#problema normal

[bocadosdefilosofia]

«A veces, un problema normal, que debería resolverse por medio de reglas y procedimientos conocidos, opone resistencia a los esfuerzos reiterados de los miembros más capaces del grupo dentro de cuya competencia entra. Otras veces, una pieza de equipo, diseñada y construida para fines de investigación normal, no da los resultados esperados, revelando una anomalía que, a pesar de los esfuerzos repetidos, no responde a las esperanzas profesionales. En esas y en otras formas, la ciencia normal se extravía repetidamente. Y cuando lo hace —o sea, cuando la profesión no puede pasar por alto ya las anomalías que subvierten la tradición existente de prácticas científicas— se inician las investigaciones extraordinarias que conducen por fin a la profesión a un nuevo conjunto de compromisos, una base nueva para la práctica de la ciencia. Los episodios extraordinarios en que tienen lugar esos cambios de compromisos profesionales son los que se denominan en este ensayo revoluciones científicas. Son los complementos que rompen la tradición a la que está ligada la actividad de la ciencia normal.»

Thomas Kuhn: La estructura de las revoluciones científicas. Fondo de Cultura Económica, pág. 27. México, 1971.

TGO

@bocadosdefilosofia

@dias-de-la-ira-1

[hansolsticio]

você faria algo com a temática “lactofilia”? mulher, eu não sei o porqueê, mas eu me amarro nesse tema. sei lá, imaginar um jeno, ou um wonwoo marido e papai de primeira viagem da menininha de vocês, ajudando a esposa a lidar com as inseguranças com seu corpo por conta da amamentação, e de quebra, descolando um novo fetiche, me deixa fraquinha! acho que deve ser pq me amarro em protas gamados em peitos! 😮‍💨🤌🏼

lactofilia não garanto, mas mazofilia sim.......... acharia super bonitinho escrever com eles ajudando a pp com as inseguranças pós-gravidez e tudo mais, mas não sinto tesão nenhum nisso de amamentação e etc, sabe? é um bagulho tão natural que eu não consigo exatamente "sexualizar", anonnie

acho que também porque eu tenho certa aversão à gravidez [😐]... e olha que eu sou super okay em escrever fic com breeding kink

[llitchilitchi]

retelling of cassander's time as regent/king of macedon where he sees the ghost of philotas and regularly argues with him, switching between clinging to a friendship from his young years to freaking out at him because there is no way philotas is real. or something

homoerotic undertones to their relationship are a given

[anditwentlikethis]

jesus, tanto macho incomodado com o facto do Sporting hoje ir jogar de cor de rosa... tenham vergonha pá

[isnot-here]

atão a minha universidade aprovou um voto de solidariedade para com a palestina e a academia palestiniana e o pessoal no twitter tá a dizer que a universidade apoia o hamas e cheguei a ver alguém a dizer que a unrwa financia universidades para isto lmao

a parte mais engraçada é que no statement tem uma clara condenação aos ataques do hamas

[tardisslayer]

Ma cosa stava passando stamattina Fiorello in puntata sconnessione totale mangia 800 croissant si scorda di essere in diretta manda frecciatine in tono molto poco ironico a 32 persone okay😭😭😭

[peaceeandcoolestvibes]

A los que os gusta meter zizaña, conmigo tendréis un serio problema. Porque la gente está tranquila hasta que llegáis a meter zizaña y algún día os vais a quemar 🥸

[paginacentosessantuno]

Sono giunta all'importante conclusione che a me non sta sul cazzo l'economia ma gli economisti

[sweetlikesunflowersandhoney]

algunas personas en mi trabajo son tan boludas y maleducadas que realmente parecen criadas por lobos

[loafysainz]

🎥 HANDING MY BOYFRIEND MY PANTIES AT DINNER AND GET HIS REACTION

carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, lando norris, max verstappen, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, george russell × reader! warn: 18+, smut, minor dni insp by this trend

Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz was a patient man.

But not when it came to you.

He had spent the entire evening watching you, his dark brown eyes tracking your every move. The way your lips wrapped around the rim of your wine glass, the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs under the table, the way you leaned forward just enough to tease him with the barest hint of cleavage.

Carlos had been holding himself back. Barely.

And you? You were about to push him past his limit.

The restaurant was elegant—low lights, soft music, the hum of quiet conversations surrounding you. Carlos sat across from you, dressed in a perfectly tailored black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, veins prominent as he lazily toyed with his glass. He looked so effortlessly sexy, so unfairly attractive, and you couldn’t help but wonder how far you could push him.

You shifted in your seat, heart pounding, as you subtly reached under the table. You hooked your fingers into your panties, slowly, discreetly, slipping them down your legs, the cool air against your bare skin making you shiver.

Carlos was oblivious, swirling his wine, licking his lips as he studied the menu.

And then—casually, with a small smirk—you reached across the table and placed your panties in his hand.

Carlos froze.

His fingers curled around the fabric instinctively before he even realized what he was holding. He blinked, looking down at his palm.

A beat of silence.

Then another.

And then—oh, fuck.

His entire body tensed. His jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His nostrils flared as he exhaled a sharp breath, his grip tightening around the delicate lace like he was resisting the urge to crush it in his fist.

Slowly—so slowly—Carlos lifted his eyes to meet yours.

Dark. Heavy. Predatory.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

And then—his voice, deep, low, almost a growl—

“Dime que no hiciste lo que creo que hiciste.” (Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.)

You tilted your head, pretending to be innocent. “What do you think I did, cariño?”

Carlos inhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the lace before he shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. His knee bounced under the table, his entire body buzzing with tension. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head with a dark chuckle.

“You’re testing me,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You sipped your drink, biting back a smirk. “Maybe.”

Carlos exhaled a slow, measured breath. His fingers tapped against the table, his eyes flickering down to your lap, realization sinking in.

“No panties,” he murmured. His voice was rough, thick with something dangerously close to desperation. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat like he was physically struggling to stay put.

You crossed your legs slowly, watching the way his jaw ticked. “Mmm.”

Carlos let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Eres un problema, ¿lo sabes?” (You’re a fucking problem, you know that?)

He adjusted in his seat, exhaling harshly. “Now I have to sit here. In this restaurant. Acting normal. While I know you’re sitting there…” His voice dropped, dark, his accent thickening. “All wet. All needy.” He licked his lips, eyes burning with heat. “For me.”

Your breath hitched.

Carlos saw. And smirked.

His knee suddenly pressed against your thigh under the table, firm and possessive, making your pulse skyrocket.

“I should drag you to the bathroom right now,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration. “Make you sit on my lap. Make you ride me slow. Until you can’t stay quiet anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your entire body burned.

Carlos chuckled darkly at your reaction. “Oh, you like that idea?” He tilted his head, his fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. “Would you like it, hmm? Biting your lip, trying not to moan? Knowing that if you make one sound, everyone in this restaurant will know what I’m doing to you?”

You clenched your thighs together instinctively, and Carlos noticed.

His smirk widened, his knee pressing even firmer against you.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You started this game, amor.” His voice was a low, dangerous whisper. “Now you have to deal with the consequences.”

Your stomach flipped.

Carlos sat back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair, looking like the picture of relaxation—except for the way

his hands curled into fists, like he was using every ounce of self-control to stop himself from grabbing you.

“You better eat fast,” he muttered, his leg still pressed against yours, his eyes still devouring you.

“Because the second we leave this restaurant?” His voice was gravelly, dripping with hunger.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

—

Lewis Hamilton

Dinner with Lewis was always an experience. He had impeccable taste—whether it was in fashion, cars, or five-star restaurants with private dining rooms that catered to the elite. Tonight was no different. The restaurant was dimly lit, with an intimate atmosphere and a view of the Monaco harbor glistening under the night sky.

Lewis sat across from you, wearing a tailored suit with no tie, the top few buttons of his crisp shirt undone to reveal just a hint of his tattoos. He looked like a damn dream—effortlessly cool, his jewelry catching the soft candlelight, his full lips curving into a smirk as he listened to you talk.

And you? You were about to make things very, very interesting.

The idea had been teasing you all night. The way Lewis had kept his hand on your thigh during the car ride here, the way his deep, smooth voice sent shivers down your spine, the way he knew he was irresistible and used it against you. It was time to turn the tables.

You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your dress while slipping your panties down your thighs, letting the lace pool at your ankles before discreetly stepping out of them. You balled them in your hand, heart racing with anticipation.

Lewis was mid-sentence, swirling his wine glass lazily, when you reached across the table and placed the delicate fabric in his palm.

His fingers closed around it instinctively before realization set in.

He blinked, lifting his hand slightly under the table, his expression unreadable at first. And then—oh, then—that signature smirk spread across his lips, slow and devastatingly sexy. His tongue flicked out to wet them, eyes dragging from the panties to your face, amusement flickering behind the heat in his gaze.

“You’re bold tonight, love.” His voice was low, almost a purr.

You took a sip of your champagne, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Lewis exhaled a slow breath, shaking his head. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.”

His fingers tightened around the lace before slipping them discreetly into the pocket of his blazer.

He leaned forward, his gaze dark and smoldering. “So, what’s the plan, then? You expect me to just sit here, act normal, knowing you’re sitting across from me with nothing underneath that little dress?”

Your lips curled. “That was the idea.”

Lewis chuckled, the deep sound sending a shiver down your spine. He adjusted in his seat, exhaling sharply. “You’re playin’ dangerous, babe.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” You batted your lashes at him, knowing full well you were poking the bear.

Lewis’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to your lips before flicking back up. He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip of wine, his demeanor calm—too calm. That was the most dangerous sign of all.

The waiter arrived, placing your entrées in front of you, completely unaware of the silent war happening at this table.

Lewis picked up his fork, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts were running through his mind.

But then—oh, fuck.

You felt the softest brush against your thigh.

Your breath hitched.

Lewis smirked, casually cutting into his steak like he wasn’t dragging his fingers up the inside of your leg beneath the table, like he wasn’t making his way higher and higher with every passing second.

You shot him a glare, shifting in your seat, but that only made him chuckle. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice innocent.

Bastard.

His fingers brushed the apex of your thighs, barely teasing the sensitive skin, and you had to fight the urge to clamp your legs shut.

You inhaled sharply, gripping your fork a little tighter. “You’re really gonna do this here?”

Lewis tilted his head, lips curving. “You started it.”

His touch disappeared just as quickly as it came, leaving you throbbing, your skin hot, your body desperate for more.

And that’s when you knew you were in trouble.

Lewis sat back, stretching out his legs, the picture of relaxed confidence. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned in slightly.

“When we get back to the hotel…” His voice was a dark promise, smooth as silk. “You better be ready for me, baby.”

Your stomach flipped, heat coiling low in your belly.

Oh, you were so screwed.

Dinner suddenly felt like a countdown to something far more delicious. And by the way Lewis kept stealing glances at you—like he was barely holding himself back—you had a feeling he wouldn’t be ordering dessert.

At least, not at the restaurant.

—

Lando Norris

Dinner with Lando was never boring.

He had a way of making everything fun—whether it was cracking jokes, teasing you, or finding little ways to touch you every chance he got. Tonight was no different. You were at a high-end restaurant in Monaco, overlooking the water, Lando sipping on his cocktail as he playfully nudged your foot under the table.

He looked good—hair slightly tousled, wearing a fitted black suit with no tie, the crisp white of his shirt accentuating his tan skin. The top two buttons were undone, just enough to tease you with a glimpse of his collarbone.

And right now? He had no idea what was coming.

So, you decided it was time to turn the tables.

The restaurant was buzzing with quiet conversations, the candlelight casting a soft glow over the table, and Lando? He was completely oblivious, sipping his drink, scrolling through the menu, looking criminally good in his tailored black suit.

You took a slow breath, pretending to shift in your seat, your hands disappearing beneath the table. Your pulse thrummed as you hooked your fingers into your panties, dragging them down your legs, over your heels, and slipping them into your palm.

And then—casually, innocently—you reached across the table and pressed them into his hand.

Lando took them instinctively, still half-distracted, his thumb brushing over the fabric—soft, lacy, unmistakably not something that belonged in a restaurant.

He froze.

His blue eyes flicked down at his hand, then up at you.

His breath hitched. “No.” His voice was a strangled whisper. He blinked, like his brain couldn’t quite process what just happened. He looked back down at the lace, gripping it between his fingers, and then back at you—eyes wide, pupils blown.

“No fucking way.”

You just took a sip of your drink, acting

completely unfazed. “Something wrong?”

Lando let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his curls. “Are you—” He exhaled sharply. “You didn’t just—” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Tell me you’re fucking with me right now.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head.

Lando’s jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His grip on the panties tightened before he hastily shoved them into the pocket of his blazer, his fingers twitching like he was fighting every single urge running through his body.

His leg bounced under the table. He dragged his hands down his face. “You—” He let out a low, breathy laugh, but it was strained, like he was hanging on by a thread.

“You little—” His voice cut off, his head tilting back slightly as he inhaled through his nose.

You could see it. The shift. The way his entire demeanor darkened. The way his hands clenched into fists like he didn’t trust himself to keep them to himself.

And then, he leaned forward, eyes locked onto you, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re gonna fucking regret that.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

The waiter arrived at that exact moment, asking if you needed more wine, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown Lando was having in real-time.

Lando barely glanced at him, his jaw clenched so tight his words were almost clipped. “No. We’re good.”

The moment the waiter left, Lando shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “I hope you realize,” he muttered, “that I now have to sit through this entire dinner with a fucking hard-on.”

You smirked. “Poor baby.”

His eye twitched.

His knee suddenly pressed against the inside of your thigh under the table, firm, possessive, making you inhale sharply.

Lando smirked at your reaction, his fingers twitching as if debating whether or not to reach for you. “No panties. Just sitting there. All pretty. Knowing what you just did to me.” His voice was dark. Husky. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly, pressing your thighs together, and Lando noticed. His smirk widened.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You think you’re in control here?”

He leaned in, voice dropping even lower, lips barely an inch from your ear.

“Just wait till we get back to the hotel, baby,” he whispered. “I’m gonna make sure you feel what you just did to me.”

Heat coiled in your stomach.

Lando sat back, stretching his legs out, exhaling slowly. His fingers drummed against the table, his eyes flickering over your body, taking his time, like he was memorizing you.

“Eat your dinner, baby.” he muttered, shifting in his seat again, adjusting himself. “After we done this. You’re mine.”

Your entire body burned.

And suddenly, dinner felt like the longest fucking event of your life.

—

Charles Leclerc

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Charles Leclerc was the perfect mix of sweet and sinful—soft when he loved you, but intense when he wanted you. He could melt you with just a smile, but when he needed you? When you pushed him too far? That was when he became dangerous.

Tonight, you were playing with fire.

The restaurant was romantic—low lights, soft music, a flickering candle between you. Charles looked breathtaking across the table, his white button-down slightly unbuttoned, his hair tousled in that effortless way that made your fingers itch to run through it. His green eyes sparkled in the dim light, his lips curling in a small, amused smile as he sipped his wine.

You wanted to see how far you could push him.

So, while Charles was distracted, you reached under the table. Your fingers brushed the hem of your dress, heart racing as you slowly—so slowly—slid your panties down your legs. The soft lace glided over your thighs, your knees, pooling at your ankles before you kicked them off.

Charles was still flipping through the menu, completely oblivious.

You swallowed a smirk, reached across the table, and—without a word—placed the fabric in his open palm.

Charles didn’t react at first.

Then—

His fingers froze.

His eyes flickered down, scanning the lace in his palm, his lips parting slightly.

Then—very slowly—he lifted his gaze to yours.

His breath hitched.

His jaw tensed.

His entire body went rigid.

“Mon amour…” His voice was a whisper, but there was something different about it. Something deep, something dark.

You tilted your head innocently. “Yes, baby?”

Charles exhaled sharply, his hand disappearing under the table as he shoved the panties into his pocket. His fingers twitched against the fabric, his entire body suddenly filled with nervous energy.

“No.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No, you—” His voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“You are telling me…” His accent was thicker now, deeper, as he swallowed hard. “That you are sitting here. With nothing under your dress.”

You nodded, biting back a smirk.

Charles groaned. His head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he muttered something very fast in French under his breath.

Then he looked back at you—his pupils blown, his breath uneven.

“Baby,” he whispered. His voice was soft, but there was a raw edge to it. His hand found your knee under the table, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. The touch was gentle, but his grip was firm.

Possessive.

His fingers inched higher.

You gasped softly.

Charles inhaled sharply, his hand freezing before it could go any higher. His jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white.

“No,” he muttered. “No, I can’t—” He cut himself off, exhaling harshly.

His eyes were burning.

“You’re making this very difficult for me, mon amour.”

You smirked. “That’s the idea.”

Charles let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Incroyable.” (Unbelievable.)

Then—so suddenly—he grabbed his napkin and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh,” he muttered, completely unconvincing. “How clumsy of me.”

Your eyes widened. “Charles, don’t—”

Too late.

He dipped under the table.

Your heart stopped.

“Charles—” Your breath hitched as you felt the ghost of his lips brush against the inside of your knee.

Then higher.

And higher.

Your entire body tensed.

His hands rested on your thighs, warm and steady, his breath hot against your bare skin.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

“Charles,” you whispered, barely breathing.

His voice came from under the table, low and teasing. “What is it, chérie?”

Your hands gripped the tablecloth, panic and desire swirling together in your chest. “You need to come up.”

He hummed. “Do I?”

His lips skimmed the inside of your thigh.

Your breathing stuttered. “Charles—”

Then—

A loud noise from the kitchen made him jolt.

His head smacked against the underside of the table.

“Merde!” (Fuck!)

He shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his wine glass, his cheeks flushed, his hair messy, his lips red.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

Charles groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “I hate you.”

You giggled. “You love me.”

His eyes darkened.

“Oh, mon amour,” he murmured, leaning forward, his voice dripping with promise.

“You will regret this when we get home.”

Your stomach flipped.

Charles smirked.

Then he picked up his menu, casually flipping through it like he hadn’t just been under the table.

Like he wasn’t still rock hard.

Like he wasn’t about to absolutely destroy you the second you were alone.

You swallowed hard.

You were so screwed.

—

Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen was competitive in everything.

On the track, he was ruthless. In life, he always wanted to win. But in the bedroom?

He didn’t just compete—he owned.

And tonight, you were playing with fire.

The restaurant was high-end, filled with soft chatter and the occasional clink of wine glasses. Max sat across from you, looking effortlessly sexy in a black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, his strong forearms resting on the table. His blue eyes flickered up from his menu, locking onto yours with that signature intensity.

“Why are you smirking?” he asked, voice laced with suspicion.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached under the table, heart pounding as you hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties. Slowly—so slowly—you slid them down, feeling the lace brush against your bare skin.

Max had no idea what was coming.

Once the fabric was off, you balled it up in your hand and reached across the table. “Here,” you said casually, dropping the delicate lace into his palm.

Max’s brows furrowed. His fingers curled around the fabric, and then—

His entire body went still.

His grip tightened.

His jaw locked.

You saw the exact moment realization hit. His ocean-blue eyes darkened, flickering between the panties in his hand and you, sitting there, completely bare under your dress.

Max inhaled sharply. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice was low—dangerously low.

You leaned forward, eyes playful. “Something wrong, baby?”

Max’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers disappearing under the table. He shoved the panties into his pocket so fast you almost laughed. His

other hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

“Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Are you sitting here, at this table, with nothing under that dress?”

You nodded.

His nostrils flared.

“Jesus Christ.”

You smirked. “Cat got your tongue, Max?”

His gaze snapped to yours, and suddenly, the air between you changed.

The playful energy shifted into something heavier.

Something dangerous.

Max leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. “You think this is funny?”

You shrugged, enjoying the way his grip tightened on the table, his breath growing uneven. “A little.”

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching so tight it looked painful.

Then—so suddenly—he sat back, a slow, wicked smirk curling his lips.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Game on, liefje.” (Sweetheart.)

Your stomach flipped.

Max shifted in his seat, stretching his legs

out under the table—until his knee pressed firmly between your thighs. Your breath hitched, your body going rigid as he applied the lightest pressure.

Your eyes widened. “Max—”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “What? Something wrong?”

His knee pressed harder.

You swallowed hard, your breath stuttering as heat flooded your body. “You’re evil.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you get away with this.”

His fingers drummed casually against the table as he continued, voice slow and taunting. “You know, I was going to take my time with you tonight.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But now?”

His voice dropped even lower.

“Now, I have no choice but to ruin you.”

Your entire body shivered.

Max smirked. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His knee pressed higher, his strong thigh now between your legs, keeping you right where he wanted you. “Look at you,” he mused, his accent thick, teasing. “So quiet all of a sudden. Where’s that bratty attitude now, huh?”

You glared at him, but the effect was lost

when your breath hitched at the way he was touching you.

Max chuckled darkly. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

Your mouth went dry.

Max picked up his menu, pretending to study it, but his knee stayed right where it was.

The worst part?

He acted like nothing was happening.

Like he wasn’t pressing you against the chair.

Like he wasn’t completely hard under the table.

Like he wasn’t planning a thousand ways to make you pay for this

the second you were alone.

You shifted in your seat, desperate for some relief.

Max caught it immediately. His grip on the table tightened, his breathing sharp.

Then—so quietly only you could hear—he whispered, “Do that again, and I swear to God, I’ll drag you into the bathroom right now.”

You froze.

Max’s smirk was lazy, but his eyes?

His eyes were pure fire.

—

Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri was a problem.

No, Oscar was a problem because he was impossible to read.

When he was mad, he didn’t explode—he got quiet. When he was turned on, he didn’t stumble over his words or blush—he became dangerous.

And tonight?

You had just challenged him.

The restaurant was sleek and modern, the

kind of place that matched Oscar’s cool, composed energy. He sat across from you, dressed simply in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms. His fingers tapped against the table absentmindedly as he scrolled through the wine menu, completely unaware of what was coming.

You shifted in your seat, heart pounding as you reached beneath the table. With slow, deliberate movements, you slid your panties down, feeling the soft lace brush over your thighs, your knees—until they were off completely.

Then, with a calm smile, you reached across the table.

“Here,” you murmured, dropping the delicate fabric into his open palm.

Oscar didn’t react immediately.

His fingers curled around the lace, his grip firm but unreadable. His eyes flickered down, scanning the fabric like it was nothing more than a business card someone had handed him.

Then, finally, he looked at you.

And fuck.

His brown eyes were steady, calculating—sharp.

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t smirk, didn’t blush, didn’t flinch.

He just… stared.

Long enough that you shifted in your seat, suddenly less sure about what you’d just done.

Then—slowly—he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.

His voice was quiet. Calm.

“You’re not wearing anything under that dress.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “No.”

He hummed, nodding slightly as he tucked the panties into his pocket like they were nothing. Then he picked up his menu, flipping through it as if this was just another casual dinner.

Your stomach flipped.

That was it? No teasing? No reaction?

Oscar glanced up, catching your slight frown. His lips curled into the smallest smirk.

“You expected me to crack, didn’t you?”

You hesitated. “Maybe.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

You blinked. “I—”

Oscar shut his menu, setting it aside. Then—so suddenly—he reached across the

table, gripping your wrist. Not rough. Not forceful.

But firm.

His thumb brushed against your pulse.

You knew he could feel how fast it was racing.

His voice dropped, calm and cold.

“You think you can just hand me your panties and expect me to lose control?”

You swallowed.

His grip tightened.

“No, baby.” His voice was deadly soft. “That’s not how this works.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, sitting back like he wasn’t currently ruining your entire life with just his voice.

Then—just to be cruel—he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice so only you could hear.

“I’m going to finish my drink.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Then we’re going to leave.”

Your thighs clenched together.

Oscar smirked. He noticed.

“And when we get home,” he murmured, “you’re going to get on your knees and apologize.”

Your breath hitched.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered, picking up his glass and taking a slow sip.

Then, just for fun, he tilted his head and smirked.

“Still think this was a good idea?”

You were so screwed.

—

George Russell

George Russell was a gentleman.

Polite. Well-mannered. The kind of man who held doors open, pulled out your chair, and kissed the back of your hand just to see you blush.

But there was a danger in that charm.

Because underneath all that posh, British elegance?

George was ruthless.

And tonight?

You were about to learn just how much.

The restaurant was candlelit, expensive, and filled with the quiet hum of conversation. George sat across from you, impossibly handsome in a tailored navy

suit, the top two buttons of his shirt undone just enough to tease. His Rolex gleamed under the soft light as he picked up his wine glass, fingers wrapping around the stem with effortless grace.

You watched him, heart pounding, as you slowly—deliberately—slid your hands under the table.

George didn’t notice at first. He was reading the menu, his brows slightly furrowed, completely unaware that you were currently slipping off your panties in the middle of a five-star restaurant.

Your breath hitched as you finally pulled them free, the delicate lace pooling in your hand.

“George.”

Then, with a coy smile, you reached across the table.

He looked up, eyes warm. “Yes, darling?”

You placed your panties in his open palm.

George blinked.

His fingers curled around the lace, and for a moment, he just stared at you, completely unreadable.

Then—so slowly—his lips parted, his tongue briefly darting out to wet them.

His jaw ticked.

You smirked. “Something wrong?”

You saw the exact second realization hit—the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his grip tightening just slightly around the fabric.

George exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You are unbelievable.”

You leaned in, tilting your head. “Why? Is Mr. Russell flustered?”

His eyes darkened.

“No,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m just debating whether I should take you home right now or make you suffer first.”

Your stomach dropped.

You watched him, heart pounding.

George sighed dramatically, slipping the lace into his suit pocket like it was just another accessory. Then, as if nothing happened, he picked up his wine glass and took a slow, deliberate sip.

The way his jaw clenched as he swallowed. The way his fingers tapped against the table—controlled, measured. The way he refused to break eye contact.

Then—so suddenly you almost gasped—he leaned forward, his voice silky smooth.

“Tell me something, darling,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Are you currently sitting there, at this table, with nothing under that pretty little dress?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

George grinned.

Not his usual, charming smile.

This was something else.

Something dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched.

George hummed, pleased with your reaction. He reached for his drink again, bringing it to his lips before pausing—his smirk deepening.

Then—so casually it ruined you—he whispered, “Spread your legs.”

Your eyes widened. “George—”

“Shh.” He took a slow sip of wine, eyes twinkling with pure amusement. “You wanted to play, love. Now be a good girl and listen.”

Heat flooded your body.

You hesitated for half a second too long.

George raised a brow. “I’m waiting.”

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts as you obeyed, shifting slightly in your seat, thighs parting under the table.

George’s smirk turned positively wicked.

“Such a good girl.”

Your entire body shuddered.

He leaned back, completely unbothered, pretending to scan the menu.

Meanwhile, you were a mess. Your skin burned. Your pulse raced. Your thighs trembled because holy shit—he wasn’t even touching you, and yet, you were completely at his mercy.

Then—just to ruin you—George tilted his head, voice smooth as silk.

“You know,” he mused, “I was planning on taking my time with you tonight.”

You clenched your fists in your lap.

He grinned. “But now?”

He placed his menu down.

“Now, I think I’ll take you home and remind you exactly who’s in charge.”

Your breath hitched.

George chuckled, reaching for his drink once more.

Then, with a wink, he murmured,

“Finish your wine, darling. You’re going to need it.”

END

hshshshsh idk why but my drafts keep posting themselves?? Like, I’m literally just editing them then it suddenly posted?!? And if not that, sometimes my drafts just disappear :( like wtf?? hshshshs its soooo annoying.

[mimzy6bunny]

minha maior red flag é q eu n sigo pessoas ricas, principalmente se forem brasileiros

[shiningnorthernlights]

.

[girasonne]

de verdad las bihets siempre son las mujeres más homofobicas. cada vez

[seijakuu00]

Hey guys I just saw smth very questionable and I want your opinion 🤗

Words cannot describe the face I made when I saw this, what in the actual fuck is that 😭😭.

I still don't understand why do people write this with Toji and Megumi, Toji did NOT die for this 🙏. "Mind your own bussines" how about you seek professional help? This is not normal and if you think people should their own bussines and not let you see that what you read or write is wrong, let me tell you that the only one that needs to think and recapacitate is you.

Sad how grown women write abt this shit, y'all are sick of the head.

Hagan algo mejor en vez de andar escribiendo este tipo de pendejadas y busquen ayuda pls, no wonder why it has so few likes.

BOO! Did i scare you? I'm a bar of soap 🧼 just here to remind you to get ur ah in the 🚿 shower and go outside because the smell through the screen is not very pleasant, over and out 👋

For this one, use translator 'cause I'm writing this in spanish. I'm too lazy to write it in English.

Miren, esta bien escribir fanfics ya que todos tenemos derecho a expresar nuestra creatividad pero otra cosa es como tu vas a utilizar esa creatividad sea para bien o mal. Ahora, que digas que es "dark content" NO justifica el hecho de que hayas escrito incesto y pedofilia, no me vengan con que eso no afecta la realidad porque SI la afecta y existen muchos casos de gente que ya no sabian separar la realidad con la ficción y cometieron delitos. (asesinatos, etc.) Escribir este tipo de cosas y leerlas puede irte dañando la mente poco a poco aún así tu digas que no. "Ay pero hacemos un AU donde no sean familia o que no sea menor" eso no justifica nada porque SIGUE siendo canon que sean familia y que sea un menor de edad, dejen de buscar cualquier cosa que justifique sus gustos asquerosos, "no me importa, es mi problema 😝😝" Si, es tu problema y si terminas sin poder distinguir la realidad con la ficción no es nuestro problema, es el tuyo; al final la que pierde eres tú, ahora imagina tener 29 años y escribir semejante asquerosidad. ¿No te da vergüenza? ¿Saber que eres una mujer hecha y derecha, escribiendo este tipo de cosas? Cualquier persona sana ve eso y quedarian asqueados, no digas que somos gente rara porque la unica rara aquí eres tu y tu amiguita pip.

[sunspycy]

e se você escrever algo com o johnny tirando a virgindade da melhor amiga?

sex. 13 | John Suh

“Johnny amava a sessão cinema que vocês faziam toda sexta-feira 13, mas ele amava ainda mais quando podia rasgar a sua...”

ᝰ.ᐟavisos | linguagem imprópria, sexo (sensual, cômico e íntimo) e acho que é só isso!! |°| w.c — 1.6k

★notas | eu lembrei desse comentário da @lovesuhng e tive que colocar KKKKKK Na minha cabeça, ficou legalzinho, mas me digam vocês!! Enfim, espero que você goste, Anon!!

©sunspycy ⚠︎ todos os direitos reservados.

Você atendeu Johnny com um lençol enrolado no corpo. Provavelmente tinha usado todos os jogos de cama que ganhou desde que se mudou para o próprio apartamento para montar a casinha de tecidos no meio da sala — que nem era tão grande assim. Deu um jeitinho de prender as pontas dos lençóis na televisão, que não era colada no painel.

— O que você tá aprontando? — Johnny perguntou, se encostando na parede para tirar os sapatos, com aquele jeitinho meio asiático dele de ser que você felizmente herdou nos doze anos de amizade. Você sabia tudo sobre ele, e infelizmente o contrário também era verdade. Ele te conhecia como a palma da própria mão, sabia do que você gostava, das frutas preferidas, das sobremesas que você não conseguia resistir. Você, por sua vez, sabia cada perfil que ele criou nas redes sociais ao longo dos anos. Tinha até uns vídeos da época do Snapchat que assistia quando se sentia cabisbaixa — e ele sempre roubava seu celular ameaçando apagar, mas jamais faria isso. Aquilo era sua dose de serotonina nos dias difíceis. Na verdade, ele inteiro era. Sempre disposto. Sempre ao seu lado.

— Pensei em a gente relembrar os velhos tempos. Lembra quando minha mãe montava a cabaninha pra gente? — Vocês já tinham 13 anos na época, mas não se importavam com olhares julgadores. Alugavam filmes de terror e se entupiam de calorias que, hoje em dia, você repensava. Mas quando Johnny entrou na “cabaninha” e ficou de joelhos, como você, diante de pacotes de salgadinhos duvidosos, riu pra você.

Provavelmente seus olhos brilhavam mais ao olhar pra ele. Ninguém sabia, nem mesmo ele, mas você o flagrou sem querer no chuveiro e não conseguia mais tirar aquela imagem da cabeça. Parecia um filme que você repetia todos os dias. Suas mãos ganhavam vida própria. Não era à toa que estava mais arrumada que o normal naquela noite. Era sexta-feira 13, e vocês não podiam deixar passar sem assistir ao filme favorito de terror. Só que você não queria assistir a cena nenhuma. Queria apenas observá-lo sob a luz fraca.

Johnny já tinha te visto de todos os jeitos, desde as situações mais embaraçosas da adolescência até os momentos mais difíceis da vida adulta. Às vezes você se perguntava se ele seria capaz de sentir atração por você. Mesmo que fosse por carência, hormônios, ou só para resolver seu “problema”. Esse último, você sabia que ele resolveria — sem pensar duas vezes.

— Eu lembro. Cê amava — ele disse, se encostando no sofá e esticando as pernas longas. Você continuou de joelhos, observando-o sem pretensão — ou pelo menos tentando parecer assim. Internamente, Johnny já sabia que tinha algo estranho, e meio que suspeitava o motivo. Só queria te provocar um pouco mais, te ouvir confessar que o espiou e gostou do que viu. Johnny sorriu, distraído, e você achou que fosse por alguma lembrança da adolescência.

— Quer começar logo? Cê trabalhou até tarde hoje. Vai dormir com 20 minutos de filme e babar em mim.

— Eu não faço isso — você disse, se encostando no sofá também e cruzando os braços. Na verdade, sempre fazia aquilo, mas sempre acordava na sua cama horas depois, enquanto Johnny espremia o corpo grande no seu sofá minúsculo. Era fofo de ver. Johnny tateou o chão fofinho, graças a dois edredons, e encontrou o controle para dar play no filme.

Você ficou tensa. Seu corpo enrijeceu com a proximidade. Nunca tinha acontecido aquilo. Não sabia dizer se era falta de contato masculino ou se realmente... se realmente sentia algo a mais por ele. Tinha uma terceira opção também: seu período fértil — e queria culpá-lo com todas as forças. Até o som baixo do zíper do seu moletom, que você tirou por causa do calor, fez seu corpo tremer como se fossem os dedos de Johnny te tocando. E, ao olhar para sua coxa, percebeu que era exatamente isso.

Os dedos dele acariciavam sua pele gentilmente, devagar, sem pressa. Ele olhava para você em silêncio, abafando o som do filme que seguia na TV. Os dedos masculinos subiram até seu queixo dócil, com calma, porque você sentia — até ele tremia por você.

— Chega, tá? Eu sei que você me viu — ele disse devagar, com medo de te assustar. Mas tudo o que você queria era que ele fosse mais fundo, até o profundo, por você. — E eu sei o que você sentiu. O que tá sentindo.

— Johnny, o que você... — você começou, mas o jeito como ele te olhava — viril, verdadeiro, doce — acabou com você. Acabou com toda mentira que ousou sair dos seus lábios. — Você me conhece, né?

— E você também. Por que não percebe logo que eu quero ser o teu primeiro?

Você ficou em silêncio, em choque, sem acreditar. Mas aceitou a mão dele quando ele te ofereceu, contornando-o com as coxas, conectando os quadris por cima das roupas. Beijou o pescoço dele, sentindo o cheirinho do creme hidratante de frutinha. Você afastou o cabelo. Johnny pausou o filme, mas com a outra mão apertou sua cintura. Tudo muito devagar, calculado, ritmado, sincronizado — como deveria ser, como você queria que fosse, como Johnny queria te entregar.

— Fala a verdade. Você considerou me pedir. Considerou me pedir pra fazer sexo com você?

— Sim — foi a única resposta que saiu, crua, sincera, num sopro. Johnny tirava sua respiração só com os beijos lentos no pescoço, no ombro exposto pela regatinha. Ele buscou seu olhar. As bochechas de ambos estavam coradas, os corpos implorando um pelo outro.

— Não vou conseguir tirar sua roupa desse jeito — ele riu, e você também. Johnny te deitou devagarinho na cabaninha, com medo de tudo desmontar em cima de vocês — o que seria cômico. Esperava que acontecesse quando ele já estivesse dentro de você, incapaz de sair. Mesmo sem fôlego, sufocados pelos lençóis, ele queria tanto te devorar que fôlego era apenas um detalhe.

Levou seu shortinho até os calcanhares com cuidado e sorriu ao ver a calcinha de moranguinhos. Você sempre foi do tipo que prefere estampas bobas a rendas sexy — seu próprio jeito de ser sensual, e ele meio que amava.

— Vai com calma.

— Eu jamais iria de outra forma, linda — ele respondeu gentil, e você respirou fundo, sorrindo. Johnny voltou pra você, face a face. Olhou para seus lábios, e você o puxou pela camiseta, unindo-os em surpresa. As línguas se encontraram afoitas, os dentes às vezes raspavam, e era até engraçado. Fazia vocês rirem e gemerem entre beijos. Johnny, de algum modo, se livrou da calça jeans de forma que você consideraria cômica se pudesse observar — mas estava ocupada demais em manter os lábios colados, como uma adolescente apaixonada.

Sentia o músculo da língua dele na sua, suas mãos tateando a camiseta branca, que saiu fácil num intervalo entre beijos. Quando percebeu, ele estava ali, cutucando de levinho. O pré-gozo pingou, e você sentiu a sensação nos lábios inferiores. Se contorceu. Erguer o quadril era inevitável. Queria ele dentro, afundado. Não queria mais gentileza. Queria que ele te destruísse.

Você queria que seu melhor amigo te destruísse na cama.

Ou melhor, na cabaninha.

— Só me deixa tirar — você disse, desesperada, tentando se livrar da calcinha. Mas Johnny te interrompeu, segurando seus pulsos e impedindo o movimento.

— Para. A gente tá rápido demais.

— Você tá literalmente com... seu pau tá pra fora, Johnny, pelo amor. Já faz 25 anos que tô esperando por isso.

Johnny riu da sua cara — e nem isso, nem a humilhação, foram capazes de te desanimar. Na verdade, quando ele ria, parecia um gatinho. Ele era um gatinho. Você elevou o quadril de novo e ele revirou os olhos só de sentir sua umidade.

— Eu queria ir com calma com você, mas você me dá vontade de colocar de uma vez só — ele sussurrou. Você estremeceu. Poderia facilmente gozar só com o tom de voz rouco no ouvido. Ele era perfeito. — Vai ser estranho se eu rasgar?

Você negou com a cabeça. O cara estava literalmente perguntando se seria estranho rasgar sua calcinha. Johnny saiu de um livro e você não sabia. Observou em êxtase quando ele rasgou o tecido num só movimento. Abriu a boca — fosse pelo ato ou pelo membro pulsante.

Você o puxou de volta pro beijo, e Johnny se encaixou em você — só a pontinha. Gemeu na sua boca porque, caralho, tão molhada. Era o que ele sussurrou, excitado. Você também. Queria mais. Elevava o quadril, e a cada movimento ele entrava um pouquinho mais.

Teve uma ideia que, com a mente enevoada, parecia genial. Envolveu-o com uma perna. Sua buceta abriu mais um pouquinho, o abrigou, e os dois perderam o ar. O movimento se intensificou. Você suava. Suas mãos escorregavam nas costas dele. Johnny escondia o rosto no seu pescoço, respirando acelerado, mordendo, gemendo, conectando os quadris ao seu com cada vez mais intensidade.

— John, eu...

— Porra — ele sussurrou. Literalmente. Você queria dizer isso quando o sentiu quente. Sensação nova. De outro mundo. Buscou os olhos dele e ele buscou sua boca, te beijando com doçura. Te estocando com doçura. Até o fim. Até tudo escorrer. Até os batimentos estabilizarem. Mas os sorrisos não sumiram. Não havia culpa. Só a sensação de ter feito a coisa certa. De ter se entregado à pessoa certa.

— Acho que gostei desse novo jeito de passar a sexta-feira 13 — Johnny disse com um sorriso. Você deu um soquinho no braço dele. Foi o suficiente para a cabana desmontar e Johnny, nu, te resgatar no meio dos lençóis e edredons. Você riu nos braços dele, abraçando-o, surpresa quando ele te jogou no sofá e ficou por cima, quase se encaixando de novo, especialmente porque você abriu as pernas, convidativa.

Deixou um beijinho numa pintinha solitária próxima à sua boca e te olhou.

— Eu não quero fazer isso só na sexta-feira 13 — você sussurrou, envergonhada, desviando o olhar. Mas ele guiou sua cabeça de volta pra ele, beijando sua boca devagarinho. Sem língua. Só os lábios. Como uma promessa infantil.

— Tá tudo bem — ele afirmou, doce. — Todo dia agora vai ser sexta-feira 13.

[patrycarro]

TS3 - LS3SR06 (No CC)

ENG:

Whenever I play with the Supernatural pack, especially with fairies, I always feel like there’s a lack of builds that truly suit their style. Personally, I think placing these magical creatures in a regular house or apartment takes away from their charm a little.

This cozy fairy village features five cottages (four private and one communal), surrounded by countless gardens and spaces where your fairies can soak up the sun and immerse themselves in the pure beauty of nature.

I hope you find this build useful! If you do, let me know in the comments, and I’ll be happy to create more like it.

Features:

Lot type: Residential

Lot size: 64x64

Location: Moonlight Falls

Furnished lot value: 406.049 §

Unfurnished lot value: 223.561 §

Bedrooms: 4

Bathrooms: 5

Packs used in this build: EP01, EP04, EP07, EP08

Terms and conditions:

DO NOT claim my creations as your own.

If you want to use any of my builds in your custom world or save file, you are allowed to do so, BUT make sure to credit me as the original creator.

DO NOT re-upload my content under any circumstances; share it with your friends using my own links.

If you experience any issues, let me know and I’ll try to fix it as soon as possible.

Download it here. 🤍

SPA:

Siempre que juego con el pack de Criaturas sobrenaturales, específicamente con las hadas, echo en falta construcciones de este estilo, porque, personalmente, pienso que instalar a estas preciosas criaturas en una casa normal o un apartamento mata un poco la magia.

Este acogedor poblado está compuesto por cinco cabañas (cuatro independientes, una común) e incontables jardines y zonas donde tus hadas podrán disfrutar del sol y la belleza más pura y natural.

Espero que os resulte útil, y si es así, dejádmelo saber en un comentario y haré más construcciones similares.

Características:

Tipo de solar: Residencial

Tamaño del solar: 64x64

Ubicación: Moonlight Falls

Valor del solar amueblado: 406.049 §

Valor del solar sin amueblar: 223.561 §

Habitaciones: 4

Baños: 5

Packs utilizados en esta construcción: EP01, EP04, EP07, EP08

Términos y condiciones:

NO proclames mis creaciones como tuyas.

Si quieres usar alguna de mis construcciones en tu mundo personalizado o save file, tienes permitido hacerlo, PERO deja claro que yo soy su creadora original.

NO resubas mi contenido bajo ninguna excepción; compártelo con tus conocidos usando mis propios enlaces.

Si experimentas algún problema, házmelo saber e intentaré solucionarlo lo antes posible.

Descárgalo aquí. 🤍