, the outline of his cock is very apparent.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters. “Hiding from me again?”

You blink at him, slipping a little deeper in to the water. “M’not hiding.”

“No?” He pushes off the frame and steps closer toward the tub. Slow. “Then why do I keep finding you in here, touching yourself like I’m not here?”

You scoff. Cheeks reddening. “I was not!”

He hums. A small smirk on his lips. “Liar.”

He kneels beside the tub. And the movement of him bending down makes the waistband of his sweats dip just a little bit lower to show the sharp toned lines leading beneath it. The same lines you’ve kissed thousands of times. The ones you’ve bitten before he’s had your face pressed into the mattress.

He dips his fingers into the water. Reaching for your thigh. “Y’gonna tell me how wet you are?” 

“Charles.”

“Beg me to stop teasing you?” His eyes darken. “Or beg for more?”

You exhale deeply. Your chest rising and falling. Charles eyes trailing to where your nipples peak through the soapy water. “I said no sex.”

He shrugs. “We went over this, mon ange. Doesn’t mean I cant touch…”

Your cunt clenches around nothing. Thighs slightly twitching as he leans over the edge of the tub, his lips ghosting the skin of your neck.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you.” He presses a kiss. “Doesn’t mean I can’t talk like this.” Another kiss, closer to your jaw. “Doesn’t mean I can’t make you wet.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Head falling further back against the tub. “You’re awful.”

“I’m in love with you,” he whispers. Nose pressing into your jaw. “And I want to fuck you so bad that it’s killing me.”

Your body erupts in goosebumps regardless of the steaming water.

“Charles…”

“Let me in,” he says. Voice rough and low. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be slow. Whatever you want…just…please,” He closes his eyes for a quick second. “Need to feel you again. I cant do this anymore.”

You hesitate.

Nod.

His sweats hit the tiled floor so fast that it makes your stomach clench with need. He’s in the tub not even a breath later. The water of the tub sloshing around, some of it spilling over the edge in the process. Until he slips in behind you, settling as he drags your back into his chest.

His cock thick and hot as it rests between your butt under the water.

You barely register how quickly he settled in the tub, before he’s gripping your thighs, pressing an open mouth kiss to your neck.

You instinctively grind against him once.

And his entire body jolts.

“You’re gonna kill me…gonna fuckin’ kill me.” He mutters.

And then he’s pulling you up into him. Until the fat head of his cock is nudging against your core.

“Say you want it,” he breathes. Nipping at your ear lobe. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

You whimper. And his grip on you tightens.

“Say it,” Charles practically begs. Cock twitching against you. “Say you want me.”

His mouth finds your neck again. Kissing like a starved man. Sucking until your skin burns and his teeth scrape against you. One of his hand slips down, his palm splayed against the skin of your belly. While the other hooks behind your thigh, spreading you open.

And then you say it. Broken. Soft. Like you can barely even breathe. Want you…want you to fuck me…ple..

You don’t even finish your sentence before Charles is groaning. Lifting you a tiny bit to guide the thick head of his cock into you. And he doesn’t slam or rush into you. He just pushes in slow, like he wants to feel the slow stretch of each inch pushing into you.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he pants at the same time you moan a loud Oh my God…

And then he’s gone.

There’s no rhythm or patience. Just frantic, deep thrusts. The harsh sound of skin on skin barely muffled by the splashing water.

His hands gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. And he’s so deep that it almost burns. Hitting that spot deep in your belly just right every single time.

“Fuck…fuck fuck f-fuck, baby….can’t hold it,” he grunts. Forehead pressed into your shoulder. Mouth pressing sloppy kisses down your neck.

You whimper. The heat building in your tummy too fast. Your thighs tightening and cunt clenching.

“Charles…oh my god…”

And then you’re coming.

Cunt clenching so hard that he chokes. A moan ripping from his throat as his cock twitches once…twice…

And then he’s done for.

Burying himself so deep into you that he shudders as he spills inside. Hips grinding helplessly. Cursing your name over and over.

When its over, he slumps against the tub. You leaning into him.

Breathless. Content.

“Consider that a gift,” he mumbles into your skin. “Cause I’m not going easy on you now.”

-

Charles doesn’t let go of you.

Not even after he’s spilled inside you. Not after your cunt clenched around him so hard that it sent some of the water over the bath edge. His chest is still rising and falling. Arms wrapped tightly around you.

But eventually he moves.

Your thighs tremble as you try to shift around, but then he’s grabbing under your knees and arms in one quick motion. Lifting you straight out of the tub.

The bathroom air is cool, but his skin is hot and flushed against yours. Cock still hard against you, like he didn’t just come. Like he didn’t even take the edge off. 

He lowers you onto the mattress slowly. Carefully. Like you’re something he worships (he does). Something he owns. But the second your back digs into the mattress, the illusion is gone.

“Y’think that little fuck in the bath was enough?” His voice low and sharp. “Think I’m satisfied?” He’s already climbing over you, one knee between your thighs. His cock dragging against your stomach.

You try to reach around him, but he grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head with a single hand. His eyes burning.

“Don’t touch me like you’re all fuckin’ sweet or something,” he snaps, brushing his nose against yours. “You’ve been cruel all week.”

His other hand trails down your body. Slow. So slow that goosebumps follow. Stopping right near your cunt. Fingers skimming so close, but never landing where you want them the most.

You whimper beneath him, legs twitching a bit. But it only causes him to spread them wider.

He leans in close to your ear. And you can feel his breath against your skin. “I should edge you ’til you cry. Over and over. Want you sobbing.”

His grip on your wrist tightens as he slips his cock between your folds. Not pushing in. Just dragging the fat tip against your clit.

“Y’feel how soaked you are?” He hisses.

And then he drags it lower, pushing the tip barely into you. Maybe an inch. Before he’s pulling it back out.

You moan, head falling deeper in the cushion of the mattress.

And he grins. All mean. “Oh, y’like that, yeah?” He huffs a laugh. “That little taste? Cause that’s all you get….until you admit it.”

You breathe in sharply. Eyes pleading for something.

“Admit you like being denied, baby. Admit that you love being treated like a toy…that it gets you wet.”

He taps his cock against your entrance again. Messing with you. And your hips roll into him, trying to catch him…but his hand moves to your waist and grips it hard. Pinning you down.

“Nu-uh,” He grunts, dragging his lips over your cheek. “You’ll get what I give.”

“Charles…”

“Shhhh.” He’s smiling. But it’s not nice. It’s cocky and mean. “Been dripping for the past six days, hm?”

His fingers come up to the skin beneath your jaw, cradling it as he turns your face toward his.

“Say it.”

You blink, lips parted. “What?”

“That you like bein’ teased…denied. Edged…” 

You bite your lip, eyes narrowing.

But he’s dragging the head of his cock against you. Slower. And the movement has you gasping.

And he does it again.

Again.

And again.

Dragging his cock against your core, barely nudging in before he stops completely. Pinning you down harder with each twitch of your hips.

You’re drenched. Thighs sticky with need. Body trembling with want. And aching.

He looks at you like you’re the most precious thing his eyes have ever seen. The way your skin flushes, the way your thighs shake, the way your eyes narrow in frustration.

“Y’feel how soaked you are, m’god baby…” He hisses, still barely pushing in.

And you gasp. High and desperate, as your fingers fist the pillow above your head.

He sinks in…just a little bit.

And the stretch of his cock is enough to make your cunt clench down hard around almost nothing. But he pulls back out just as fast.

Charles laughs. Cruel.

You whimper as he taps the head of his cock against your clit again. Lines himself up and pushes in again.

Just enough to feel that stretching burn.

“Fuck,” he groans. And then he’s leaning back off of you to shove two fingers deep into your cunt.

And you cry out, back arching off the mattress.

His fingers curl up instantly, hitting that spongy spot he knows you love oh so well. The spot that makes your vision blur. 

You squeeze your thighs around his wrist. Bucking your hips against his hand as he works against you. Pushing and curling deep. His palm grinding against your clit.

“Fuck…f-fuck Charles…” You gasp, careening forward to reach for his shoulders. 

And his eyes watch the way your face twists, the way your bottom lip catches between your teeth.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Getting close already, yeah?”

You nod quickly, legs shaking.

“Can feel it,” he grins as his fingers fuck into you harder. Faster. “You’re so fuckin’ close.”

And you whimper as your orgasm approaches. It’s right there. Like right there.

And then he pulls out.

And you let out a loud sob. Hips jerking. Chasing nothing as you pant and cry out.

Charles lifts his soaked fingers to your mouth. Presses them to your lips.

“Taste what you fuckin’ can’t have,” he snarls.

You suck his fingers in almost instantly. Tongue lapping against his fingers like you’re starving for it. Charles watches with his jaw clenched. His eyes glued to the way your mouth works against his fingers.

He pulls them free with a loud wet pop. His hand grabbing your face, squeezing your cheeks, with a single hand. Forcing your face to look at him.

“Y’think I’m just gonna let you come when you were mean to me all week?” His lips brush against yours. “Tellin’ me I can’t have you…can’t…” He laughs. “You’re literally mine…walking around in all those tiny fuckin’ shorts…the fuckin’ robe.”

He lets go of your face, pushing you back down against the mattress. Pressing his cock into your folds again. Hot and heavy.

And he thrusts forward, still not pushing in. Just nudging. Sitting there.

“Please…” You beg.

But he shakes his head.

“No,” he huffs. “Not til you’re begging. Not til you tell me that this little cunt’s mine to ruin whenever I say so or please.”

You sob again. 

His hand slips down to your clit. The rough pads of his fingers brushing over you. Pressing.

“I like it,” you moan. He presses his fingers harder. “Lo…love when you tease me. I..fuck..”

And then his mouth is crashing into you. Cock pushing forward. Thick and so fucking hard.

He drives in deep.

And the stretch is so good that you think you might cry.

Charles moans right into your mouth. Forehead pressed against yours.

He thrusts again. And again. Deep. Punishing. 

And it’s too much.

You sob out as your orgasm rises. Your body exploding, thighs clenching around him as you come hard around him. Shaking.

And Charles swears violently. Driving his hips in harder. Faster. 

Hips stuttering until he’s spilling inside you again. White, hot sticky ropes of it. And it just keeps going. 

There’s so much of it that he fills you until you’re full. Leaking out of you even when he’s stuffed deep inside.

“Fuck…f-fuck, baby,” he breathes. His head falling into the crevice of your neck. Kissing you.

His hips slow. A few slow, lazy and greedy pumps just to feel you again. Because he can.

And you’re still panting beneath him. Limbs loose and sweaty. His weight pressing into you like a weighted blanket, cock still buried deep.

He moves a bit. Only to brush your hair out of your face.

And he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Eyes shining.

You blink at him. Blushing. “What?”

He just smiles. “Can’t believe I survived six days of that.”

You laugh. “You barely did.”

He nods. “Yeah…thought about proposing on day three…just to see if you’d break.”

Your eyes widen. Heart hammering. “What?”

And his grin widens. “Would’ve done it too…one knee…cock hard as fuck.”

You snort, weaving your fingers into his hair. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “But you love me.”

You roll your eyes. Playfully. Lovingly. “Unfortunately.”

Charles sighs like he’s never been happier. Still buried inside you. Still leaning his weight into you.

“Let’s never fight again, yeah?”

You smile. “Think before you speak then.”

And he nods. Like he’s saluting you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

taglist: @oscatpiastree @saachiep81 @decoeurperdu @dearghostling @dvrlinqrxse @likehonestlysametho @b0nesandgh0sts @dfinchr @korinnkka @815523 @starz4me1 @qualitypuppyhottub @elidqn @fallingforfalll2 @larya810 @lemon-stvrrr @emmerdalegirl @saudisack @usernameorwtv @skylyn-vais @lun1st @ver1t7 @theoriginalsfan124 @whistlef0rthechoir @fangirlmusicbiashoe @tabisswag @1-of-my-many-obsessions @livelaughleclerc @ini3103 @feraviiii @ayap4paya @sol3chu (xoxo)

[sph63]

J'adore ce que vous écrivez ! Accepteriez-vous d'écrire une histoire où George découvre que sa petite amie gicle ? Il en veut plus et la fait gicler plusieurs fois, mais elle devient si sensible qu'elle lui demande d'arrêter, même s'il adore ça. Merci de votre attention !

Finally I'm able to hold onto some thoughts, not having my mind blurred with fever. So, here's a little something. 🤭

Thanks for your support! :)

dream come true

-> George's masterlist

Summary: You're finally enjoying a summer break with your boyfriend on his yacht somewhere at the sea. Lost in the passionate haze of your intimacy, you discover something juicy.

Warnings: 18+, fingering, oversmitulation, squirting, begging to stop, aftercare, George being obssessed with his discovery

Word count: 1.2k

–

“I was excited for this holiday with you, you know? Finally I have my own yacht, we have some privacy before our families arrive. It was always my dream to have this..” He whispered as he held you close to his chest while you watched the sun rising, you were lazily chewing on the piece of sweet bread you had for breakfast. You would be lying if this wasn’t your dream either. All those years you watched him from afar, silently fan girling, cheering for him, occasionally sliding into his dms with “I’m so proud of you, Georgie!”. Until one day he texted you back.

And now you were here, his girlfriend, the person hunted like a prey by the press. 

But George made sure you’ll be far at sea where nobody could see or hear you. 

Surely you enjoyed a few days tangled in yourself, having so much filthy sex you couldn’t even imagine. On the fifth day of your vacation, George did some work around the yacht, checking some things when he saw you were sunbathing naked. With a soft sigh, he smirked and walked quietly up to the deck where you laid on the luxurious pillows. His hand landed on your ass, getting a gasp from your lips. “George! I nearly had a heart attack.” 

He chuckled, massaging your soft flesh. “There is nobody else with us, so… You can be good.” 

You giggled softly, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. “You naughty boy. What are you doing with those fingers?” 

His hand traveled between your legs. “Mmm… already soaked, baby. Always so ready for everything I want to do with you.” 

Soft whine escaped your lips, you buried your head into the pillow, clutching it. 

“I want you to sit against those pillows, love.” he whispered into your ear and you obediently nodded and did so. 

You were sitting there, sprawled against the pillows, legs apart for him to see how worked up you were. Licking his lips, he looked back at your angelic face, taking in your pink cheeks and hazy eyes from lust. 

“Adorable.” his body moved closer in between your legs, claiming your lips in a searing kiss. Your hands shot to his hair, pulling him even closer. 

“I want to make a mess of you.” whispering against your lips, his hand found its way to your needy pussy, fingers brushing through your delicately wet flesh. 

“Oh my, George, please…” you moaned softly, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you looked into his beautiful eyes. 

Once his finger entered you, he still held your gaze, he loved to watch you come undone by his touch. And then he added another. Your gasps filled the ocean breeze, waves crashing against the yacht, but you focused only on him, how he was deep and curling his thick fingers just how you loved. 

“Fuck– yes– George, yes. That’s right. Mhm…” 

He smirked at your praise, he knew he was doing you good, you coating his skin with your juices of arousal. 

George fingered you relentlessly, suddenly his fingers sunk deeper than before and he stopped there, curling the tips to the spot you didn’t know about before. “Ugh–” your eyes went wide as they found his and he understood that this was it. 

“This is the spot, huh?” he grinned mischievously, curling his fingers in steady pace with moving them slightly in and out. You couldn’t breathe, everything in your body was on fire and some strange feeling pooled in your belly, your pussy clenching around his hand, the urge to pee rising and it scared you.

“G-George– this is wrong– I need to pee.” you tried to stop him, but he knew and he picked up the pace even more. 

Your hand tried to stop him, to get his hand out of you but you couldn’t take it anymore, the feeling of overwhelming pleasure taking over you and you crashed on the spot.

“George!” with a scream of his name you squirted all over his shorts and chest, a few droplets landing even on his face. 

George was stunned, his mouth open in awe. “Fuck, baby. That was hot. I need more.” 

But you whined, your body trembling and you tried to move away. But George took you onto his lap, fingering you again, holding you close. “You’re gonna give me another, sweetheart.” 

“Please–” your whine disappeared to no avail, your pussy gushing again, the warm liquid trickling down on him again. 

Your hands dug into his shoulders, drooling from pleasure with your mind completely shut. “You–” 

George was like a feral animal. He couldn't stop. Even though he saw how overstimulated you are, he couldn't. 

Continuing in his sweet torture, he placed you on your back against the pillow again, his head leaning between his legs while he started to eat you out, fingers deep inside you still. 

You looked down at him, mouth open with soft whines and moans, your body squirming underneath him. “It’s too much, G–” and then it hit you again.

George got exactly what he wanted, catching up some of your squirt with his mouth, licking his lips when you were done. He would've continued again, but you stopped him, this time for real. “Please, George, just stop. Please. No. No more. Please.” 

It was as if he just got out of the fever dream. Looking down at you, how you laid there, trembling from being overstimulated and overwhelmed at once from your newly discovered way of orgasm, the pool of wetness literally everywhere. 

“Oh, love. Are you okay?” kissing your forehead, he caressed your body, fingertips brushing over the bumps on your hot skin. 

You smiled weakly, wrapping your shaky hands around his neck. “You just made me see stars. I don’t know how– where this came from. But it was incredible.” 

He laughed softly, taking your hands into his, kissing them gently. “It was the most incredible thing I had with you. From now on, I don’t want to make you come differently than like this.” 

You shivered with a soft whimper. “Let’s take it slow next time. It’s really sensitive down there after. I feel drained and sore.” 

“Of course. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or in any pain. Do you want to take a shower?” he didn’t wait for your response and he took you into his arms, walking to the cabin down the yacht. 

“Mhm…” you hummed against his still wet chest and you chuckled.

“Maybe I’ll take advantage of you there.” he teased you. 

“N-no. Not now, please.” your eyes went wide a little. He placed you on the small chair in the bathroom, kissing your temple while cupping your cheeks. 

“Don’t worry, love. I won’t do anything you don’t like.” his smile was genuine and full of love. 

“I love you, George.” you blurted out, smiling, your eyes glistening with the post orgasmic haze. 

George patted your head softly, pecking your lips. “You have no idea how I love you.” 

-

Please don't use my writings without my permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

-

Tags: @chilling-seavey @withering-daylight

[sph63]

The Sculpture of Desire 18+ (CL16)

Summary : In the quiet, dust-filled halls of a prestigious art academy, a young student becomes the muse of the enigmatic Professor Charles Leclerc . Tasked with being the subject of his sculpting exercises, she quickly discovers that Charles’ fascination extends far beyond her physical form. As the lines between art and desire blur, their encounters grow increasingly intimate and charged, revealing the intensity of passion, control, and surrender. Amid the delicate tension of clay, marble, and shared secrets, both muse and artist navigate a dangerous, consuming attraction that neither can resist. Art Academy AU

➢ Sculpture professor!Charles Leclerc x Student!Fem reader ( no use of y/n)

➢ Warnings! : 18+, smut, fingering, slight hair pulling, excessive amount of kissing.

➢ Word count : 5.1k

────────────

The sculpture studio always held a silence that was almost alive. It wasn’t empty, exactly; it was full of the soft scrape of chisels, the muted thud of hammer on stone, the whisper of fingers working clay into submission. These were the sounds of concentration made visible, of creation made tangible. You find comfort in this kind of quiet— where the faint smell of damp clay clung to your clothes and the air carried a fine, chalky scent of plaster dust. It settled on your skin as though the studio itself wished to mark you as one of its own.

The sunlight poured through the towering windows in long, slanted beams, gilding the dust motes in the air and casting a warm glow over every sculpted form.

And then he entered.

Professor Charles moved into the room with the weight of authority that made the world shrink. Every tool stilled. Every pair of eyes stuttered mid-motion. His brown eyes, deep and deliberate, swept the room, but it was not just sight—his gaze was a claim, measuring, weighing, assessing, pulling everything into the orbit of his presence. He wore a knitted brown shirt that clung to his form just enough to reveal the lean strength beneath, trousers streaked with clay that no amount of washing could erase, and a calm, elegant poise that made even the room itself feel contained.

“So today,” he said, voice low and smooth, rolled just slightly with that accent that lingered on every syllable like a brush of silk, “we begin the exercise that I talked about last week.” His eyes traveled over each student, then fixed sharply on you. “I do not want you to sculpt still life or the plaster models.” He gestured toward the corner where battered replicas of Greek statues leaned, worn from years of copying. “You will sculpt… her.”

The word hung in the air. A ripple of glances passed among the students before realization struck—you.

“Me?” Your voice came as a whisper, incredulous.

A faint smile curved his lips, but the fire in his eyes did not waver. “Yes. You. Sit.” His hand gestured toward the stool in the center, bare, surrounded by waiting slabs of clay and empty pedestals.

Heat flooded your cheeks, and your chest tightened under the weight of every pair of eyes now turned toward you. Some looked amused. Others, envious. But you could not turn away— Charles’ gaze held you fast, unyielding. Slowly, you abandoned the clay you had been shaping, every step toward the stool echoing in the quiet studio. The wood creaked beneath your weight as you lowered yourself, hands folded in your lap, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

Charles moved closer, deliberately, with the precise grace of a predator and the confidence of a master. He nudged the stool until it sat perfectly aligned. Then, with a casual authority that belied the intimate precision of his touch, he tilted your chin with fingers dusted in clay. “Hold like this. Chin a little higher… mm, perfect. Jawline must be clear.” The contact was fleeting, but fire traced a line where his fingers had rested, and your breath hitched in a way that surprised you.

The murmurs of students blended into a distant hum, their movements unimportant, trivial. Charles circled the studio like a force of nature, correcting, demonstrating, murmuring instructions in his rolling accent. Every word brushed against your mind, threading itself through your awareness. And always—inevitably—his eyes returned to you, lingering on the line of your cheek, the curve of your neck, the tension in your shoulders.

You told yourself it was natural; you were the subject. But it was not just observation. It felt heavier, charged. It was as if he could see not merely the surface, but what lay beneath—the subtle tremors of your pulse, the quiet surrender in the slight incline of your chin, the tiny shiver that betrayed your anticipation.

Hours passed like minutes, the ache of holding still pressing into every muscle, yet you dared not shift. When Charles finally clapped once, the sound sharp and commanding, the scraping of tools ceased instantly. “Enough for today. Clean your work. Wrap your clay. We will continue tomorrow.” Students groaned, reluctant to leave unfinished work, but you slid off the stool, muscles trembling, and watched them drift toward the sinks.

“Stay a moment” Charles’ voice cut through the soft clatter.

You froze. He stood by the pedestals, inspecting a half-formed clay bust of you, tracing its lines with a hand that was at once gentle and decisive. “Do you see?” he murmured, thick accent drawing out the words, each one deliberate. “They are learning… but it is not you— yet. Only resemblance. To sculpt someone truly, one must…how d you say it. " His brow furrowed, searching for the word in english with a motion of his hand. "One must see beneath. The structure. The spirit.”

“And… will they get there?”

His eyes found yours, unwavering, and heat pooled in your stomach. “Perhaps. But… you are not easy to capture. Non. Not ordinary.”

For a heartbeat, the room felt impossibly still. You shifted, pretending to examine the clay, though every sense was attuned to him. “I’ll try to sit still better next time,” you whispered.

The next session arrived with a weight heavier than usual. The studio felt different—smaller, denser, as if it held its breath in anticipation. Few students had gathered, speaking in hushed murmurs, their eyes flicking occasionally toward you— who walked toward the center with the same mixture of trepidation and curiosity that had defined yesterday. The stool waited for you, stark against the worn wooden floor, its presence somehow intimate, almost predatory.

Charles entered with deliberate slowness. Sleeves rolled back to reveal forearms dusted faintly with clay, veins standing out beneath his skin, the crisp white of his shirt making every motion seem more deliberate, more elegant. He nudged his head toward the stool with a small— almost imperceptible smile. “Well.” he said simply to you, and the command held a promise beneath it, one that made your pulse hitch.

You obeyed without hesitation, legs carrying you forward as though your body remembered the path instinctively. The stool wobbled slightly beneath your weight, and his hands closed around it to steady it. “Relax,” he murmured, fingers lingering, brushing against your thigh. Heat pooled through you at the intimate contact, and your breath hitched, betraying the tension you could not fully control.

The class began as usual. Students bent over their clay, shaping your likeness with careful hands, murmuring apologies for mistakes, seeking approval. But today— Charles circled less, watching with a predator’s patience, lingering near you, pacing around the stool as though measuring, marking, deciding the exact angle from which to take what he desired. His eyes traced the line of your jaw, the gentle slope of your nose, the curve of your neck, each time murmuring corrections to students with a tone that made the simple act of observation feel intimate, possessive.

“Oh no, not like that.” His voice cut through the room, focused on a student’s misstep, but your attention was pulled entirely to him. “Too shallow. Her cheekbone is not timid—pronounced. Respect what is there, Miss.” His gaze met yours in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Minutes blurred into hours. Your muscles ached from holding still, but you dared not move. Charles noticed and approached. His voice lowered, meant only for you. “Don’t be too stiff.” His hands rested against your shoulders, firm yet not overbearing, guiding you into alignment. “Tension is written all over your face.” The brush of his fingers along your neck and collarbone sent warmth flooding through you, making it impossible to focus on anything else. You tried to breathe evenly, but the closeness, the deliberate pressure, the intimacy of his guidance made each inhale tremble. “Better,” he murmured, breath brushing against your ear. “Much better.”

The room slowly emptied. Students murmured excuses about other classes or left silently. By the time the last student left, only you and Charles remained. The silence felt thicker now, almost tangible, broken only by the quiet scrape of his polished shoes against the floor as he circled you, studying you openly.

“You’re doing well.” He stopped directly in front of you, arms crossed, his gaze locking with yours.

You tried to laugh, an attempt to mask your racing heart. “Is that a compliment, Professor?”

His lips curved faintly. “An observation. But…” He leaned closer, so close you could see the flecks of light in his brown eyes, hear the soft drawl of his accent wrapping around each word. “It is dangerous for me to observe too much.”

Your breath caught. “Dangerous… how?”

His face twitched as if containing a smile, then he straightened, voice returning to the commanding professor’s tone. “Stand.”

“What?”

“Stand,” he repeated, gesturing with a hand dusted lightly with clay. You obeyed— body trembling slightly, stepping off the stool. He reached for your chin again, tilting it upward, fingers brushing the dust from your skin. The contact ignited a fire along your nerves, warmth flooding where he touched. “Yeah,” he murmured, hands hovering near your collarbone without actually resting, tracing the invisible lines of tension. The nearness burned, more potent than if he had made direct contact. Every small movement was deliberate, measured, consuming. “Clay is like people,” he whispered. “It tells you what it can endure. You only need the courage to test it.”

The slow, torturous rhythm of his touch, the heat radiating from his proximity, left you breathless. Finally, he withdrew.

"Tomorrow." He said, finally as his back half turned. "7 o' clock. We continue"

You definitely didn't have any class with him that time but you just nodded, obeying.

The studio was empty when you arrived— the wide doors creaked open slowly as you pushed them opened. The room welcomed you with the faint smell of dust and wet clay lingered around the air. Your heels echoed as you walked inside, stomach twisting into knots when you could see Charles leaning against his table with one hand holding a paper— reading it without noticing your appearance.

You could've just ignored his command yesterday and yet, here you were.

"You came." He said as he looked up from the paper.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder. "You told me to."

"Yeah," he said, drawing out the vowel into something softer, thicker. He uncrossed his legs, his shoes fell silent against the dusty floor. "And you obeyed."

The words spoken so simply but still managed to send a flush creeping up your neck. "You make it sound like I didn't have a choice." You tried to laugh it off to cut the tension.

"Did you?" He asked, tilting his head with a hint of amusement. Professor Charles pushed himself off the table, a grin forming on his lips as he saw you froze there like a sculpture yourself. You swallowed hardly— unsure how to answer him and thankfully, he didn't press the question. Instead he gestured your sit in the room— the same one that you'd always sit on though tonight it looked stark and almost intimate. "Sit." he said, voice gentler.

You obeyed, lowering yourself onto the stool. The room felt too quiet, the air heavy with anticipation. Charles moved behind you, his presence filling the space even before his hands touched you.

But then they did.

Without preamble, his palms settled on your shoulders—firm, warm, grounding. You stiffened, but he pressed lightly, urging your posture straighter. "Relax," he murmured, his breath brushing the crown of your head. "You hold yourself too tense. Let it go."

Easier said than done. Your pulse raced, your skin tingling where his thumbs brushed just beneath your collarbone.

"You trust me, no?" he asked softly.

You hesitated but then just whispered. "Yes."

"Good." His hands slid slowly down your arms leaving trails of heat through each touch and the thin fabric of your sleeves, until his finger hovered on your wrist. He didn't need to grip it for the weight of the moment to pin you still. "Then listen." He guided your hand forward, placing them onto a lump of clay already waiting on the stand before you. His own hands closed over yours— firm and steady pressing your fingers into the cold surface. "Consume the feeling.." He instructed as his chest brushed against your back— the smell of his cologne filled your nose.

Together, you pressed into the clay, his larger hands enclosing yours completely. The pressure was intimate, the closeness unbearable. Each shift of his fingers forced yours to follow, each breath he exhaled ghosted warm against your skin. Your heart beat violently as your body conflicted between resistance or surrender. Finally, he released your hands— only to step around you. Charles' gaze burning into yours as he saw a smudge of clay streaked your cheeks from where his knuckles had brushed you a moment earlier. He reached up, thumb slowly dragging against your skin to wipe it away.

"There."

You sighed heavily as you finally had the chance to breath properly. "You're not really teaching me anymore, are you?"

His jaw flexed as he leaned down slightly until his face was just inches from yours. "Non." He admitted. "I am not."

The question hung heavy in the silent. His hand cupped your jaw— feeling his thumb brushing once more along the surve of your cheek. "You know.." he murmured. "how difficult it is to sculpt when the subject consumes you more than the work itself?". The question left your lips parted slightly trying to say something but no sound emerged from it. He drew closer, his accent lacing every word like a velvet. "I could spend hours shaping marble to resemble you but.."Charles chuckled softly before his thumb traced the corner of your mouth. "it still would fail because what I want..cannot be capture in stone."

The air between you cracked as his gaze fell briefly to your lips before locking back on your eyes. He didn't kiss you— though the tension of how much he tried to restrained himself to connect his lips with your was clearly there.

"Tomorrow–"

You quickly cut his words knowing what he was going to say and then you made a mistake with your sentence. "What if I don't want to wait until tomorrow?".

Charles froze for a second— he seemed like he was a carved marble himself as every line of his face sharpened by disbelief. Then a low sound escaped his throat, something between a laugh and growl. ”You're testing me.. "

"Am I failing?"

“You drive me insane,” he confessed , his accent thickening with every word. “Each time you look at me in class, each time you avoid my gaze—I burn, ma chère. And tonight… I will not let you run. "

In two strides, he closed the space between you and his hand moving to the back of your neck— pulling it closer. The first brush of his mouth against yours has hesitant as if he was testing but the moment you parted your lips, the kiss deepened— slow and hot. Clay dust smeared between your fingers where you gripped the stool tightly, grounding yourself as Charles pressed closer to your body. His other hand slid slowly around your waist trying to close the gap as much as he could.

The kiss consumed you, molten and unrelenting, until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and yours began. Each press of his lips was deliberate, sculpted, as if he were carving desire itself into your skin. Your hands, trembling yet greedy, roamed up his chest. The heat of him was staggering—solid muscle hidden beneath linen, a body honed not by vanity but by the labor of creation. Clay, marble, bronze—each medium had demanded strength, and you felt all of it now, caging you, overwhelming you.

Charles deepened the kiss with a low growl, his accent breaking even the syllables of your name as though language itself faltered in the presence of hunger. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging, and the sting sent a shiver down your spine so sharp you arched against him.

“Dear,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the storm raging between your bodies. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Your answer was a gasp as his hand slid higher along your thigh, fingers digging into flesh possessively before pushing your leg tighter around his hip. The motion brought him against you—hard, undeniable—and your entire body pulsed with the raw proof of his need. He kissed down your jaw, across the vulnerable stretch of your throat, each movement equal parts worship and claim. His breath seared trails against your skin, his tongue flicking where your pulse thundered, as though he wanted to taste how fast he made your heart race.

Your fingers threaded deeper into his hair, tugging when he nipped, sighing when he soothed the sting with his tongue. Every sound you made seemed to unspool him further. The professor’s usual composure—the measured, accented cadence of his lectures—was gone. This was Charles, stripped of restraint, undone by you.

Your voice trembled when you whispered, "Charles..."

He groaned softly at the sound, the hand at your waist tightening. "Say it again."

"Charles.." You obeyed, breathless and each repetition seemed to unlocked his desperation further. He kissed your neck fiercely leaving deep marks on it. Then his mouth claimed yours again— hands no longer holding your waist and moved to your chest so.. slowly. The stool wobbled under your shifting weight, and he caught it with one hand, steadying it easily before chuckling against your lips.

"You make even sitting dangerous," he teased, breathless, voice low with hunger. "Tell me to stop," he whispered. "One word, and I will."

The room seemed to hold its breath with you. You didn't say stop. Instead, you reached for him, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him back to you. The answering sound he made was half relief, half fire, and he kissed you again, deeper, harder, as though he'd been waiting years for this single moment.

And when he finally drew back, his lips swollen, his breath uneven, he looked at you as though you weren't his student, or his subject, but the only thing he had ever truly wanted. He pushed your blouse higher, baring skin to the lamplight, to his ravenous eyes. His lips descended in worship—over collarbone, down the curve of your chest, biting lightly, soothing, savoring. His hands worked with sculptor’s certainty, molding, learning, memorizing.

Every gasp, every shiver, every desperate clutch of your fingers in his hair only fueled him further. The professor, once a figure of untouchable authority, now knelt before you—not as a man diminished, but as one utterly consumed. “Perfect,” he murmured against your skin, voice reverent, as though he were not simply touching you but unveiling a masterpiece he had been starving to claim.

His mouth closed over you fully, when your tongue and lips drew sharp cries you could not bite back—you knew you were already lost to him. When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, his accent thicker, words dragged through desire. “Dieu… I should not have…” His thumb brushed your swollen lip, gaze flicking down again as though he could not resist. “But I cannot stop.”

You swallowed hard, dizzy from the sudden absence of his mouth. “Then don’t.”

"May I?" He asked, voice hoarsed from the amount of kisses you guys shared. He lingered his finger just above the buttons of your shirt— eyes filled with eagerness yet patience.

You nodded— biting your lower lips as you tried to calm yourself down from what he was about to do. When he finally had your approval, he slowly moved his hands to unbutton your shirt— your eyes followed each of his moves with nervousness. When he finished unbuttoning half of it— letting your covered chest exposed and you only whined as the sudden cold air hits you sharply. Charles looked at your body breathlessly as if he was in awe, eyes darting at you before turning back to your chest. He slowly slid his hands under your undergarments— earning a muffled moan from you as the sudden contact of his firm grip felt unusual.

"You're a goddess. A statue yourself." Charles' fingers gently tugged at your nipple— pulling it just hard enough to make you throw your head to his shoulder. "Don't hide it, angel." He whispered to your ear. The warmth of his breath tingled against your neck— one hand tightening around his neck while the other rested just against his chest to steady yourself. Then his other hand reach for you hair, tugging it to pull your head backwards so he could look at your face that was full with sweat, desire and desperation.

"Professor Charles. I really need you" you said, mouth agape as you tried to breathe properly.

"Mhm." He just hummed before pulling your nipple harder to earn a loud yelp from you— this was new— the feeling was new. "How do you need me?" Charles removed his hand that gripped your hair roughly then gently brushed a strand of hair that stuck on your face.

"Take off your clothes." You gulped trying to form the words. "I wanna see you."

Without resisting, Charles stepped away a bit to quickly unbutton his clothes — eyes not leaving yours as you watched him with hunger. He smirked feeling the sudden heat that crept at his neck to your stare and seeing you being vulnerable like that amused him. "Satisfied?" He asked, leaning closer to you, planting a few kisses to your cheeks. You pushed his clothes off his shoulder— letting it fall softly on the concrete tile. Charles' held your wrist to gently guide your hand to his cervix— close enough to his bulging shape at his slacks. "You did this." He said teasingly as he looked at your hand slowly moving to brush against the material of his short.

     Then, Charles quickly caught your hand when you were about to unzip his pants— making you looked up at him with a curious look.

"Not so fast." He chuckled.

Your bottom lip lustfully tried to bite back the excitement that built inside. He danced his point finger to your thigh— stopping before he reached your private part. "Can I feel you?" Charles asked.

"Please." You pleaded as if there was no reason for you to reject his question.

     Charles' lips connected with yours again as his hand finding its way to lift up your skirt— letting his cold palm brushing gently against your bare thigh. He glided his fingers over your panties— smoothering the wetness that he could feel from the fabric. You held his neck to keep kissing him, hiding the moan that was about to escape your lips. You didn't stop him when he nudged your panties to the side and let his thumb brush against your entrace gently.

     The touch made you parted your lips from him as you couldn't suppress the pleasurable moan anymore. You tried to stay quiet but it was hard when Charles kept playing with your pussy— so slowly and intimate. "You're so fucking wet."  He murmured— staring intently at your face who was too caught up with the pace of his finger pushing in and out of you. He let his other hand spread your legs wider— rubbing his thumb on your clit while his finger was moving just at the right spot inside.

The way it kept touching the same spot was so intense — as his pace grew faster. You couldn't help but clenched your walls around his finger as he added more digits trying to open your hole wider. "You're so tight." He said, his own voice betrayed him as it sounded like it came with a stutter. "When was the last time?" Charles asked gently— looking at your eyes with an intense gaze mixed with curiosity.

"A year.. maybe two." You couldn't speak properly as his fingers reached your g-spot— not trying to stiffled the moan that escaped past your throat. "Oh god, Charles." You exhaled, looking at the ceiling while hands steadied at his chest.

"I know, dear." His thumb brushed roughly against your clit. "You're coming?"

You nodded as you could feel the pleasure built up— and legs began to shake violently at the sensation. He seemed to be enjoying the way you cried out his name— echoing through the tall walls inside the empty studio. "Shit—" you moved your hand to the back of his neck, pulling his head to take his lips into yours. You were moaning messily inside the kiss and his fingers just kept going rougher.

"Go ahead." He whispered as your lips parted from him just to connect it again hungrily. With his eyes on yours as u broke the kiss— he rested his forehead against yours and could feel the feeling of your warmth of your breath. "Such a good girl for me. Obeying my words, huh?"

You hummed in response— walls clenching tighter around him as you screamed his name loudly. "I'm cumming" You sobbed out— gripping hard into his hair. The strong orgasm escaped you as you back arched at the pleasure.

Charles' slow down his fingers as he tried to ride out your orgasm— the sound of wetness filled the air when he tried to gently took out his fingers. "So beautiful." He complimented you instantly — looking at his fingers that glistened with your cum.

You just chuckled breathlessly before lazily kissing the corner of his mouth. "It felt so good." Charles just hummed softly, enjoying your touch.

The situation quickly came to a halt when Charles phone rang in his pocket. He gave you a knowing look before fiddling up his pocket to find it— eyes not leaving yours as you curled your arms around his neck, not wanting him to be far away.

"Oh yes, Professor Albon." He answered the call– voice filled with professionalism. He just nodded, humming in response for the other side to hear. "No no. I certainly didn't forget, don't worry." Charles' stare turned to look up towards the big clock in the studio then massaging him temple in distress. "Yeah, I'll be there in a few minutes." He quickly hung up the call— sighing then turned his gaze towards you, who were staring with head titled to the side showing a sign of curiousity.

   "Party pooper." Charles chuckled then slid his arms around your waist. "I'm sorry.." He softy rubbed your back, planting soft kisses against your neck then to the corner of your mouth to comfort you with this sudden disturbance. "I promise. Next time there won't be any interruptions."

Your eyebrows perked up— a faint smile appeared on your lips as you could feel your ears heated up.

Next time

“Next time, you will not escape so easily.”

The words burned into you like a seal, a dangerous vow you could not—and did not want to—refuse.

[sph63]

Overtime Confessions (GR63)

Summary : During a late-night office blackout, two coworkers find themselves unexpectedly trapped together. What begins with teasing banter and awkward closeness slowly unravels into a charged tension neither can ignore, forcing them to confront feelings they’ve both been avoiding.

➢ Office worker!George Russell! x Office worker!Fem Reader ( no use of y/n)

➢Word count: 3.6k

See the end of the writing for notes!

─────────────────────────────────────

At first, you thought it was just the usual end-of- day dimming, the moment when the light flickered inside the skyscraper but then the hum of machines vanished and the printers, computers, even the ancient water cooler all fell silent in unison. Only the rain remained—sharp, insistent, hammering the tall windows in waves. The office was quiet— too quiet in the midnight air. A silence so thick it pressed against your ears as you could feel the absence of the sound. Usually the hum of computers and faint chatter of late night filled the room but tonight, everything vanished— now only darkness accompanied you. A sudden power outage had thrown turning everything into shadows leaving only the dimming emergency light flickering weakly.

"Oh, great," you muttered, rubbing your eyes.

You and George were the only ones left inside the office— probably both got too immersed in the work to notice the time and the lack amount of workers leaving. And then, of course, there was George—sitting cross-legged on the floor near the supply cabinet, fiddling at a stubborn flashlight that refused to stay on. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a slight frown tugging at his lips, and yet somehow, he still looked effortlessly in control, like even being trapped in an empty office at night couldn't shake him completely.

"Well," George exhaled, breaking the silence with a silly grin. "Guess we are officially trapped."  There was a teasing lilt in his words, but beneath them you could sense the slight nervousness though it should go unnoticed if you weren't paying attention.

You let out a snort— couldn't believe the dramatic delivery from him and partly because of the awkwardness of the situation.

"Officially trapped?, sounds dramatic." You weren't sure if the laugh was to lighten the mood or to mask your realization that it was just the two of you here , how the small distance between you suddenly seemed enormous and yet intimate all at once. "Like the start of a horror story."

"Or romance." George said cluelessly as a light joke, raising his eyebrow with grin widening. "Could go either way." He shrugged.

George didn't notice the way your jaw tightened, stomach fluttered— you forgot to respond caught between the desire to tease him back or roll your eyes. There was something about George—something magnetic and infuriating at the same time—that made you feel a strange combination of comfort and unease, like standing on the edge of a cliff and being drawn to the fall.

"This is convenient — guess the universe decided we're working too hard."

You spinned your chair, trying to spot him in the dark. His silhouette moved briefly still trying to turn on the flashlight while cursing under his breath. "Convenient?" you echoed, standing and making your way toward him. "We're stuck here, George."

He finally found a way to switch on the flashlight but then the light hit your face, earning a wince from you. "Watch it, Russell!" You said covering your eyes with your palm.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, though his grin widened. He lowered the beam, letting the light skim across the room instead. "See? Not so bad. Two people, one storm, one flashlight. If this was a horror movie, I'd say we're doing pretty well."

"Until the part where someone gets eaten," you muttered , moving past him to grab a spare pack of batteries from the shelf.

"Bold of you to assume I wouldn't sacrifice myself heroically first," he shot back.

You checked your phone to see the time — 12:30 a. m.

Sigh.

The two of you spent the times wandering around the office with your phone held high as a tiny flashlight. The rain outside pounded against the window, rhythmic and loud. You stepped carefully around scattered papers and half-empty coffee cups, each movement a small dance to avoid catastrophe, while George moved beside you with surprising agility, bumping lightly against your shoulder every so often, always just enough to make you notice.

"We're trapped here with no way out as the exit door couldn't magically open during this kind of emergency— still needed our card access " He complained. "What do we do then?"

"We wait." You replied while trying to slide the batteries into a backup lantern that you found in your drawer that one of your office mates gave you for secret santa— thank god, it was finally useful for something when your phone ran out of its battery..Your fingers fumbled in the dark, and before you could slot the last one in— George's hand brushed against yours, just a light accidental touch.

"Here," he murmured— stepping closer, voice lower now, more careful. His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary as he guided the battery into place. When the lantern flared to life, you both blinked against the sudden glow.

You pulled your hand back quickly, pretending to be busy adjusting the lamp's brightness. "Thanks," you murmured. George didn't answer right away. You could feel his gaze, steady and unreadable, and it made your pulse stumble.

Eventually, you both found refuge on the large couch in the conference room, the storm outside a constant, rhythmic backdrop. He exhaled deeply sunk himself in the couch slowly letting the stress away. You noticed the way his head turned to the side to look at you as you were scrolling through your phone absentmindedly. Minutes, passed by and you just let out a huff— you received a message from the technician that the power will be back in a few minutes. "Crazy night." You murmured.

"Well not the worst." He said, voice softer— lacking its usual teasing tone. "At least I'm stuck with you."

The words were simple. But they landed heavily, warming you from the inside out. Your breath caught, but you disguised it will a roll of your eyes.

The tension began to creep in like a slow tide.

"So..." George said, his voice quiet now. "This is... nice, isn't it? Being stuck like this." He nudged you slightly with his shoulder, a playful push that was far too close to intimacy.

You smirked, nudging back lightly. "Nice? Sure... if you don't mind the rain, the dark, and the cold."

then silence filled the room

"Are you uncomfortable?" George asked quietly— sounding concerned as his eyes glinting in the dark.

"I'm fine." You lied though your pulse betrayed you.

He smirked, like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Sure about that? You're a little fidgety."

"I'm not—" You stopped yourself, realizing how defensive you sounded. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" His grin deepened, playful, but his voice dropped an octave, making it sound more intimate than teasing. Eyes locked on yours— steady unyielding.

You turned to glare at him, but the closeness startled you. He was right there, barely a breath away, his gaze fixed on you with a steadiness that made your heart pound. The playful smirk softened, his expression flickering with something more vulnerable, more dangerous.

At one point, a particularly loud thunder made both of you jump. George instinctively reached for your hand to steady you— as his breath hitched. He traced lazy tiny circles over the back of your hand without noticing and he probably didn't realize how long he has been holding your hand— you let it slide, letting the warmth spread. 

"You're lucky the storm is louder than my heartbeat." You deadpanned, eyes lingered to his hold around your hand.

He smiled, small and devastatingly soft. "Maybe I'm lucky it's not louder than mine."

The air between you was thick, every breath, every glance, charged. You could feel the subtle brush of his leg against yours as you shifted slightly on the couch, a closeness neither of you had consciously sought but neither of you resisted. The teasing resumed, quieter now, more intimate. "I think you're enjoying this more than you admit," George said softly, blue eyes glinting in the dim light. 

It happened slowly.

Your laughter faded into quiet smiles. His voice dipped lower, softer. His gaze lingered a little too long. You found yourself leaning closer without realizing it, the blanket sliding slightly, the space between your faces shrinking until the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat.

"Careful," you whispered, your  breath brushing his cheek. "If we keep this up, we'll cross a line we can't uncross."

He tilted his head slightly,his lips a breath away from yours. "Maybe I don't want to uncross it."

And that was all it took.

The kiss consumed you, it was fire and surrender. His lips found yours in a kiss that was tentative at first, testing. Then deeper, warmer, carrying weeks—months—of unspoken glances and playful touches. Your hand slid up his arm instinctively, hands cupping your jaw, and for a long moment, the storm outside and the office around you vanished completely.

The lantern flickering as though it too shivered under the intensity.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, staring at each other as if seeing something brand new. He laughed softly, almost disbelieving, and brushed your hand.

"Well," he whispered hoarsely, "guess that just happened."

You smiled, heart pounding. "Guess it did."

The lights flickered back on a moment later, humming softly. The spell broke, replaced with an almost shy silence. Neither of you spoke about what the kiss meant, or what would happen next. You simply stood, straightened your clothes, and walked out together—hands brushing occasionally, but never fully holding.

You scrambled for your bag, desperate to anchor yourself. "I should—uh—I should get home before the streets flood."

"Then I'll walk you," George said instantly, no hesitation.

You opened your mouth to resist but the sound of rain howls against the glass swallowed the words and the storm roaring outside made you realize you indeed needed a company.

The city was chaos. Water surged along the gutters, neon signs bled into watery streaks, and the downpour drenched you the moment you stepped outside. George shrugged off his jacket, slinging it over both of you, his arm firm around your shoulders, pressing you against his side.

"Romantic, isn't it?" he shouted above the storm, grinning despite the water streaming down his face.

You barked a laugh. "Romantic? We look like drowned rats!"

"Beautiful drowned rats," he corrected with infuriating ease. "Well—me, at least. You're somewhere between tragic and windswept." You shoved him, but your laughter was uncontainable, spilling freely, cutting through the storm's brutality.

Then thunder shattered the sky, so violent it made the pavement tremble. You gasped, and instinctively, George's hand slid from your shoulder to your back, holding you close, shielding you as if his body alone could defy the storm.

"George..." Your voice was a fragile thing against the roar.

He tilted down, rain dripping from his lashes, eyes burning with something unspoken. "Say it," he whispered. But you couldn't. The words were reckless, dangerous, too raw. Instead, you reached for his hand, your fingers weaving with his.

His grin softened into something reverent, tender. "That's enough."

By the time you reached your apartment, you were soaked to the bone, hair plastered, shoes ruined. You lingered under the awning, trembling not from cold but from the gravity of what hung between you. George brushed a wet strand of hair from your cheek, his touch feather-light. "I should say goodnight."

"You should."

Neither of you moved.

The rain hammered, the city blurred, and for one reckless second, you almost kissed him again. But instead, you retreated, slipping into the lobby with shaking hands.

"Goodnight, George," you whispered.

His answering voice was hoarse, reverent. "Goodnight."

And even as the door closed between you, the storm carried his taste still—salt and rain and something far more dangerous.

Morning came too soon.

You woke up with the sound of rain still pattering against your apartment window as if purposely trying to wake you up and faced the day. Though, the rain wasn't the first thing you thought about when you woke up— neither the alarm that you snoozed to quickly or the amount of works that left untouched waiting for you on your office table.

But it was him.

George Russell.

And the kiss.

Your stomach flipped as the memory replayed clearly in your head. The dimming light, the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his lips against yours. You squeezed your eyes shut, groaning whole rolling your body to the other side your bed as you tried to push the image away from your mind— His thumb brushing your hand. His half-laugh when you broke apart. The way neither of you spoke, as if words might shatter the fragile, dangerous thing you'd just created.

You groaned into your pillow again. What the hell had you done?

By the time you had arrived at the building only one thing plastered in your mind; avoidance. That was the only option. If you could've just easily not look at him and buried yourself with works, kept the conversation strictly professional maybe that could erase last night situation. It was a solid plan for you— at least in theory.

The moment you stepped inside— the air was different than usual. It seemed sharper as if everyone could smell the scent of the secrets you're carrying. You avoided looking towards George's desk but of course, your body betrayed you. You caught him leaning back against his chair, his usual morning coffee in hand while watching you. You quickly adverted your gaze elsewhere when his eyes caught yours as you could feel your cheeks heated up.

You sat in your chair and turn on the power of your computer— pretended to be interested with thirty unread emails in your inbox while your brain still stubbornly stuck with George.

The morning dragged. Every time you risked a glance across the room, you found George's gaze already on you. Not openly—he was subtle, pretending to be buried in reports or chatting casually with a coworker—but you knew. You felt it.

When you went to the break room, he appeared two minutes later but you just quickly fled with your coffee half-poured— expression blank as you tried not to make it too obvious.But of course, George wasn't dumb he could see the half-poured— or almost half poured coffee in your mug.

It is as if you couldn't escape him anymore.

When you ducked into the file room, he followed soon after while humming under his breath as he flipping through the folders. When you lingered by the copy machine, he arrived with a stack of papers, leaning casually against the counter as though fate had delivered him there. Each time, you found an excuse to leave. Each time, his expression darkened just slightly—less confusion now, more... frustration.

By lunch, your nerves were shredded. You were sitting at your desk, stabbing at a sad-looking salad, when a shadow fell across your screen.

"Busy?" George's voice. Smooth, casual, but laced with something harder beneath.

You looked up too quickly, nearly dropping your fork. "Yes. Very."

His mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Too busy for a break?"

"Yes."

"Too busy to even look at me?"

Your chest tightened. "I'm looking at you now, aren't I?"

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "Hm. Guess so." But he didn't move, didn't leave. He lingered there, heavy and unshakable, until your fingers tightened around your fork. Only then did he finally chuckle softly, pat your desk once, and walk away.

It was infuriating. And terrifying. And—if you admitted it to yourself—thrilling.

By mid afternoon, it came to your realization that your plan wasn't working. Avoidance, wasn't working and if anything it just made things worse. The more you tried to avoid him, the more to find his way just enough to get under your nerves.— finding ways to catch your eyes,to corner you in subtle challenges. When you slipped out to the hall for some air, he was there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

When you returned from the bathroom, he appeared from the opposite direction, matching your pace effortlessly.

When you ducked into the stairwell to escape, he followed you down a flight, his footsteps echoing in perfect sync with yours.

"Running laps?" he teased when you nearly tripped on the landing.

"Exercise," you said shortly, pushing past him as you just tried to focus on the music in your ears.

"Alright, that's it. " George said with a hint of frustration in his tone. A hand tugged one of your earbuds free."What the hell is going on?"

You stopped in your track and turned to look at him— trying to appear as confident. "I don't know what you mean." You said quickly — well too quickly for it to be natural.

He raised a brow. "Don't play dumb. You've been dodging me all day. You won't look at me, won't talk to me, practically sprint out of the room every time I walk in. What did I do?"

Your throat went dry. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" His voice softened, but the intensity of his gaze didn't waver. He leaned down slightly, bracing a hand on the rai. "Funny, because it feels like something."

You swallowed hard, pressing back into your chair as though distance might save you. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit." The word was sharp but quiet, almost a whisper. His eyes searched yours, steady, unyielding. "This is about last night, isn't it?" You opened your mouth but couldn't let any words out— scrambling for another response but nothing came out. Your mind was a in a blurry panic every excuses sounded ridiculous now. "Thought so." He murmured.

Finally, you whispered, "I shouldn't have let it happen."

His eyes darkened. "Shouldn't have, or didn't want to?"

The question just hung in the air.

George straightened slowly, dragging a hand through his hair and for the first time today, you saw something flicker in his expression— frustration, yes but mixed with vulnerability and that startled you. "You're driving me insane, you know that?" he said finally, his tone tight. "One minute you're kissing me back like you've been waiting years for it, and the next, you won't even look at me. Which is it, huh? Did it mean something, or am I just—what? A mistake you'd rather bury under paperwork?"

"Well.." You forced yourself to stand steadily hand holding the handrail. "It was late. We were tired. There was a blackout— it was jus a mistake. Nothing more."

George's jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he stared at you. Then he laughed, but it was humorless, sharp. "A mistake. Right." He took a step closer, and you instinctively backed up, heart tripping. "Funny how 'a mistake' feel a hell of a lot like you kissing me back. Like you pulling me closer."

"It's complicated."

"The only thing that makes it complicated is you ignoring me."He shook his head— chuckled sarcastically. "It's simple. I kissed you. You kissed me back. That's it."

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes. You hated that he was right. You hated more that part of you wanted to stop pretending, wanted to grab him by the collar and kiss him again until the world disappeared.

But you couldn't.

George exhaled sharply, running both hands over his face before dragging them down his neck. When his eyes met yours again, they were blazing, stripped of all his usual teasing. "Look, I'm not asking you to marry me," he said, with a chuckle— softer now, rough around the edges. "I'm just... I can't stand this game. If last night meant nothing, fine. Tell me, right here, right now, that it meant nothing. And I'll back off. I'll never bring it up again." Your heart stopped. He meant it—you could see it in his eyes. He was giving you an out, a chance to end it, to walk away.

All you had to do was say it. Nothing. Just one word.

But your mouth wouldn't form it.

Because it wasn't true.

You swallowed hard gripping the rail tighter for balance. "George..."

The sound of his name on your lips made him inhale sharply, like it was the first time he'd ever really heard you say it. He stepped closer still, closing the last of the distance until you had nowhere left to back away. His hand braced against the rail beside your hip, his body a line of heat just shy of touching yours.

"Say it," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours. "Say it meant nothing."

You couldn't.

Instead, your silence stretched, heavy, trembling.

Something in his face cracked—the frustration giving way to something more desperate more exposed. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then to your eyes, and his voice broke, softer than you'd ever heard it. "Please don't lie to me," he said.

Your chest caved. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

"It wasn't nothing."

"Then stop running from me." He held your hands gently rubbing soft circles against your thumbs. "I know you're scared if this goes sideways — as it could ruin our work, the professionalism but hey." He nudged his finger slowly under your chin for you to look up. "What if it doesn't?" He continued. "What if it's the best damn thing that's ever happened to us?"

His words were bold and terrifying sincere— exactly what you wanted to hear but kept trying to refuse.

"George.."

He leaned in closer, lips inches away from yours. "God, you think I've been able to stop thinking about you since last night? You think I wanted that kiss to be a mistake? I've wanted it for months. Months. And if you think I'm going to let one kiss scare you off, you don't know me at all."

Your knees buckled through his sharp words, gulping hardly. "You can't just say things like that.."

"Why not?" His tone was raw, stripped bare. "It's the truth."

The office around you might as well have disappeared. There was only his voice, his body heat, the pounding of your heart. You were trembling now, caught between terror and longing, but you couldn't pull away. You didn't want to.

And then, finally, the tension snapped.

You surged forward, fisting his shirt in your hands, and crashed your mouth to his. The kiss was nothing like last night's hesitant brush. This was fire—hungry, desperate, weeks and months of unspoken tension igniting all at once. George groaned into your mouth, his hands flying to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The rail behind you dug into your hips, but you didn't care. You clung to him, kissing him harder, deeper, until you were dizzy.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless. His hands were still on your waist, firm and grounding, like he was afraid you might vanish.

"Still think it was a mistake?" he whispered, voice ragged.

You shook your head, eyes fluttering shut. "No."

His chuckle was soft, almost disbelieving, as his thumb brushed your hip. "Good. Because I'm not letting you take it back."

You opened your eyes, searching his, and for the first time, the fear loosened its grip. His gaze wasn't just hungry—it was steady, certain, warm in a way that made your chest ache. Neither of you said the words—not yet. But they hung there anyway, unspoken but undeniable, threaded through every glance, every touch.

And this time, you didn't run.

─────────────────

A/N : Well this one is kinda short. Don't worry, there are still more WIPs left in my draft.

[sph63]

ログイン..!

𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏 𝙈𝙀 ↓

➥ Hi. My name is Sofea— pronounce as Sophia. (She/her) | INTJ

➥ This account is mainly about F1.

➥ I am quite new to this fandom so forgive me, if I ever said anything incorrectly. ( also new to tumblr fics)

➥ English isn't my first language but I'm trying my best to polish my skill.

➥ I am currently studying in college so I might not update often or regularly.

𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏 𝙈𝙔 𝙁𝙄𝘾𝙎! (read)

- Requests are gladly opened and appreciated

⚠️ I do not accept requests about underage smut, Non-consensual sexual intimacy, hate of bigotry ( racism, homophobia, transphobia and other forms of hate), Graphic self-harm or suicide without care, pedophilia, Plagiarism or “copying” other fics.

- I mainly write fics with female reader but I am opened if you want me to write about ships in f1

- Do not steal my works and do tag me if you took my works as inspiration.

𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 𝙒𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙀 𝙐𝙋𝘿𝘼𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀 ↺

my AO3

じゃあね..!

[sph63]

in the best hands ☆

wc; 3k~ (i really tried to make this longer sorry)

à/n; uh I hate this. enjoy!! also sorry for the very slow writing I have been horribly sick and doing exams 🤍 oh and I was half drunk and on very strong pain meds writing this lol (and ignore my horrible editing skills of george in a lab coat)

warnings/tags: dark smut, pwp, manipulation, first time ish?, uncomfortable topics for some, fingering, oral (f receiving), honestly borderline very wrong if your gyno does this shoot them, overstimulation, having to be quiet???, also borderline exhibitionism, choking, very unrealistic LMAO, praise, degradation sorta, implied squirting idk i wrote this drunk tbh, spanking, lmao idk what else it’s 3am not proofread

you never wanted to go. you never wanted to be sitting in the one too many degrees cold reception room, on these plastic chairs staring at the marbled floor tiles, leg bouncing up and down in the mid thigh yellow sundress you had worn to your errands beforehand, goosebumps forming on your thighs and arms and manicured nails tap tap tapping at the empty seat next to you.

it felt sterile in here, like the air had been filtered through machines that sucked out anything remotely human. the faint buzz of a vent above you, the chemical-clean smell of disinfectant, the fluorescent lighting that washed out everyone’s skin tone and made the teal walls seem even more duller than they already were. your ankle crossed over your other knee, uncrossed, crossed again, nerves bubbling up your throat every time your eyes darted to the clock.

it was your first time, always knew you had to go but never really got around to it, that was until there was a problem that needed to be fixed— no other choice but to book an appointment, luckily one of the highest rated in the city was vacant for you, vacant on this sunny wednesday afternoon, a day you would’ve enjoyed on normal circumstances, but this a day you were dreading.

you hugged your purse tighter against your lap, nails tapping now against the leather strap as your eyes wandered the room again. you looked over the array of posters scattered around the room, poor graphic design and bold letters saying things that made you uncomfortable to think too hard about— signs of endometriosis, know your cervix, dilators: normal or taboo? the words swam in your head as you looked away quickly, bright cartoonish colours clashing horribly against the aura of the room.

the receptionist typed away with long acrylics, clicking against the keyboard while barely glancing up, the sound filling the silence between the occasional shuffle of another patient’s shoes.

you thought about leaving— about actually getting up and walking out the door before they called your name. you imagined the embarrassment of rescheduling, of your mom or your friend asking “so how did it go?” and you having nothing to say because you chickened out. you almost convinced yourself it’d be fine. almost.

but just as you were considering making a beeline for the exit door, the thick white wooden door swung open, the light from across the room reflecting on the plaque that showcased his name with some degree abbreviations in a clean black font.

dr russell, george.

the sound of the door made you jump, already skittish as he emerged from the too white room, his hair pushed back, long white lab coat and clipped on name tag making you shiver with nervousness.

his presence shifted the atmosphere immediately— tall, broad-shouldered, the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times, and yet his eyes when they landed on you… sharp, like they lingered a fraction too long.

“uh, y/n l/n? come through when you are ready.” his voice was calm, professional, yet low enough that it curled into your chest. he looked over the other two clients in the room, their eyes not meeting his own— rather turning his attention to you, assuming that you were his next patient, although which unfortunately for you— you were.

you stood up too quickly, tugging your dress down with nervous fingers, dragging your hands over the crinkles and wrinkles like that would somehow smooth your nerves too. legs shaky as you walked over to the receptionist, who slid you the folded gown without even looking up.

it was thin, white with small pink symbols you couldn’t quite describe, and holding it made your palms sweat. you clutched your purse too, whispering a soft thank you that came out cracked and small before turning on your heel and stepping toward the door he held open for you.

he stood with one hand braced against the frame, lips pressed into a straight line that twitched upward like he was hiding a smirk. his eyes flickered down— just for a second— over your dress, your bare thighs, before he shifted back to let you pass.

your stomach flipped.

you stepped inside and instantly felt swallowed by the space. his office was spotless— desk on one side, computer monitor glowing, files stacked in neat piles. on the other side: the examination table. the one you had been dreading. too white, too high, stirrups gleaming like cold metal restraints, and the leather stool tucked beside it like his throne.

“you can get dressed in here,” he said, clipboard in hand, voice smooth but distracted as his eyes scanned his notes. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. once you’re ready, just lie down on the exam bed.”

his smile was brief, polite, but his eyes— his eyes lingered as if cataloguing every inch of you before he turned and left. the door shut softly, but the soundproof click made you feel locked in.

your fingers fumbled with the sundress, dragging it down your body. the gown felt papery, unflattering, falling awkwardly against your skin. you stripped your underwear from beneath too, cheeks hot as you tucked it under your folded dress. it wasn’t like it mattered— he’d be face to face with your body in minutes anyway.

that thought made your thighs clench together, a betraying warmth pooling between them.

you set your bag and clothes carefully in the corner, scooted yourself onto the exam table with a little hop, the leather squeaking under your bare thighs. you swung your legs, nerves buzzing through every inch of you as you stared at his desk, at the monitor, at the diplomas neatly hung on the wall— anything to keep from thinking about what was about to happen.

but then the door opened again, quiet, controlled. he slipped inside, closing it with a soft click, his lab coat catching against his legs as he crossed to his stool.

his smile— small, knowing. his eyes— striking, ocean-blue, slicing right through your flimsy gown.

“afternoon… y/n. how are you today?” he said your name like he wanted to taste it, voice calm as he wheeled himself to his desk and logged into your chart.

“um.. nervous— mostly.” your laugh was awkward, high-pitched, betraying everything. your skin prickled from the cold air, goosebumps stark against the warmth flushing through your stomach.

“I can see that. first time?” he turned to you then, pulling on gloves with a snap, brows raised just slightly.

you nodded, throat dry. his mouth curled— that almost-smirk again— and he wrote something down on his clipboard.

questions followed— routine ones about periods, contraceptives, discharge. you answered haltingly, fingers twisting in your lap, his pen scratching notes that felt like they wrote pieces of your body into permanent record.

and then—

“alright, and are you sexually active? or ever had sexual intercourse?”

your pulse stuttered. your eyes darted anywhere but his face. “well uh, i’ve tried but it didn’t exactly work… that’s sort of the reason i’m here.”

his pen stopped mid-scribble. head tilting up, eyebrow raising, gaze locking on you like a scalpel.

“what do you mean you have tried?”

you swallowed hard. “well, you see… i’ve tried multiple times, but whenever i… you know— when he tries to put it in—”

“put what in?” his tone was innocent, clinical, but his face was unreadable. serious, intent.

your cheeks burned. “do i really need to say it? i feel like you understand.”

his laugh was low, a rumble under his breath. “it’s okay, i do— just standard questions. you wouldn’t believe what goes on with other patients.”

the joke loosened something in your chest, a giggle bubbling out despite yourself.

you coughed, then continued. “like i was saying, when he tries to, it doesn’t fit. and it’s not a size thing, because… it’s happened with everyone i’ve tried with.”

he nodded, jotting notes down. “okay. i haven’t encountered this often, but it can be fixed with training—”

“training? sorry, what do you mean by training?” your panic cut through his calm tone.

“pelvic floor training. another option is a dilator, where you—”

“yeah i know what a dilator is,” you blurted, cheeks hot. “um, sorry if i’m being rude, i’m just… nervous.”

“that’s quite alright,” he said smoothly. then he patted the stirrups. “now, could you raise your legs up here for me?”

your stomach dropped. his gloved hand patted the cold metal like it was nothing.

hesitant, you lifted one trembling leg, then the other, gown sliding back until your thighs were bared.

his voice cut through again, casual but sharp. “and you have tried prepping yourself beforehand, yes? fingers, orgasms… that sort?”

you froze, the question slamming into you harder than expected. “uh— well that’s the problem really… i can’t really even finish beforehand because even my— their fingers hurt.”

his eyes darkened, raking over you like a predator. “i see.” he snapped the glove tighter onto his wrist. “may i start the exam?”

you whispered consent, voice thin, and then his hands were on you— flipping the gown up to your midriff, exposing you fully.

the cool air kissed your folds, glistening under the harsh light, and his gaze lingered— too long, too intense.

“don’t worry,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “i don’t judge how wet my patients get.”

you shivered.

then his fingers— long, precise— traced your thigh, brushing your folds. you flinched at the contact, your hips jerking involuntarily, heat spiking inside you.

he spread you carefully, clinically, but his eyes told another story.

you clenched around nothing, your body betraying you.

and when his finger slid inside— thick, slicked with lube— your gasp cracked the silence.

“does this hurt? we can stop.”

you shook your head frantically, too eager, too desperate.

the second finger stretched you, your moan muffled into your palm, cheeks burning.

“shh… doing so well. just say my name if it’s too much.”

your vision blurred as his fingers curled, thumb circling your clit, his lips suddenly pressing a wet kiss against your sensitive nub.

your body arched off the table, muffled squeaks spilling out as he worked you with practiced rhythm, as much as you knew this was wrong you couldn’t help but let yourself drown in the pleasure.

“gonna come on your gyno’s fingers like the slut you are?”

your orgasm hit like a wave, white-hot and blinding, your back arching, thighs trembling violently.

he didn’t stop— spitting onto his gloves, pressing deeper, his free hand pinning your stomach down as he pumped into you.

“fuckin’ hell baby,” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “let’s see if you still can’t fit a cock inside you now, huh?”

you whimpered, gown sliding off completely as he lifted you, bent you over the table, his hips grinding into your bare ass.

“please— dr russell—”

“no no, darling… you don’t want me to stop, do you?” his zipper lowered, the sound sharp in the sterile room as you shook your head violently.

he pressed his cock against your soaked slit, slapping it, coating himself in your slick.

“ready, baby?”

you nodded helplessly.

the tip breached you, stretch burning, your squeal muffled into the padded table.

“shh… don’t want the other patients to hear, do we?”

he pushed in, inch by inch, then slammed fully, your scream vibrating into the leather.

“this is how you adjust, yeah? moulding this pussy to me.”

you squirmed, instincts pulling you away, but his grip was like steel .

he hauled you up, hand around your throat, turning you to face him. his hair was damp, face flushed, blue eyes dark with hunger.

he picked you up effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist, lowering you onto his cock again.

the stretch burned— but the pleasure eclipsed it, tearing a cry from your throat.

he bounced you on his length, his hands gripping your ass, your tits pressed against his chest as the gown slipped away entirely.

“there you go,” he murmured, low and smooth, his lips brushing against your ear as he thrust up into you. “told you it just needed the right training. you feel that? cock stretching you open like you were made for it.”

you whimpered, arms tightening around his neck as he moved you with ease, your thighs shaking as you struggled to keep up with the pace. his cock filled you so completely it was dizzying, every push against your cervix making your eyes roll back.

he pulled back slighy to look at you, to watch your expression twist with the mix of discomfort and bliss. your mouth hung open, breaths coming in little gasps, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming stretch.

“look at you,” he chuckled, dragging you down harder on his cock until you cried out.

“first appointment and already taking me like this. thought you couldn’t fit anyone inside you, hm? and now you’re dripping down my cock.”

you could barely respond, your body trembling, nails scratching against the stiff cotton of his lab coat as you held on.

his hand slid from your ass to the back of your head, gripping your hair, forcing your gaze to meet his. his eyes were darker than before, blown with lust, his jaw tight as he thrust into you with sharp, deliberate snaps of his hips.

“answer me, darling. do you like it?”

your voice cracked on a moan. “y-yes— dr russell— oh my god—”

he smirked, satisfied, and pulled you tighter against him, the edge of the examination table digging into your back as he fucked up into you.

the clinical room around you blurred— the glow of the monitor, the smell of antiseptic, the crinkle of the disposable paper beneath you. the world shrank to just him, his cock dragging through your walls, his breath hot against your cheek, his voice in your ear.

“such a tight little cunt. fuck— squeezing me like you don’t ever want me to leave.” his pace quickened, his words filthier now, slipping past the thin wall of professionalism he’d held onto earlier.

each thrust sent sparks shooting through you, pain fading into pleasure until you were keening, eyes shut, head pressed against his shoulder as your orgasm built again.

he felt it— the way your cunt fluttered around him, your thighs trembling harder, your nails digging into his coat.

“you gonna come again? yeah? on your OB’s cock this time?”

you nodded frantically, unable to form words, your body tensing as the heat coiled low in your stomach.

his hand slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with brutal precision.

the combination was too fuxking much.

you came with a strangled cry, your whole body locking around him, cunt pulsing, juices spilling down his length. he groaned, fucking you through it, holding you tightly as you shook.

“that’s it, baby. that’s it. show me how bad you needed this.”

your thighs twitched, overstimulated already, but he didn’t slow. instead, he carried you across the room, still impaled on his cock, and pressed you down against his desk. papers scattered, the monitor wobbling as he bent you over the wood.

the new angle had you gasping, his cock hitting deeper, sharper, the edge of the desk biting into your hips.

you cried out, your voice echoing in the otherwise silent room, and he reached forward to clamp his hand over your mouth.

“shh. patients outside,” he whispered against your ear, thrusting harder, relentless now. “can’t have them knowing what a needy little slut you are for me.”

tears slipped down your cheeks, the mix of shame and pleasure twisting in your gut. you moaned into his palm, your body giving in completely.

his free hand trailed down your spine, settling on your ass before delivering a sharp slap that echoed. you jolted, the sting sending another wave of wetness dripping down your thighs.

he laughed softly, darkly. “fuck. you love that, don’t you? look how your pussy clenches when i spank you.”

your muffled whimper was answer enough.

he pounded into you, the desk creaking under the force, until your arms gave out and you slumped forward. he didn’t let up— pulling you back by the hair, arching your back so he could watch your tits bounce with every thrust.

“god, you’re perfect. never seen someone open up like this for me. bet you’ll never think of another man again after this cock.”

your body was unraveling again, pleasure overwhelming, every nerve lit up as he used you with clinical precision.

“dr— george— i can’t—”

“yes you can. one more. give me another, darling.” his thumb found your clit again, ruthless circles sending you spiraling.

your scream was muffled by his hand again as your orgasm tore through you, violent and all-consuming. your legs gave out completely, your cunt spasming around his cock as he groaned, his thrusts faltering.

“fuck— gonna fill you up, baby. take it f’me— good girl-“

his hips slammed flush against you, cock buried deep as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding your cunt. he held you there, pressed down against the desk, his breath ragged in your ear as he emptied himself.

for a moment, the room was silent but for your shared breathing.

his hand loosened on your mouth, sliding down to your throat, holding you gently now as he pressed soft kisses along your shoulder.

“you did so well,” he murmured, his voice softer, almost tender. “better than you think.”

you were dazed, trembling, your body slick with sweat and cum, the gown crumpled uselessly on the floor.

he eased out of you slowly, the loss making you whimper, his cum spilling down your thighs onto the edge of the desk.

he smirked at the sight, reaching for a box of tissues, dabbing at you with surprising care.

“don’t move. i’ll clean you up,” he said, professional mask slipping back over his face, though his eyes still glinted with something darker.

as he wiped you gently, you caught his gaze, your lips parting to speak but no words coming out.

his smile returned, slow and knowing.

“i think we’ll call this… the first session,” he said quietly. “you’ll need follow-up training, won’t you?”

your stomach flipped again, heat sparking despite your exhaustion. you nodded weakly, already knowing you’d be back.

you couldn’t move, couldn’t think, just laid there trembling, trying to catch your breath and nodding to his question.

he leaned in, pressed a slow kiss to your thigh, softer this time, almost careful. “session’s over,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

but the look in his eyes made it clear it wasn’t over at all. not really.

[sph63]

why is He smoldering