Yo please forgive the multiple asks. I follow gossip instas and there are moments that show Kelly to be a...lacking mother. First and mostly is just how often Kelly travels and leaves P at home, and leaving P alone when they travel (ex. leaving P at the hotel to go to her birthday dinner and some other party with Max during Abu Dhabi). This isn't unique for Kelly, many affluent parents do, but with all of her talk about not having/disliking nannies and being a hands on mom it's just like lady bffr. Side note: many in hindsight have criticized her "being a single mom on the first day of school" post because it further tries to publicly erase Daniil, she knew she was pregnant at the time (based on what Jos/others have said) with Max who is still involved, and was this after Max changed his tune from "I don't consider myself and don't want to be called P's stepdad" to "I am her bonus dad" because then she wouldn't really be a single mom. There's a video on a boat and P is sitting nearest the edge, no life jacket and unsupervised, while Kelly is totally focused on having fun with her friends. From Abu Dhabi this year Kelly did not step in until others were coming when P started crying because Max had to go debrief, she stood by and filmed during and after P stepping on/kicking Lando's mom. Just moments in which a child should have parental supervision, support, or be parented and Kelly just stands back until others approach or just films. Also, my cynical side thinks Kelly might start establishing connections with all the new rookies on the grid, especially considering her comments on trying to make Max do skincare because "he's starting to look older" and she doesn't want to see that (makes my skin crawl).
i literally have no words for this. i’m just sat here in shock what the fuck.
anyone else find it weird that max is with p and kelly is nowhere to be seen?? i mean, sure, atp max is a father figure to her, but he's not even her stepdad because (as far as we know) he's not married to kelly. her leaving him to take care of her child while on a race weekend (when he won't be able to spend much time at all with p) is very irresponsible of her. p isn't max's child and not his responsibility. if kelly can't fit childcare into her schedule, she shouldn't have had kids. // max is not her step dad because he doesn’t want to be. He said so multiple times himself. He doesn’t see himself in any way as a father figure to p because she has a father. Kelly has multiple nannies actually. She just constantly lies about that. If she wouldn’t have nannies she would have abandoned p while Kelly was busy playing model and partying mostly in Paris. Max was in Bahrain still and daniil wasn’t anywhere close to Monaco either. By Kelly’s own telling p would have been alone in Monaco for over a week. Nobody of her or maxs family was close to Monaco either by the way. Max actually has no legal rights to take p out of the country and continent. I doubt daniil signed off on max taking his child and that both him and Kelly gave max all the signed over rights for this trip that max needs to take p to Australia. Rich people mostly have kids as Accessoire. She called max arm Accessoires during the gala. When she was there only because of him. Kelly left max alone with her nannies and p for a while again now. You can guess that someone else is in the apartment besides max and p because in the last stream he was told that his dinner is ready and p was already in bed for once. She was up after 10 pm and nobody cared during one of the last streams. The dinner chat was after 9 pm as well. Or when p was crying over taking a shower during stream max was basically sending her off to the nanny because Kelly was gone for a couple of days too. You could see p looking at the nanny and let’s be honest which 4 year old does their night routine completely alone. And with that I mean brushing their teeth properly and actually going to sleep and not continuing to play when they don’t want to.
AHEM AHEM this is related to current knowledge and credits to this theory come from other details others have pointed out in their previous posts and theories, and all originality credit goes to this lovely fandom.
Now to the point.
As most have wondered, what is Ramshackle based on?
Some of these have been proven incorrect, such as Mother Gothel due to the Tangled event and the Hunchback of Notre Dame for Claude Frollo.
This might sound CLICHE. But I do believe that Ramshackle is NOT only based on Mickey's ghost short story, that the ghosts resemble nearly identically, but as well as Haunted Mansion.
Because if you think about it, Ramshackle resembles the plot of the Haunted Mansion orignal movie made in 2003.
If you've never watched it, it's about a family of realtors who aim to go on vacation. However, the mother gets a call from a very rich Mansion owner. So they go there, despite it being vacation time.
Now to the others point of view. She's in this foreign mansion with beautiful architecture and views. It feels like an entirely different world, and she meets the Mansion owner, who promises that he'll let her go home. However, she learns the history of the mansion and becomes more and more involved and knowledgeable of history as time goes by. She gets used to this solemn mansion and learns to love everything about it despite still longing for the outside quite a bit.
Sound familiar? Sounds an awful bit like how Yuu, the player, the mc, is.
As well as how there's a talking all knowing voice from a glass object. Like? The dark mirror.
Now said mansion owner, as previously stated, NEVER intended on letting the mother go home. He intentionally invited her so he can bring back his dead lover, because she looked identical to his former lover.
Now, Crowley is making the same empty promises. Before the game starts and we choose a character, whose voice calls us their precious flower of evil?
DIRE M F' CROWLEY
THATS WHO
As well as the Mansion is HAUNTED it's in the name. As is Ramshackle. However, what they have in common is that they're both haunted by people who previously frequented that place often and are bound there.
What if Crowley intentionally brought Yuu to Twisted Wonderland? In some iterations of the Haunted Mansion, the people who died fuel the power of the malicious spirits or just general spirits.
Ramshackle may have been a dorm full of students with WONDERFUL potential. However, many of its inhabitants may have died due to overblots caused by who? Crowley. He's been a headmage for most likely? A long time.
What if Crowley was forced to put these overblots to a stop due to the rising suspicion, and then when he finally summoned Yuu, in order to keep us here, he had the overblots happen. In order to obtain the magic needed to permanently bind our soul to Twisted Wonderland. Just like how the Mansion owner attempted in the movies.
So in that case, all the manga Yuu's names have something correlating to death. Some may think "maybe TWISTED WONDERLAND is for real just the afterlife 😔"
What if it was instead? Yuu reminds Crowley of someone dear to him who's been dead. Yuu is living proof of someone who Crowley couldn't bear to lose in the past, and now? Yuu is practically the mini version of them, and Crowley can't lose them a second time. Using the dark mirror to achieve that isn't beyond what Crowley would be willing to do. Crowley spends a long time with that mirror, I wouldn't doubt he's looked into everything the mirror can do and would know if traveling universes were in its capabilities.
Maybe if Crowley knew the truth about the great seven theory, it was true. Maybe what I'll be calling OG YUU, knew as well. Both of them were preserving the lie to keep the world from knowing perhaps. Either way, that's my silly theory. For extra angst OG Yuu probably was killed ngl.
Update;
I've reblogged this and added more to the theory pls check that out.
💬 0 🔁 6 ❤️ 23 · Though looking back to earlier chapters and with the anime, combined with the manga, I did make another correlation. Other
Ghost Prefect, Thru The Mirror, Dream, Book 8 and Other Random Stuff
TWST THEORY + Analysis: Note #008
2,500K word, because I need to make my self suffer.
Warning : Jp spoilers
Abstract
So there is a popular theory that Yuu/Prefect is dead, but I generally don't see many people talk about the mechanism or the impact on the story. So I want to flesh it out a bit, although the main theory is relatively straightforward. It is the explanation that's a bit much, and unfortunately I am not the greatest writer, so please forgive me.
The prefect in their world is either dead or in a coma, while their spirit/ghost/consciousness is in Twisted Wonderland. Basically an out of body experience.
Evidence Toward Ghost Prefect
As mentioned before, there been multiple analysis about the connections between the prefect, Death, and Night Raven College (ref 1, ref 2). That do a lot better job of explaining it than I do, but I will list the common points out here regardless.
Firstly, Night Raven has a crap ton of references to death. Especially in regard to the opening ceremony. Kalim in his robe card mentions how they look like they are wearing funerary garb. This is mainly because everyone is wearing black, which is common at funerals. (This technically applies to their uniform as well.)
The gates are literal coffins, with Crowley's description of the gate seeming to lean toward death and rebirth direction.
Which is so on the nose
Night Raven College is a school full of ghosts, especially in regard to Ramshackle. Which, as far as we know, is a trait specific to this school, as we don't get any mention of ghosts at Noble Bell College (although they do have gargoyles).
The school is themed after raven/crow/corvine, which are sometimes associated with death (ref 3). The armbands that the boys wear on their uniforms may be associated with mourning armband (ref 4). Then we have the carriage that picks up Yuu which is design after a horse-drawn hearse used for funerals (ref 5).
Now, some of you are asking me, "why are we discussing about Night Raven College when this is about the Prefect?" Technically speaking, Yuu and Grim are labeled as part of Night Raven College in the both the gacha and the guest room. Because of this connection, I will consider this info as evidence for this discussion.
In addition, consider the event that happened in the prologue. Yuu get hit by the carriage/hearse (based on the manga and anime). Then wake up in one of the gates/coffins, during a ceremony where everyone is wearing black. It kind of feels like the opening ceremony is meant to represent a funeral - yuu funeral perhaps. Although, technically speaking, the Prefect was never properly awakened by Crowley. Just food for thought.
Then we have the fact that all the Prefects in the Manga adaptation have last named related to death (ref 6).
We can also consider the ghost camera may have a connection with corpse photography from the Victorian era (ref 7).
Ramshackle dorm, where the prefect lives, is a place filled with ghosts. One of the main inspirations for this dorm is the Mickey Mouse short "Lonesome Ghosts" (ref 8) (ref 12) and we could make an argument that it is also inspired by the Haunted Mansion.
We also can take into consideration the NBC event, where Skully is confirmed dead and is a ghost. As I discussed in detail in another post, Halloween events tend to foreshadow future themes and events of the main story, so this could fact could apply to yuu (ref 9).
Now I want to clarify that all the evidence I present is mainly symbolic and doesn't directly prove that yuu a ghost but rather points toward the idea. But that being said, there is a strong connection between yuu and the concept of death/afterlife. For the sake of this discussion, we will assume that yuu a ghost.
THRU THE MIRROR/THE MECHANISM
Okay, now that we have the idea that Yuu is a ghost, how could this work in the context of the game story? Well, we made already got a peek with Mickey Mouse.
As the game progresses, we slowly gain new information about Mickey until we finally meet him in the Dream Room in book 7. During this encounter, Mickey explained how enters this "place". When he falls asleep, his soul leaves his body and enters the mirror like a ghost.
He also mentions the weird stuff he experienced, mainly the battle against the card soldier, and whatnot.
At the end of this experience, he wakes up by the sound of his alarm in his room. What he is describing is one of the scenes from "Thru the Mirror," a Mickey Mouse short (ref 10).
Which, considering Mickey's story, along with Grim and Prefect's experience in this room, it's safe to say this short is canon TWST lore. This implies that this mechanism of entering the dream as some form of ghost is canon to TWST.
(Also, take note of how Yuu describe this info.)
Okay, so now that we've got that established, how does this apply to the Prefect? Well, there is a possibility that Yuu and Mickey are mirrors of one another or are at least connected. The most obvious parallel is with the Yuu's room, the Dream Room, and, in turn Mickey's room.
The game even described the dream room as a "Ramshackle-ish room".
Then there is this interesting thing that happens in 4-40 in the JP version. When Mickey asks, "Who are you?" if you have the default name Yuu, it makes it seem that Prefect responded, "I am Yuu/You". (ref 13, ref 14).
There some other stuffs, like both being magicless, both encouraging others to work together (ref 11). Ramshackle Dorm being inspired by Mickey Mouse shorts (Thru the Mirror and Lonesome Ghosts). The 100 years anniversary card, where Mickey and Grim are matching.
So if Yuu is meant to parallel Mickey, is there a possibility that Prefect is able to enter their dream just like Mickey (possible as some form of ghost)?
We may have already seen Yuu enter their dream through the mirror with the Disney dream cutscene. The cutscene starts with POV entering the mirror, with a similar thing happening as we exit the mirror, like how it is portrayed in "Thru the Mirror". In addition, Yuu tends to describe the experience as feeling real, like they actually enter the dream. Furthermore, the Ost name for these cutscenes is called "I May Be Dreaming," which implies that it isn't a simple dream experience.
Now some of you are wondering, "if Yuu is a ghost, how are they able to interact with stuff and move through difference planes of existence and dream? Is this even possible, and other questions regarding the semantics? Well, someone has already asked these questions - that being Malleus to Ortho.
We also know it's possible for people to have a dream inside a dream, as seen when the Prefect found themselves in the Dream Room, Grim was having a dream about a tuna.
DREAM ROOM & IN BETWEEN SPACE
Okay, to continue this discussion, we need to contextualize the "location" of the dream plane and reality and whatnot. So I made this diagram to showcase it. This is the point where you should have realized I have lost my mind.
(Figure 1) (Hall of Dream = Corridor of Dream = Dreamway)
In the middle of this diagram, we have the Dream Room that is located within the Hall/Corridor of Dreams along with all the other dreams we witness during Book 7. The Hall of Dream (or Dreamways) is basically a subconscious plane where dreams existed and whatnot. We know this Dream Room is connected to Twisted Wonderland, as Silver was able to "visit" this place with his UM, and the Ramshackle duo "waking up" in this place in Book 7. The Dream Room is also connected to Mickey's world, as Mickey is able to come visit this place, as showcased in "Thru the Mirror". We could think of the Dream Room and Dreamway as a bridge between these two worlds. Although you have to be asleep to access this pathway. If we were to be very specific about how there is only one entrance to the dream room (the mirror) (although we don't have evidence to prove that), you could think of the dream room like a railway turntable or wheelhouse. This makes the Dream Room and the Dreamway some form of in-between space between worlds.
Now, it seems like kind of a stretch, but this idea of an in-between space does exist within Twisted Wonderland, with both space and time. We see this in the first Nightmare Before Christmas event with the strange book, where it connected the Skully, who from the past, and the NRC bois from the present. Although it's likely that in the part two of the Nightmare Before Christmas event, we may get to see the book connection people across space with Swing and the current cast.
Which we could go into the possibility that Mickey is from the past, since there is mention of a Mage (Yidsid) and apprentice (Mickey) recount in a Sage Island legend discussed at the end of Book 7. This story is a reference to the short "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" (ref 15). But that is a rabbit hole I am not in the mood to deal with
Another example we could look toward is the Hinterlands, in the same Nightmare Before Christmas event that connected different holidays to one another, kind of like the Dreamway or Dream Room.
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR BOOK 8
So after all of these considerations, how does this relate to book 8? Based on the ending of the book 7 epilogue regarding the Mickey Mouse Investigation and all that we have established so far, it is safe to assume we will be returning to the dreams. (WE ARE BACK IN THE FUCKING BUILDING AGAIN, AHHHHH).
Diasomnia will be helping us out with the investigation, including Silver (can travel through people's dreams) and Malleus (former Dream Admin). In addition, we have Ortho, who was critical in locating the Dream ID in Book 7. So we have the member needed to traverse the Dreamway.
Now, we discussed how the Dreamway/Dream Room acts as an in-between area between worlds. So, if Yuu is some kind of ghost, then in theory the Perfect could return to their own world using the Dream Room (Fig 2).
(Figure 2)
However, I believe if we see the cast try something like this, it probably won't work. Mainly because the Prefect is an empty slate of a character, and you can't really show Yuu returning to their own world until the very end of the story.
On the other hand, I want to make an argument that we will somehow end up in the Disney/Yuu dream. It was one of the things that wasn't discussed during the book 7 epilogue, likely because the writers are saving that for Book 8.
Something that may hint at this is gacha, that I already discussed before in another post (ref 17). In book 7, we got a special set of cards for the cast based on their dream outfit. They also seem to be connected to the title you get for collecting ten ards of a specific character . When Book 7 ended, most of the characters had gotten one of the dream cards. The only ones without a Dream card that we know what it will look like is Riddle and Leona, which should be their Overblot card.
That leaves a good chunk of the first gang including Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, and Grim. Wouldn't it make sense to go back to the dream so we can get interesting outfits for these guys to wear. Since I am not sure how special they can design an outfit based on the interschool competition. Furthermore, what better dream to enter than the ones regarding the Great Seven.
Adding to this, we also been hinted at the possibility of TWST characters meeting their OG counterparts. We see this with the recent Halloween event where Skully meets Jack Skellington (Ref 9). We could also make the argument that the Lost in the Book event is a test run for this idea and how it could work in Book 8.
Moving on, here is a random idea that is related to what we been talking about. It could be possible that Mickey could use the Dreamway/Dream Room enter Twisted Wonderland, a reversal of what I propose for the Prefect. I don't really have any evidence for this, but it's an interesting concept. Anyway, this is a diagram regarding the hypothetical pathway (Fig. 3).
(figure 3)
The last thing we shall focus on is how does this relates to Crowley. Because this dude will be playing an important part in book 8 story, based off the preview we got. Unfortunately for us, we really don't have much idea of this bird's motive or goal is.
Let's take into consideration this scene in the prologue of book 7, when the first year gang is explaining the Mirror. When Crowley learned about the "Mickey Mouse Investigation", he prevented the first year from continuing their research because it was possible for one to get sucked into a gateway to another world and vanish (oh, now you are telling us this information).
He changes his mind once the Diasomnia agrees to supervise, even offering credit hours for the investigation. This is super sus, he either doesn't want the Prefect to find a way home or wants to rope Malleus and Lilia into the investigation for some grand plan. But that still doesn't give a clear answer.
If it is the case that Crowley is the one responsible for yuu circumstance. (The whole being asleep/death thingy, since that is what this theory is about). The Mickey investigation will either be against or part of his plan. I will note that, as far as we know, Crowley doesn't know about the Prefect's having those strange dream.
Although, here is a random idea. There is a chance that Crowley is possibly going to poison Yuu with an apple, based on some images from the TWST opening.
(the shot in sequence)
Let's say that yuu get poisoned and fall unconscious. Then they wake up in the Disney dream or in the Dream Room and have to navigate from there.
CONCLUSION
Anyway, that all I have. I have been working on this for too long. I have had this idea for a long while, even before book 7, but I only really finalized it last month. It is very likely that most of this will be wrong, but at least if something turns out to be right, then I will be happy. Regardless, I am tired from writing and editing this theory, so that will be all.
Summary: You're Toto Wolff's girlfriend; half his age, all his chaos. He adores you, spoils you senseless, and treats you like the best decision he's ever made. The paddock calls you "the problem child of Mercedes PR." The drivers can't decide if you're a gold-digger, a witch, or the luckiest woman alive. The truth? You don't care. Because Toto would burn the entire FIA building to the ground if you asked.
Warnings: sugar-daddy energy, driver gossip, soft power dynamics, overprotective Toto.
Word Count: 1.3k
The first time you walk into the paddock hand in hand with Toto Wolff, the collective male brain of Formula 1 short-circuits. You're wearing sunglasses the size of small planets and a white silk set that costs more than half the grid's first go-karts. Toto's in his usual white shirt and calm menace, walking beside you like a man who could buy Monaco if it annoyed him.
Pierre whispered, "How old is she?"
Lando, ever the echo, whispers back, "Like... my age?"
George frowns. "That's terrifying."
Charles mutters, "That's impressive."
Lewis just smirks behind his sunglasses. "Gentlemen, respect the game."
You're used to the attention by now. Toto's used to it, too. He handles it the way he handles everything: calmly, efficiently, and with a touch of threat.
The first time a reporter asks if you're "perhaps a bit young for him," he doesn't even blink.
Toto smiles, that perfect, PR-friendly, billionaire smile. "She's an adult. And she's smarter than half the paddock."
You lean over the microphone. "Which half?"
He squeezes your hand. "We'll start alphabetically."
The thing is, Toto adores you. Everyone can see it. He spoils you with the kind of quiet luxury that doesn't even look like flexing until someone checks the receipts. Private jets, tailor fittings, skincare that arrives with an NDA, vintage jewellery that his daughter, Rosa, picked out "because she liked you instantly."
He calls you his. He brings you coffee exactly how you like it. He buys you flowers when meetings go long and massages your shoulders when you pretend to be mad at him for working late.
The man's 6'5" of discipline and Austrian wrath for everyone else, but for you? He's just soft smiles, warm hands, and "have you eaten, my girl?"
The drivers gossip, obviously. The groupchat is also filled with gossip and debates.
George: It's clearly about the money.
Lewis: You're just jealous because she calls him Totes.
Charles: She calls him what?
Pierre: Totes. We heard it. In the hospitality lounge.
Carlos: She calls him that and she lives?
Lando: She's got diplomatic immunity.
Max: No, she has Austrian immunity.
Oscar: That's worse.
There's a running joke that you have Toto wrapped around your finger, and maybe that's true. But no one gets to joke about it in front of him. Once, during a briefing, Pierre made a quip about "Toto's new financial investment."
Toto didn't even look up from his tablet. "Gasly, I can buy your contract and bench you for the rest of the decade."
Pierre never jokes again.
You try to keep things low-key. You really do. But "low-key" is hard when your boyfriend is six-foot-five and head of Mercedes. You show up in the garage one morning wearing a cropped silver cardigan, his initials embroidered on the sleeve. The internet loses its collective mind.
#TotosGirl trends before FP1.
Sky Sports zooms in three separate times. Martin Brundle refers to you as "Wolff's lucky charm."
Toto just grins during interviews, every bit the unbothered billionaire. "She brings us good energy."
The drivers interpret "good energy" as "terrifying power."
One weekend in Baku, you sit beside Carmen during qualifying, quietly cheering. When George takes pole, you leap up clapping, practically glowing. Cameras catch Toto watching you instead of the timing screen.
Twitter: Find someone who looks at you the way Toto looks at his girlfriend, celebrating P1.
You reply with he just likes when I clap in rhythm. The grid collectively combusts.
Carlos corners you in hospitality later that weekend, curiosity written all over him. "Okay, I have to ask. What's it like dating him?"
You blink. "Like having a bodyguard and a personal chef in one."
He nods, impressed. "He cooks?"
"Better than anyone I know. And he folds laundry like it's an Olympic sport."
Pierre leans in. "So it's serious, then?"
You smile. "I have access to his jet. You tell me."
Pierre whistles. "Marriage material."
Lando mutters, "Or contract-level control."
You grin. "Both sound kind of hot, actually."
When the drivers' group chat finds out Toto flew you to Vienna on a random Tuesday "just for schnitzel," the chaos is immediate.
Pierre: this is insane.
Charles: I can't even get Ferrari to fly me home for my birthday.George: he flew her out for lunch.
Lewis: good for her.Lando: I'm telling you it's the money.
Oscar: you literally texted her asking to borrow 20 euros last week, stay humble.Max: I respect the efficiency.
Carlos: schnitzel goals.
There are moments when the whispers sting, of course. You see the comments, "trophy girlfriend," "she'll leave when he's sixty," "she's just there for the lifestyle."
You don't respond online. You don't have to. Because Toto does. One night after a particularly nasty article, he calls the publication's owner. You don't know what he says, but the piece vanishes within the hour. The next morning, he kisses your forehead. "No one gets to talk about you that way."
You tease, "Even if it's kind of true?"
His jaw sets. "You could take every cent I own and I'd still owe you more." And that's the thing, he doesn't say things like that to sound poetic. He means it.
The drivers' suspicion shifts from "gold-digger" to "potential cult leader."
Charles: She has the power to make Toto smile. That's black magic.
Lando: she's brainwashed him.
Oscar: If it's brainwashing, it's working. They're leading the championship.
Lewis: It's called love, you heathens.
George: Love doesn't buy matching pyjamas.
Lewis: Actually, it does.
Your favourite part, though, is how unshakable Toto is about it all. He never hides you. He never downplays you. He'll introduce you to CEOs, mechanics, the FIA president, all with the same easy confidence: "This is my girl. She makes my life better."
You stand beside him during press weekends, listening to the chaos, watching the drivers pretend not to stare. Someone always tries to catch your eye, waiting for a crack, for a hint of insecurity. But you don't flinch.
Because at the end of the day, you're the one he goes home with. And when the cameras are gone, when it's just the two of you in some impossibly quiet penthouse overlooking the city, he always whispers the same thing against your skin, "I don't care what they think. I care that you're here."
The next morning, you post a photo: your hand on Toto's chest, his wedding ring gleaming against your manicure. Caption: "His favourite investment."
The drivers' chat implodes instantly.
Lando: SHE DID NOT.
George: she DID.
Charles: why am I sweating.
Oscar: Andrea wants to know if Toto's hiring a PR double.
Lewis: she wins again.
Carlos: I'm calling her Mrs. Monopoly from now on.
Pierre: respectfully, I fear her.
Max: good.
And Toto, standing behind you as you scroll, just chuckles softly, kissing your temple. "Let them talk. They'll get tired eventually."
You grin. "They'll get bored before I do."
"Good," he says, smiling that calm, dangerous smile. "I'd hate to disappoint."
kiss me there ── .✦ OP81
requested! thank you. ♡
content: oscar piastri x reader, headcanons, fluffy, cozy, playful, kisses everywhere
✦ oscar’s favorite place to kiss you is your temple. soft, casual, protective. he’ll lean down mid-conversation, press one quick kiss there, and keep talking like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
✦ your hands. he adores them. whether you’re working on something, fidgeting, or holding his, he’ll bring your knuckles up to his lips absentmindedly. it’s a quiet little ritual — “hi, i love you, i’m here.”
✦ neck kisses when he’s clingy. especially after a long day — he’ll curl up behind you on the couch, tuck his face into your shoulder, and pepper slow, sleepy kisses along your neck until you melt against him.
✦ your jawline. something about the angle makes him smirk. he’ll tilt your face toward him just to kiss along it, pausing at your ear to whisper something cheeky.
✦ forehead kisses are his softest confession. he gives them when he doesn’t know how to say “i’m proud of you” or “i’m so glad you’re mine.” his lips lingering there says it all.
✦ your shoulder. he loves tugging the neckline of your shirt aside just enough to press a secret kiss there. it’s grounding for him, especially before races — one last reminder of home.
✦ lips, of course — but oscar’s are slow. he’s not the type to rush. he’ll take his time, kiss you like you’re fragile and precious, and then pull back with that little grin that leaves you breathless.
✦ when he’s playful, he’ll kiss everywhere at once: cheeks, nose, chin, forehead — quick pecks until you’re giggling and trying to push him away, which only makes him chase you for more.
✦ but his ultimate favorite? kissing you when no one’s watching. curled up together, messy hair, quiet room. that’s when he kisses you like he’s telling a secret — gentle, lingering, full of everything he feels but rarely says.
Warnings: 18+ content, dubious consent, guns, and forced dumbification
Kinktober Masterlist
The office is small, dim, smelling faintly of coffee and old paper. A narrow window lets in thin, grey light, cutting across the surface of your supervisor’s desk. He’s sitting there, looking at you with that familiar mix of intensity and mild concern. There’s a file in front of him, thick, overflowing with papers, and he taps it once, twice, like he’s deciding whether or not to speak.
“You know I wouldn’t bring you in for something like this unless it was absolutely necessary,” he says, finally breaking the silence.
You nod, but don’t say anything. You’ve worked for Interpol long enough to know that when he starts like this, something big is coming. Bigger than usual.
“I’m serious, Y/N,” he continues, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. “This isn’t like the other assignments.”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting. He hasn’t even told you what the assignment is yet. The edge in his voice is making you uneasy, though. It’s not like him to drag things out like this.
He sighs, opens the file, pulls out a single photograph, and slides it across the desk toward you.
It’s a man.
Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that seem to stare through the camera lens. He’s sitting at a table in some restaurant, probably expensive judging by the suit he’s wearing, and there’s a woman draped over his arm. But the man doesn’t seem to notice her. His expression is unreadable.
“Charles Leclerc,” your supervisor says, as if the name should mean something to you. It doesn’t.
You glance up at him. “Who is he?”
He hesitates, just for a second, and then says, “The leader of the Rosso Corsa.”
You freeze, the weight of the words sinking in immediately. The Rosso Corsa is infamous. A criminal organization that operates in both Italy and the Côte d'Azur, responsible for everything from arms trafficking to political corruption. They’re untouchable.
Untouchable, because no one can get close enough.
Your supervisor lets the silence linger for a moment before he speaks again. “Interpol’s been trying to infiltrate them for years. We’ve had no success. No one’s gotten close enough, and the few who have …” He trails off, shaking his head. “They didn’t make it out.”
“So why now?” You ask, already knowing you’re not going to like the answer.
“Because we have a lead.” He pulls another piece of paper from the file, but doesn’t show it to you yet. “Leclerc’s been recruiting. Quietly. His organization’s expanding faster than anyone predicted. He’s looking for new people, trusted people.”
You stare at him. “And you want me to-”
“Get close to him,” he finishes. “Infiltrate. Gather information. Help us bring him down.”
The air feels heavier, thicker, and you shift in your seat, trying to make sense of what he’s asking. “How am I supposed to get close to someone like that? He probably has a hundred people screening anyone who tries to-”
“You’ll be playing a role,” he interrupts, his voice firm. “We’ve been building a cover for you for months.”
He hands you a new folder, this one slimmer, but just as important. Inside, there’s a fake ID, a name you’ve never heard before, and a backstory so detailed you’re almost convinced it’s real.
“Giulia Santini,” he says, nodding toward the papers. “You’ve been living in Monaco for years. High-end art dealer. A few shady connections here and there, just enough to make you interesting to Leclerc, but nothing that’ll get you killed if someone digs a little too deep.”
You let out a breath, leafing through the details. “And you’re sure he’ll be interested?”
“His mother’s an art collector,” he replies, shrugging. “It’s not foolproof, but we’ve done the groundwork. We’ve arranged for you to be introduced through one of his contacts in the next week. From there, it’s up to you.”
You blink, trying to process the enormity of what he’s asking. “Up to me? You’re sending me in without backup?”
“You’ll have backup,” he says quickly. “But you know how this works. You’re going to be on your own for most of it. We need to keep the operation quiet. If Leclerc gets even a hint that you’re not who you say you are, it’s over. For you. For all of us.”
He’s not sugarcoating it, and you appreciate that, but it doesn’t make the task ahead of you any easier to swallow. You swallow hard, feeling a weight settle in your chest.
“Why me?” You ask softly.
He looks at you for a long moment before he answers, his voice lowering. “Because you’re the best. You’re smart and you can handle yourself. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.”
“But this is different.”
“Yes,” he admits, and his eyes soften just a fraction. “But if anyone can do it, it’s you.”
You sit there, the folder in your hands, feeling the weight of everything he’s just laid out for you. There’s a part of you that wants to say no, that wants to walk out of this office and leave the impossible task for someone else. But you know you won’t. You’ve never walked away from a challenge before, and you’re not about to start now.
Still, there’s one thing gnawing at you, something you can’t quite shake.
“If I get close to him,” you say slowly, “what’s the plan? What happens then?”
Your supervisor hesitates again, and that makes your stomach twist. “We gather information,” he says finally. “Enough to bring him down. We’re not rushing this. This could take months, maybe longer.”
“And in the meantime?” You press. “What if he gets suspicious?”
He’s silent for a moment, and then he leans forward again, his voice low and steady. “Then you do whatever you have to do to keep your cover intact.”
The meaning behind his words is clear, and it sends a chill down your spine. You’ve done undercover work before, but nothing like this. Nothing this … intimate.
You clear your throat. “And how far am I supposed to go with this?”
“As far as you need to,” he says, his tone hardening. “But you keep your head. You remember why you’re there. This isn’t about you and him. This is about bringing down a dangerous organization.”
You nod, trying to focus on the mission, on the end goal. But it’s hard when you’re staring at the photograph of Charles Leclerc, at the cold, unreadable expression on his face.
Your supervisor stands up, signaling the end of the meeting. “You’ll leave for Monaco in two days. We’ll have everything set up by then.”
You stand too, feeling the weight of the assignment pressing down on your shoulders. But before you can turn to leave, he says one more thing.
“Be careful, Y/N.”
You pause at the door, glancing back at him. “I always am.”
He doesn’t respond, just watches as you walk out of the office, the door closing behind you with a soft click.
You stand in the hallway for a moment, the folder still in your hand, staring at the photograph of Charles Leclerc one last time.
You wonder, not for the first time, if this is the mission that will finally break you.
***
The Grand Hôtel in Monaco is every bit as lavish as you imagined. Opulent chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting warm light over marble floors and deep, velvet chairs that look more like art pieces than furniture. You’ve been here before, but never in this role. Never as Giulia Santini, the art dealer with a knack for finding rare treasures.
You glance around the lobby, your heels clicking softly against the marble as you make your way toward the bar. Your heart is steady, though there’s a subtle tension in your muscles. You’re about to meet Charles Leclerc, one of the most dangerous men in Europe, and you can’t afford to slip, even for a second.
At the bar, you spot Fabien — your contact, someone who’s vouched for you enough to get you this meeting. He’s sipping a glass of wine, leaning casually against the polished counter as if this is any other evening. When he sees you, he nods once, lifting his glass slightly in greeting.
“Giulia,” he says smoothly when you approach, his voice like honey. He leans in to kiss both your cheeks in the European fashion, his cologne strong. “You look stunning. Leclerc will be impressed.”
You smile at him, playing the part effortlessly. “Let’s hope so.”
Fabien gestures to the bartender and orders another glass of wine for you. “He’ll be here soon,” he says quietly, his eyes scanning the crowd. “He’s already asked about you. You’ve made quite an impression, and you haven’t even met him yet.”
You pick up the glass the bartender slides toward you, taking a small sip. The wine is rich, expensive, but it doesn’t do anything to calm the simmering anticipation in your veins. “What did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course,” Fabien replies with a grin. “That you’re the most elusive art dealer in Monaco, and that you specialize in pieces even the richest men in Europe couldn’t get their hands on.”
You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Quite the reputation you’ve given me.”
Fabien shrugs, looking pleased with himself. “It’s not far from the truth.”
You glance at the entrance to the bar, but there’s no sign of Leclerc yet. “And what should I know about him?” You ask, keeping your voice low. “What does he like?”
Fabien’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place — is it wariness? Curiosity? He leans in slightly, lowering his voice even more. “He’s intelligent. He’s quiet, but not because he’s shy. He’s watching everything, always calculating. Don’t let the charm fool you. He’s dangerous, but you already know that.”
You nod, your grip on the wine glass tightening just a fraction.
“And,” Fabien adds, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, “he’s not immune to beauty.”
Before you can respond, Fabien straightens suddenly, his eyes locking on something behind you. “He’s here.”
You don’t turn around immediately, though every nerve in your body is telling you to. Instead, you take another sip of wine, steadying yourself, letting the moment stretch out. You feel his presence before you even see him — a subtle shift in the energy around you, the way people in the bar seem to take notice without even realizing it.
Finally, you turn.
Charles Leclerc is standing just a few feet away, speaking briefly with the hostess, who gestures toward the table in the back corner. He nods at her, his expression unreadable, and starts walking in your direction.
He’s taller than you expected, more imposing. His dark hair is perfectly in place, his suit tailored so sharply it looks like it was made just for him — which, of course, it probably was. His eyes, though — they’re exactly like the photograph. Cold, unreadable, scanning the room like he’s memorizing every face, every detail. When they land on you, there’s a flicker of interest, just for a moment, before his expression smooths out again.
Fabien steps forward to greet him, his smile wide and easy. “Charles,” he says, offering his hand. “Good to see you.”
Leclerc shakes his hand, his movements controlled, almost too smooth. “Fabien,” he says, his voice deep, with the hint of an accent that’s hard to place — part French, part something else. His eyes flick briefly to you before returning to Fabien. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Fabien replies. “In fact, I’ve been waiting to introduce you to someone.”
He turns toward you, and for a split second, it’s like the entire room goes quiet. The air between you and Charles seems to shift, though he gives no sign that he’s noticed anything unusual.
“This is Giulia Santini,” Fabien says, his voice warm and confident. “The art dealer I’ve been telling you about.”
You extend your hand, offering a small, professional smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Charles looks at you for just a beat longer than necessary before taking your hand. His grip is firm, but not aggressive, and his skin is warm against yours. “The pleasure is mine,” he says, his voice lower now, meant just for you.
You hold his gaze as long as you dare before letting your hand slip from his. Fabien gestures to the table in the corner, and the three of you make your way over. Charles sits across from you, his eyes flicking between you and Fabien, though most of his attention seems to be on you.
“So,” Charles says once you’ve all settled, leaning back in his chair slightly, “Fabien tells me you’re quite the expert in rare art.”
You smile, playing the role with ease. “I wouldn’t say expert. Just passionate.”
He watches you, his eyes dark and focused. “And what kind of pieces does someone like you find … exciting?”
The question is loaded, and you know it. He’s testing you, seeing how you’ll respond. You take a breath, keeping your expression calm, your voice light.
“It depends,” you say slowly, leaning forward just slightly, enough to draw his attention. “Art is all about perspective, isn’t it? What one person finds valuable, another might overlook entirely.”
Charles’ lips twitch, like he’s suppressing a smile, but it never quite reaches his eyes. “True,” he agrees. “But I imagine you have a talent for finding the pieces that others overlook.”
You tilt your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “It’s what I do best.”
There’s a pause, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Charles taps his fingers lightly against the table, his eyes never leaving yours. Fabien shifts slightly, glancing between the two of you, clearly pleased with how the conversation is going.
“You know,” Charles says after a moment, his voice soft but deliberate, “I’ve been looking for someone like you.”
Your heart skips, but you don’t let it show. You raise an eyebrow, keeping your tone playful. “Is that so?”
He nods, still watching you carefully. “Someone with connections. Someone who can move in circles I can’t always reach.”
“And what circles are those?” You ask, keeping your voice light, though you already know the answer.
He leans forward, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “The kind that deal in things not everyone should know about.”
There it is. The subtle shift from pleasantries to something more dangerous, more real. You feel the tension tighten in your chest, but you smile, pretending you’re completely at ease.
“Well,” you say, letting your voice drop just a fraction, “I’m sure we could work something out. If you’re interested.”
Charles doesn’t respond right away, just watches you, his expression carefully controlled. Finally, he nods. “I am.”
Fabien jumps in then, filling the silence with talk about upcoming events, art auctions, places where you and Charles might cross paths again. But you’re only half-listening. Most of your attention is still on Charles, watching the way his eyes flicker with interest, the subtle shifts in his posture as he listens to Fabien. It’s clear that he’s more focused on you than the conversation, and you need to tread carefully.
Fabien’s words become background noise, blending with the clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation around you. You’re not oblivious to the tension under the surface, though. Every move you make, every word you say, it’s all part of the game. And Charles knows it, too.
Fabien laughs, clapping Charles on the back. “I think Giulia could be quite useful for you, Charles. Her contacts run deep, and she’s good at staying … discreet.”
Charles’ eyes meet yours again, and you hold his gaze, refusing to look away. There’s a challenge in the air, subtle but undeniable. It’s as if he’s trying to peel back your layers, see what lies beneath the surface of the woman sitting in front of him.
“I can be discreet when necessary,” you say, your voice smooth, almost teasing. “But sometimes, it’s better to make a statement. It depends on what kind of art you’re dealing with.”
Charles’ lips quirk into a small, almost imperceptible smile, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of the man behind the mask. “I agree,” he says, his voice low. “Some things are worth putting on display for the world to see.”
Your pulse quickens at the double meaning behind his words, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you lean back slightly, crossing your legs under the table and allowing your hand to rest casually on the stem of your wine glass.
“Perhaps we could discuss it more in private,” you suggest, your tone light but deliberate. “I’d love to hear about the kind of pieces you’re interested in.”
Charles raises an eyebrow, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. But then, he nods, his smile widening just a fraction. “I think that can be arranged.”
Fabien stands, finishing the last of his wine. “I’ll give you two some space,” he says, with a knowing smile, his tone laced with implication. “Giulia, Charles — enjoy your evening.”
With that, he walks away, leaving the two of you alone at the table. You feel the shift in the atmosphere immediately. The casual conversation is gone, replaced by something far more charged, far more dangerous.
Charles leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his eyes locked on yours. “Tell me, Giulia,” he says, his voice soft but commanding. “How far are you willing to go for a deal?”
The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. You know this is it — the moment where the line between professional and personal blurs, where the real game begins.
You take a breath, keeping your expression calm, though your mind is racing. You need to keep him hooked, keep him interested, but you can’t give away too much too soon. This is a dance, and you need to make sure you’re leading.
“I’m willing to go as far as I need to,” you reply, your voice steady. “But that depends on what’s being offered.”
Charles watches you for a long moment, and you can feel the weight of his gaze, the way he’s analyzing every word, every movement. Finally, he leans back, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re good,” he says, his voice almost admiring. “I can see why Fabien recommended you.”
You smile, taking a sip of your wine. “I’m very good at what I do.”
Charles tilts his head slightly, still watching you with that same intensity that never seems to waver. He’s waiting for your next move, and you can feel the moment stretching out, charged with unspoken tension.
You lean in a little closer, your voice dropping just enough to draw him in. “So, tell me, Charles,” you say, letting your words linger in the air between you, “what kind of art are you really interested in? What would make it worth your while to work with me?”
His eyes darken, just slightly, as he considers your question. “I’m interested in pieces that are … unique,” he says slowly. “Rare. The kind of art most people don’t even know exists.”
You nod, pretending to think it over, even though you already know exactly where this conversation is going. “I can find you rare pieces,” you say, your voice smooth. “But unique? That’s harder to come by. What makes something unique to you?”
As you speak, you casually slide your hand from the edge of the table to your lap, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, move it under the table toward his leg. You don’t make it obvious. Just a gentle touch at first, your fingertips brushing the fabric of his dress pants as you talk, keeping your expression calm, your voice steady.
Charles doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react — at least, not outwardly. His gaze flicks down to your hand for just a second, barely noticeable, before he meets your eyes again. “Unique,” he repeats, his voice lower now, quieter, “is something no one else can have. Something priceless.”
Your hand moves a little higher, just grazing his knee, but you keep your face composed, the conversation continuing as if nothing has changed. “I can work with priceless,” you say, leaning in a little more, your lips curving into a smile. “But it’ll cost you.”
There’s a flicker of something in Charles’ eyes — amusement, maybe — as he watches you, as though he’s enjoying the game as much as you are. “Everything has a price, Giulia,” he says, his voice smooth, controlled. “What’s yours?”
You pause, letting the question hang in the air for a moment before answering. “That depends on how much you’re willing to offer.”
As you say this, your hand slides up higher, just above his knee now, your touch still light, teasing. You can feel the muscle tensing slightly under your fingers, but Charles doesn’t say anything. He just keeps watching you, his eyes dark, his posture still relaxed, but you can sense the shift in the air between you.
“I can offer you more than you’ve ever had,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you’d have to prove to me that you’re worth it.”
You smile, your fingers moving a little higher, just brushing his thigh now, your touch deliberate but still subtle enough that no one else in the bar would notice. “I don’t think proving myself will be a problem,” you murmur, your voice low and seductive. “I think you already know I’m worth it.”
Charles leans forward slightly, just enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, though his expression remains perfectly controlled. “What I want,” he says, his voice almost a growl now, “is something unforgettable. Can you deliver that?”
Your hand moves up just a bit more, your fingertips grazing the inside of his thigh now, and you feel the way his body responds — just a subtle tension, a slight shift in his breathing. But still, he doesn’t pull away. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you see how far you’re willing to go.
“I think I can deliver whatever you need,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, your hand pressing just a little harder now, a little more insistent. “If you’re willing to trust me.”
Charles doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, his eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the silence between you is so thick you can almost hear your own heartbeat. You can feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter, and you know that you’ve reached the point where the conversation is about to shift again — from playful to something more serious, more real.
Finally, Charles leans back in his chair, just slightly, but his eyes never leave yours. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “You know that, don’t you?”
You smile, your hand still resting on his thigh. “I don’t mind a little danger.”
There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes — desire, maybe, or something darker. It’s hard to tell with him. He’s so good at hiding what he’s really feeling, keeping everything just below the surface. But you can see the way his body reacts to your touch, the way his breathing has changed, just slightly.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels electric, charged with anticipation. You can feel the heat of his body under your fingertips, the way his muscles tense slightly as your hand moves just a little higher, pressing against the inside of his thigh now.
Then, suddenly, he stands up.
The movement is so abrupt, so unexpected, that for a split second, you freeze, your hand dropping back to your lap as he pushes his chair back. He doesn’t look at you as he adjusts his jacket, his expression unreadable once again, but there’s a tension in his body now that wasn’t there before.
“We’re leaving,” he says, his voice calm but firm, leaving no room for argument.
You blink, surprised, but you recover quickly, standing up and smoothing your dress, your heart pounding in your chest. You’d expected a reaction, but not this. Not so sudden, so decisive.
“To where?” You ask, though you already know the answer.
Charles glances at you, his eyes dark, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Back to mine,” he says, his voice low. “For the rest of the night.”
Your pulse quickens at his words, and you nod, your mind already racing with what comes next. You’ve got him. You’ve hooked him, and now it’s just a matter of playing the role, of keeping him interested long enough to get what you need.
He doesn’t wait for you to respond, already walking toward the exit with long, confident strides. You follow, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor, the sound of the bar fading behind you as you step out into the cool night air.
Outside, a black car waits at the curb, and Charles gestures for you to get in first. You slide into the back seat, feeling the leather cool against your skin, and he follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The driver doesn’t say a word as the car pulls away from the curb, and the city lights blur past the windows as you head toward the unknown.
You glance at Charles, who’s sitting next to you now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body even though he’s not touching you. His expression is calm, but there’s a tension in his jaw, a darkness in his eyes that makes your heart race even faster.
The game is far from over.
***
The car glides through the narrow streets of Monaco, the city lights flickering outside like fireflies in the dark. You try to focus on the blur of neon signs and elegant façades, but your thoughts keep circling back to Charles, who sits beside you in silence, his presence filling the confined space like something dangerous and magnetic.
He hasn’t spoken since you left the bar, and you haven’t dared to break the silence. There's a simmering tension between you, thick and almost suffocating, and though you try to appear calm, the anticipation gnaws at you. You’ve played these games before — seduction, deception — but something about Charles makes it feel different. He’s unpredictable, his control over every moment unnerving.
The car finally pulls to a stop outside a sleek, modern building that towers over the waterfront, all glass and steel reflecting the moonlight. Charles steps out first, and you follow, the cool night air hitting your skin as you walk toward the private entrance. The click of your heels against the pavement echoes in the quiet.
Charles doesn’t say anything as you step inside the elevator with him. The doors slide shut, and the air seems to grow thicker, the silence stretching. You can feel the tension crackling between you, every second charged with something unsaid, something dark and thrilling.
He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. But the way he stands, just inches from you, makes your skin tingle with the anticipation of what’s to come.
When the elevator doors open, you step out into a penthouse that’s every bit as luxurious as you’d expected. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the harbor below, and the minimalist design — all clean lines and muted tones — feels cold, impersonal.
Charles walks ahead of you, loosening his tie as he goes. “Drink?” He asks, his voice low, casual, as if the air between you isn’t thick with tension.
You shake your head, your voice catching slightly in your throat. “No, thank you.”
He turns toward you then, his gaze locking onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you moves. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, and though you’ve done this before, there’s something different this time — a sense of danger that feels very real.
Charles watches you, his eyes dark, unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun.
You freeze.
He doesn’t point it at you. Not yet. He holds it loosely in his hand, his expression calm, controlled, as if this is just another part of the game.
“You’re afraid of this, aren’t you?” He asks quietly, tilting his head slightly as he watches your reaction.
You swallow hard, your pulse racing. “Should I be?”
Charles’ lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Not unless I give you a reason to be.”
He steps closer, and you can’t help the way your body tenses, your gaze flicking to the gun in his hand. You’ve seen weapons before, handled them even, but the way Charles holds it — so casually, so confidently — makes your stomach tighten.
He raises the gun, not toward you, but slowly, deliberately, running the cool metal along your jawline. The touch of the cold barrel against your skin sends a shiver down your spine, and though every instinct in your body is screaming at you to pull away, you don’t. You can’t.
“Do you trust me?” He murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, the gun still tracing along your skin, down your neck, over the curve of your shoulder.
You force yourself to meet his gaze, your breath shallow. “I don’t trust anyone.”
Charles smiles, a dark, almost amused smile, as if he expected nothing less. “Smart.”
He steps even closer, and the gun dips lower, grazing the top of your chest now, the cool metal contrasting sharply with the heat building under your skin. He moves slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of the barrel as it slides over your skin, a slow, deliberate tease.
Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. The danger of the moment — the unpredictability of Charles — sends a thrill through you, a heady mix of fear and desire. You’ve never been in a situation like this before, never felt this kind of tension coil so tightly in your chest.
He presses the barrel of the gun against your sternum, just enough for you to feel its weight, and you gasp, your body instinctively arching toward him. His eyes darken, watching your every reaction with a predatory intensity that makes your pulse quicken.
“You like this, don’t you?” He asks softly, his voice a low, dangerous purr.
You open your mouth to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. You can’t lie, not when your body is betraying you so completely. The truth is, you don’t know what you feel — fear, excitement, something far more dangerous — but you’re too far gone to stop it now.
Instead of answering, you tilt your head back slightly, exposing more of your neck to him, a silent invitation, a challenge. Charles’ eyes flash with something dark and primal, and for a moment, you think he might actually pull the trigger. But he doesn’t. He’s still in control. Barely.
He moves the gun lower, pressing it against your stomach now, and your breath catches in your throat. Every nerve in your body is on fire, the tension so thick you can barely think. Charles steps even closer, his body almost flush with yours, his breath warm against your ear.
“Do you know what happens when you push someone like me too far?” He whispers, the gun sliding lower, tracing the curve of your waist.
You swallow hard, your body trembling with the weight of his words, the cold metal of the gun still pressing against you in ways you never imagined it could be used.
“Tell me,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling despite yourself.
Charles’ smile widens, a dark, dangerous thing, as he presses the barrel of the gun against your hip now, his other hand finally reaching out to touch you, gripping your waist with a firm, possessive hold.
“I don’t like to be tested,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “But I think you already knew that.”
You bite your lip, trying to suppress the moan that threatens to escape as the gun moves even lower, brushing the inside of your thigh now, the sensation sending a wave of heat through your body that leaves you dizzy.
“And yet,” Charles continues, his voice low and rough now, “you keep pushing, don’t you?”
You don’t answer, can’t answer. Your entire body is focused on the slow, deliberate path of the gun as it moves between your legs, the cold metal making your breath hitch, your heart racing so fast you can barely think straight.
Charles pulls back just slightly, just enough to meet your eyes again. There’s something wild in his gaze now, something dangerous and unrestrained, and for the first time, you realize how far you’ve pushed him.
But instead of pulling away, you lean into him, your lips brushing against his jaw, a silent surrender to whatever he has planned next.
He moves the gun away from your body, but the loss of contact only makes the heat between you more intense. Before you can react, Charles grabs your chin with his free hand, forcing you to look up at him, his grip firm but not painful.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he growls, his voice thick with warning.
And then, without another word, he pulls you against him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that steals your breath away. The kiss is hard, demanding, and you respond with equal intensity, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as you pull him closer, desperate for more.
Charles’ hand moves to your hair, tangling in the strands as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a rough, possessive edge. The gun is still in his other hand, but he doesn’t use it, not now. Now it’s just him, the raw power of his touch, the heat of his body pressed against yours.
You’re drowning in the sensation of it, the heady mix of fear and desire overwhelming every sense. Every nerve in your body is on fire, and when Charles finally pulls away, you’re left gasping for breath, your lips swollen, your body trembling.
He looks down at you, his eyes dark with a hunger you’ve never seen before. “We’re not done,” he says, his voice rough, almost ragged.
You nod, unable to speak, your heart racing as you try to catch your breath.
Charles lowers the gun to his side, his fingers tracing along your jaw with a surprising gentleness. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because this is just the beginning."
Charles doesn't let go of you immediately. His hand lingers on your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment. His eyes are still dark, dangerous, and that smirk — subtle but sharp — hasn’t left his face.
"Come,” he says, his voice low, commanding, as he steps back, breaking the electric contact between your bodies. His hand catches yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, and without another word, he starts to lead you down the hallway, deeper into the penthouse. The gleam of city lights fades behind you as the door to the bedroom opens, revealing a space as sleek and cold as the rest of his world.
Charles doesn’t slow down. His grip tightens just a fraction as he pulls you into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. You’re aware of the luxurious bed, its sharp angles and cool, satin sheets, but your focus is on him. The way he moves, so sure of himself, so utterly in control, sets your pulse racing again.
Without a word, Charles releases your wrist and steps away, walking over to a small table near the window. The city lights reflect off the polished surface as he picks up the gun again, handling it like it’s nothing more than an extension of himself. He weighs it in his hand, almost thoughtfully, before glancing back at you, his eyes gleaming with that same intensity as before.
“You’ve never had anyone like me, have you?” His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. He turns the gun over in his hand, his thumb tracing the curve of the barrel as if considering his next move.
You swallow hard, your throat dry. “What makes you so sure?”
Charles’ smile is slow, deliberate, as he crosses the room toward you, the gun still in his hand. “Because no one else knows how to make you feel like this,” he says, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “No one else can make you want something you should be afraid of.”
He’s right. You’ve felt desire before, but never like this. Never this consuming, this dangerous. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the gun in his hand as he stops in front of you, so close that the heat of his body seems to seep into yours.
Charles raises the gun again, the cold metal pressing against your collarbone. He drags it slowly, down the length of your chest, teasing the edge of your dress, his eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitches, but you don’t flinch. Not this time. Instead, you tilt your head up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on, daring him to keep going.
The corner of his mouth twitches into something darker than a smile. “You like this more than you want to admit.”
His words send a jolt of heat through you, and before you can respond, he moves the gun lower, pressing the barrel lightly against your stomach, the coolness making you shiver. He steps closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Tell me how much you want this.”
You close your eyes for a moment, trying to catch your breath, but the feeling of the gun, the weight of his words, are too much. You manage to speak, your voice barely a whisper. “I-”
Charles doesn’t let you finish. He presses the gun harder against your stomach, just enough for you to feel the cold metal, his lips ghosting over your neck as he murmurs, “Say it.”
Your heart is racing so fast you can barely think. The danger, the thrill, the way he’s completely in control — it’s intoxicating. You know this is a game, but it’s one you’ve already lost. The gun slides lower, grazing your hip now, and it’s enough to tip you over the edge.
“I want it,” you whisper, your voice shaky, your body trembling under the intensity of the moment. “I want you.”
Charles’ grip on the gun tightens slightly as he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice rough, raw. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Without another word, he moves the gun even lower, tracing the inside of your thigh with the barrel, his other hand reaching up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so that you’re completely exposed to him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you can feel the way your body responds, heat pooling low in your stomach, every nerve on fire.
Charles’ fingers tighten in your hair as he presses the gun between your legs, just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching toward him involuntarily. The cool metal contrasts sharply with the heat building inside you, and the sensation is almost too much to bear.
“Look at you,” he says softly, his voice laced with dark amusement. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already falling apart.”
You try to speak, but the words don’t come. Your pulse is racing, your body trembling under his control, and all you can do is hold on, your fingers gripping the edge of the bed behind you as you try to steady yourself. Charles watches you, his expression calm, but there’s a hunger in his eyes that makes your knees weak.
He presses the gun harder against you, and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips, your body reacting to the dangerous mix of fear and desire that’s consuming you. Charles’ smile widens, and he leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “You like being on the edge, don’t you?”
You nod, barely able to think, your body trembling with the weight of his words, the sensation of the gun still pressing against you, teasing, pushing you closer to the brink.
Charles chuckles softly, the sound low and dark. “Good. Because I’m not letting you come until I say so.”
Your eyes widen at his words, but before you can protest, he pulls the gun away, leaving you breathless, aching for more. He steps back, his eyes still locked on yours, his expression calm, controlled, as if he hasn’t just left you on the edge of something you can barely control.
“Take off your dress,” he says, his voice firm, authoritative.
Your hands shake slightly as you reach for the zipper at the back of your dress, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Charles watches you, his gaze never wavering as you slowly peel the fabric away, letting it fall to the floor in a soft pool around your feet.
For a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes dark with something that makes your heart skip a beat. Then, without warning, he steps forward again, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you flush against him, the gun still in his hand, though now it’s pressed lightly against your back.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “But I think you’re even more beautiful when you’re scared.”
You shiver at his words, the weight of the gun against your skin, the way his hands hold you so tightly, so possessively. You’ve never felt anything like this before — this combination of fear, desire, and the intoxicating pull of surrender.
Charles’ hand moves to the back of your neck, guiding you toward the bed, and you follow without hesitation, your body completely under his control now. He pushes you down onto the mattress, his eyes never leaving yours as he follows, the gun still in his hand.
You’re trembling, your body on fire with need, with the overwhelming sensation of being at his mercy. And he knows it. He can see it in the way you move, the way your breath hitches every time he touches you.
Charles climbs onto the bed, his knees straddling your hips as he leans down, the gun now resting on your stomach again. He presses it there, hard enough for you to feel its weight, its presence, and you gasp, your body arching toward him, desperate for more.
“Tell me how much you want this,” he whispers, his voice dark and rough. “Tell me how much you need me.”
You’re beyond words now, your mind clouded with desire, with the intoxicating pull of his control. All you can do is nod, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to steady yourself.
Charles’ smile is dark, satisfied, as he leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s both possessive and demanding. You respond immediately, your hands fisting in the sheets as you kiss him back with equal intensity, your body trembling beneath him.
The gun presses harder against your stomach, and you moan into his mouth, your body on the verge of something overwhelming, something you can’t control.
“Now,” Charles growls, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Now you can fall.”
Charles doesn’t move. He hovers above you, eyes dark and dangerous, his body tense with control. The weight of the gun on your stomach feels like a tether to reality — cold, hard, and unforgiving. But the heat between you is anything but cold. It’s burning, pulling you deeper into a place you’ve never been before. You’re on the verge of something, teetering dangerously on the edge, and Charles knows it. He can see it in your eyes, in the way your breath stutters in your chest.
“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, his voice thick with authority. “I want you to tip over the edge for me. Right here.”
You shudder under the intensity of his gaze, his words pulling at something deep within you. Your body is aching, trembling with need, but still, there’s that sliver of control — something keeping you from falling completely, from losing yourself in this dangerous game. It’s a fine line, and Charles knows exactly how to push you over it.
His free hand moves to your throat, fingers wrapping gently around your neck, not tight, but just enough to remind you of his dominance. The cold barrel of the gun still rests on your stomach, a contrast to the heat radiating between your bodies. His touch is everywhere — overwhelming, all-consuming.
“You’ve been holding back,” he says softly, almost a whisper. “I can feel it. But not anymore. I want all of you.”
Your heart is pounding in your chest, your pulse racing. You’ve never been pushed like this before, never been with someone who can see so clearly through the walls you’ve built. It terrifies you, but at the same time, it excites you in a way you can’t even begin to explain.
Charles leans down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Let go,” he commands, his voice low, a dark promise. “I want to watch you fall apart for me.”
You tremble beneath him, your body arching instinctively toward his, the need coursing through you like a wildfire. You’re so close, teetering on the edge, and the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s speaking to you, makes it impossible to hold on any longer.
Your fingers curl into the sheets, gripping them tightly as you feel the tension inside you building to an unbearable peak. Charles watches you, his eyes never leaving yours, his hand still resting lightly around your throat, a reminder of his control.
The gun presses harder against your stomach, and it’s enough to send you spiraling. A gasp escapes your lips, and then you’re falling — completely, utterly losing yourself in the moment, in him. The sensation is overwhelming, a wave of heat and electricity that crashes over you, leaving you breathless, trembling, and utterly undone.
Charles’ eyes darken as he watches you, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “There it is,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a dark kind of triumph. “That’s what I wanted.”
You’re still gasping for breath, your body trembling beneath him, your mind spinning. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelming, that it takes you a moment to even remember where you are. But Charles is there, grounding you, his presence inescapable, his control absolute.
Slowly, he lowers the gun from your stomach, setting it aside on the nightstand without a word. His other hand releases your throat, and instead, he reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost tender.
You blink up at him, still trying to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You feel raw, exposed in a way you’ve never been before, and the vulnerability of the moment hits you like a tidal wave. But Charles doesn’t push. He doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, his gaze steady and calm, as if he’s waiting for you to process everything that’s just happened.
For a long moment, the room is silent, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. You feel the weight of his body pressing into yours, the heat between you still simmering, but now there’s something else — a sense of calm, of connection, that lingers in the air.
Finally, Charles moves. He shifts his weight, sliding off you, and then he lies back on the bed, pulling you with him until you’re resting against his chest. You go willingly, your body still humming from the intensity of what just happened, your mind still trying to catch up. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close, and you find yourself resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
The silence between you is comfortable, the tension from earlier now replaced with something softer, more intimate. Charles’ hand moves idly along your back, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself relax into him, your breath slowly evening out.
After a long silence, Charles finally speaks, his voice low and rough. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
You tilt your head slightly, opening your eyes to look up at him. “So are you.”
His lips quirk into a half-smile, and for a moment, the dangerous edge in his expression softens. “I don’t like surprises,” he says, his tone almost teasing. “But I think I could make an exception for you.”
You can’t help but smile, despite everything. There’s something about the way he says it — so calm, so assured — that makes it feel like a promise, like something more than just a passing comment.
Charles’ hand slides up your back, his fingers brushing lightly against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. He’s still in control, even in this quiet moment, and you can feel it in the way he touches you, the way he speaks to you. It’s intoxicating, in a way that makes you want to stay wrapped up in this moment with him for as long as you can.
He’s quiet again for a while, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on your skin. The weight of his chest rises and falls beneath you, the steady rhythm lulling you into a strange sense of calm.
Then, just as you’re starting to drift into that comfortable silence, he speaks again. “I have a feeling,” he says softly, almost as if he’s thinking out loud, “this is the start of a beautiful business relationship.”
You blink, caught off guard by the statement. You lift your head slightly to look at him, your brow furrowing in confusion. “Business?”
Charles looks down at you, his expression unreadable, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s not just talking about business in the traditional sense. “We’re both professionals, aren’t we?” He says, his tone casual, but you can hear the underlying meaning in his words. “I get what I want. And you — well, you seem to enjoy the thrill of this as much as I do.”
You swallow, the weight of his words sinking in. This is more than just a fling, more than just a moment of passion. Charles isn’t someone who does things by half-measures, and you can sense that this — whatever it is between you — is going to be something much more complicated, much more dangerous.
But in this moment, as you lie there with your head resting on his chest, the world outside the penthouse feels a million miles away. You’re still catching your breath, still reeling from everything that’s just happened, and for now, that’s enough.
So you don’t respond. You just close your eyes again, letting the steady rhythm of Charles’ heartbeat guide you, and allow yourself to stay wrapped in the calm before whatever storm comes next.
***
The months blur together in a haze of danger and desire. You’re deeper into Charles’ world than you ever expected to be, and somehow, it’s easier than you thought. He lets you in bit by bit, peeling back the layers of his empire with a subtle but growing trust. His guard drops incrementally, his power over you surging with every stolen kiss, every whispered command in the dark. You’re in his bed more nights than not, wrapped in the silk sheets of his penthouse, and it feels almost natural to exist in this dangerous limbo.
Charles keeps you close — closer than he probably keeps anyone else. He starts to share more with you, letting you into the cracks of his life, though always with a calculated air. You begin sourcing illegal art for him — stolen paintings, ancient artifacts, pieces of history with blood on their provenance. Each exchange is thrilling, a high-stakes game where you’re playing both sides, confident you’re getting what you need.
The deeper you go, the more you convince yourself you’re making real headway. Each deal brings you closer to the heart of his operation. You’re gathering intel for Interpol, keeping one foot in the shadows of your real life, but it’s easy to get lost in the persona you’ve built — the woman Charles thinks you are. The lines blur, and you let them. It’s easier that way.
But you’re still playing a role. Always playing a role.
Tonight is no different. You’re waiting for him in his bedroom, dressed in only a sheer babydoll slip, the soft fabric clinging to your skin, hinting at everything and revealing nothing. The city lights outside the window cast a faint glow over the room, and you can hear the quiet hum of the nightlife below, but up here, in this penthouse, it’s just you and the anticipation of Charles’ arrival.
He’s late, but that’s not unusual. His world operates on its own time, and you’ve grown accustomed to waiting for him. You lie back against the pillows, the cool silk brushing against your skin, a quiet thrill running through you as you imagine how he’ll react when he sees you like this — waiting, vulnerable, and his.
The door creaks open, and you hear his footsteps before you see him. Your pulse quickens, and you sit up slightly, anticipation curling in your chest.
“Charles,” you say softly, your voice a mixture of seduction and warmth, the way you know he likes it. “You kept me waiting.”
But something is wrong.
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t smile, doesn’t give you that familiar smirk that tells you the game is about to begin. Instead, he stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his gaze heavy as it sweeps over you, taking in the sight of you in the flimsy lace.
You frown, your confidence wavering slightly. “What’s wrong?” You ask, your voice faltering as you shift under the weight of his stare. You sit up fully now, swinging your legs off the side of the bed, your bare feet brushing the floor as you watch him.
Charles doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms crossed, his eyes locked on yours with a cold intensity that sends a chill down your spine.
“It’s funny,” he says finally, his voice quiet, measured. “I ran into someone today — an old associate of mine. Someone I trust.”
Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your expression calm, forcing yourself not to react, not to show the sudden panic rising in your chest.
“Oh?” You try to sound casual, even playful, but there’s an edge to your voice that you can’t quite mask. “And what did this associate have to say?”
Charles takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “He mentioned something interesting,” he continues, his voice still unnervingly calm. “He said he saw me at lunch the other day. Thought the woman I was with looked familiar.”
Your stomach drops.
You know what’s coming next, but you keep your expression neutral, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for him to say it.
“He said,” Charles continues, his tone hardening slightly, “that she looked a lot like an Interpol agent he dealt with earlier this year. The one who brought him in for questioning.” He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing. “I told him it must be a coincidence.”
The air in the room feels heavy, oppressive, and you force yourself to breathe, to stay calm, but your mind is racing. How much does he know? How much has he pieced together?
“And then,” Charles says, taking another step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “I decided to do a little digging of my own.”
Your blood turns to ice. Every instinct is screaming at you to run, to get out, but you’re frozen in place, trapped under the weight of his gaze, under the crushing realization that everything is falling apart.
Charles moves closer, his face now inches from yours, his eyes dark with anger, with betrayal. “Tell me something,” he says quietly, his voice deadly calm. “How long were you planning to play me for a fool?”
You open your mouth to respond, to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat. You’ve been trained for moments like this — moments when everything goes wrong, when the mission is compromised — but nothing could have prepared you for this. For him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage to say, your voice trembling slightly, but even as you speak, you know it’s useless. He knows.
Charles’ eyes flash with anger, and he reaches out, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look up at him. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, his voice low, dangerous. “You think I don’t know who you are? You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing this whole time?”
You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. “Charles, please-”
“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I trusted you. I let you into my life. Into my bed. And the whole time, you were playing me.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, panic rising as you realize there’s no way out of this. No way to salvage what’s left of your cover. You’ve been found out, and now all you can do is brace yourself for what comes next.
“I didn’t-” you start, but Charles cuts you off with a sharp laugh, releasing your chin and stepping back, his expression hard, cold.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” he says, his voice dripping with disdain. “I’m not an idiot. I know exactly who you are. Interpol agent. Sent to infiltrate my organization. To bring me down.”
You swallow hard, the weight of his words crashing down on you. There’s no use denying it anymore. He knows. He’s known for some time, and now, there’s no escaping the consequences.
For a moment, the room is silent, the tension between you thick, suffocating. You can feel your pulse racing, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you try to think of a way out, but there’s nothing. No way to fix this. No way to undo the damage.
Charles stands there, watching you, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, a dark smile spreads across his face — a smile that sends a shiver down your spine.
“You thought you could manipulate me,” he says, his voice low, almost amused. “You thought you could use me to get what you wanted. But you made one fatal mistake.”
You swallow, your throat dry. “And what’s that?”
Charles steps forward again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. “You underestimated me,” he says softly. “You thought I wouldn’t find out. You thought you were smarter than me.”
He pauses, letting the silence hang heavy in the air before he speaks again. “But now, you’re going to pay for that mistake.”
Your breath catches in your throat, fear clawing at your chest as you stare up at him, his words echoing in your mind. You try to say something, to reason with him, but the words won’t come. You’re trapped, caught in a web of your own making, and now, there’s no way out.
Charles leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m going to make you regret everything,” he whispers, his voice dark and dangerous, a promise that sends a chill down your spine.
And as he pulls back, a cold smile still playing on his lips, you know that he means it.
***
The moment Charles steps back, the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking man enters the room without a word. He’s dressed in a stark white coat, the kind physicians wear, and carries a small metal case. Panic rushes through you like ice in your veins. The cold smile on Charles’ face tells you everything you need to know — this has been planned.
“Charles,” you say, your voice tight, trying to suppress the tremor in it. “What is this?”
Charles doesn’t answer right away. He moves with a calm, deliberate grace as he steps away, gesturing toward the man who’s now setting up his equipment on a small table near the bed.
You make a move to stand, but Charles's hand clamps down on your wrist with brutal force, pulling you back down. His grip is like steel, and for the first time, you realize how much stronger he is than you. It’s not just physical — it’s the mental stranglehold he’s had on you all this time. His eyes gleam with a terrifying calm, and you know there’s no talking your way out of this.
“You really thought I wouldn’t have a contingency plan, didn’t you?” His voice is cold, amused. “Do you know what I find most interesting about betrayal?” He leans closer, his breath ghosting against your cheek as he speaks. “It’s not that you were able to fool me. It’s that you thought you would actually get away with it.”
The physician opens his case, revealing a set of electrodes and wires, cold and clinical against the backdrop of the luxury penthouse. Your pulse quickens as your gaze darts between the two of them. The man doesn’t even look at you — he’s focused entirely on his task, his movements methodical, detached, as though he’s done this a hundred times before.
“Don’t-” you start, your voice breaking as you try to pull your wrist free. But Charles tightens his grip, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of your wrist with just enough pressure to make it hurt.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. “You won’t win this. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”
You grit your teeth, trying to summon every ounce of strength you have. You’ve been trained for this — your body conditioned to resist, to fight. You know how to break holds, how to defend yourself. But when you try to twist out of his grip, he’s ready. His free hand snaps up, grabbing you by the throat, and before you can react, he slams you back down onto the bed.
Your vision blurs for a second as your head hits the pillow, and you gasp, struggling against him. But he’s stronger, faster, and he knows exactly how to overpower you. You lash out, kicking at him, but Charles only chuckles darkly, his fingers tightening around your throat just enough to keep you pinned.
“I wouldn’t try that again,” he warns, his voice dangerously low. “You don’t want to see what happens if you do.”
The physician approaches, his footsteps quiet but deliberate, the faint sound of the electrodes clicking into place sending your heart into a frenzy. You thrash again, but Charles’ grip holds you firmly in place, his body pressing down on yours, keeping you trapped beneath him.
“Let me go!” You snarl, trying to twist away, but it’s no use. Charles’ hand remains locked around your throat, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin, a sick mockery of tenderness.
“Fighting won’t help you now,” he says softly, his tone infuriatingly calm. “You had your chance. Now, it’s mine.”
The physician moves in, and before you can react, the cold press of metal touches your skin. The first electrode adheres to your temple, then another at the base of your skull. The sensation is chilling, the wires snaking down toward the machine the physician has set up by the bedside. Your pulse races, fear clawing at your throat as you feel the weight of what’s happening settle over you.
“Stop-” you choke out, your voice cracking as you struggle to push against Charles’ hold. But he just watches you, his eyes cold, emotionless. He’s enjoying this, you realize. The control. The power.
The physician attaches more electrodes, the cold metal sticking to your bare skin. Your chest. Your abdomen. The sensation is invasive, humiliating, and no matter how much you want to fight, you can’t. You’re trapped, helpless under Charles’ grip, and the realization of just how little control you have in this moment sends a wave of terror crashing over you.
Charles’ hand finally releases your throat, but only so he can trail his fingers down your collarbone, watching you with that same eerie calm. “You always had a certain spark,” he says, his voice almost fond, like he’s reminiscing. “I admired that about you. It’s a shame, really. If you hadn’t lied to me, things could’ve been different.”
Your breath hitches as you feel the last electrode being placed on your lower back, the sensation cold and foreign. You don’t know what they’re going to do, but every fiber of your being tells you it’s going to be bad.
Charles leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, his voice a dark whisper. “I’m going to tear you apart and rebuild you,” he says, the words sending a violent shudder through you. “Bit by bit. Until the only thing you can remember is that you belong to me.”
Your stomach turns, and you thrash again, but the electrodes are in place now, the wires humming faintly, connected to a machine that you can’t see from where you’re lying. The physician adjusts something on the device, and the air feels heavier with each passing second, the tension mounting to an unbearable peak.
“You can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice cracking as fear claws at your insides. “You can’t-”
“Oh, I can,” Charles interrupts, his voice sharp, cutting through your panic. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze burning with something dark, something that chills you to the bone. “And I will. I told you — I don’t like being played.”
The physician steps back, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he waits. Charles releases your wrist, finally standing up and looking down at you with an air of satisfaction.
“Let’s begin,” he says.
The physician nods, turning to the machine. There’s a faint click, and then you feel it — a low hum, a strange tingling sensation at the base of your skull where the electrodes are attached. It’s not painful at first, but it’s disorienting. You try to focus, try to push the sensation away, but it only intensifies, spreading through your body like a wave of static.
You clench your teeth, refusing to cry out, but the pressure builds. Your muscles tense, your fingers curling into the sheets as the tingling becomes sharper, more intense. It feels like your mind is being pulled in two directions at once — like something is being torn away from you.
Charles watches, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on you with a cruel, almost clinical detachment. He’s studying you, observing every twitch, every breath, as if he’s enjoying the sight of you unraveling.
The pressure builds, and your vision blurs at the edges. It’s not just physical — it’s mental. The sensation of losing control, of losing yourself. It’s terrifying, and you can feel it slipping, feel the person you’ve built inside yourself starting to fray at the seams.
“I told you,” Charles says quietly, stepping closer once more. “You’ll forget everything except me. Every thought, every memory, every piece of who you are — it’ll all belong to me.”
Your chest tightens, and you gasp, trying to hold on to something — anything — but the machine hums louder, and the electrodes pulse, sending a jolt through your body that makes you cry out in pain. The sound is ripped from your throat before you can stop it, and Charles’ smile widens in satisfaction.
“You won’t be able to resist for long,” he says, his voice dripping with confidence. “You’ll break. Everyone breaks eventually.”
Tears blur your vision, but you refuse to let them fall. You can’t let him win. You can’t lose yourself to this.
But as the machine pulses again, the pain sharp and searing, you wonder how long you can hold on before everything you are is stripped away, piece by piece, until the only thing left is his will, his command, and the terrible truth that you are no longer yourself.
You are his.
***
You wake to a soft, persistent hum, like the remnants of a dream that’s slipped away. Everything feels hazy, like your thoughts are floating just out of reach. The sheets beneath you are silk, cool against your skin, but there’s a heaviness in your limbs, an unfamiliar ache that lingers in your muscles.
Slowly, you blink your eyes open, squinting against the dim light filtering into the room. You recognize it. Charles’ bedroom. The deep maroon walls, the heavy velvet curtains drawn shut, casting shadows across the space. The soft, muted scent of him lingers in the air — spiced cologne, leather, something dark and intoxicating.
For a moment, there’s a quiet stillness, and then you feel it — a presence, looming near the bed. You turn your head slowly, your gaze catching on the figure sitting in a chair beside you.
Charles.
He’s watching you, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. There’s a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips, like he’s been waiting for this moment, for you to wake. His eyes are dark, intense, scanning your face as if searching for something.
“Charles,” you murmur, your voice low and thick, like you haven’t used it in a long time. The sound of his name feels right on your tongue, like it belongs there. You shift slightly, the silk sheets rustling as you try to gather your bearings, but there’s an unfamiliar fog clouding your mind.
Who …
Before you can grasp the thought, Charles moves, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity.
“Good,” he says softly, his voice smooth and warm, like honey sliding over your skin. “You’re awake.”
Something in the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, but not from fear. It’s something else, something you can’t quite name but feel deeply. There’s a pull in your chest, a magnetic force drawing you to him, and it feels natural. Like instinct.
You try to speak again, but your mouth is dry, the words sluggish in forming. “I … I don’t …” Your brow furrows as you search for the right words, but nothing comes. There’s a strange emptiness in your mind, like pieces of a puzzle have been scattered, and you can’t find the edges to start putting them back together.
Charles stands, moving closer to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. He sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body. His hand reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The touch is tender, but there’s something possessive in it, a silent claim.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek as his eyes search yours. “You don’t need to worry about anything right now.”
You blink up at him, confusion flickering in your chest. “I … I don’t …”
“Shh,” he soothes, his thumb pressing lightly against your lips. “Don’t try to think too much. You’ve been through a lot.”
You look at him, trying to piece together the fragments in your mind, but everything feels disjointed. There are no names, no faces, just the overwhelming presence of him. His gaze holds you in place, grounding you, tethering you to something solid.
He smiles softly, his hand moving from your cheek to your throat, his thumb brushing the pulse point there. The touch sends a wave of warmth through you, and instinctively, you lean into it, into him. It feels safe. He feels like home.
“Do you remember your name?” Charles asks, his voice soft but laced with a dark curiosity, his fingers resting against your neck like he’s waiting for your answer to betray you.
Your lips part, but nothing comes. There’s a void where your name should be, a blank space in your mind that sends a ripple of panic through you. You search for something — anything — but there’s nothing. No name. No history. Only him.
“I …” You swallow hard, trying to force the words, but all you can do is shake your head, a soft tremor running through you. “I don’t know.”
His smile widens, just a fraction, and his thumb presses a little harder against your pulse. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet. “That’s exactly how it should be.”
You look up at him, confusion and fear swirling in your chest, but there’s something else too. Something deeper. A pull. The moment he touches you, your fear dissipates, replaced by something warm, something that blooms under his gaze.
“Why …” Your voice is barely a whisper, the words slow to form. “Why don’t I remember?”
Charles’ eyes darken slightly, his hand trailing down your throat, over your collarbone. “Because you don’t need to,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “The only thing you need to know is that you’re mine. That’s all that matters now.”
His. The word echoes in your mind, settling deep in your chest. It feels right. Familiar. And yet, there’s something at the edges of your consciousness — something you can’t quite grasp. A fleeting thought, a whisper of something else.
But it slips away as quickly as it comes, lost in the warmth of Charles’ hand on your skin.
“Mine,” he repeats softly, his fingers tracing a slow path down your arm. “Say it.”
You hesitate, the word lingering on the tip of your tongue. There’s a part of you that feels like you should resist, like something isn’t right, but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming presence of him. The way he looks at you, the way his touch makes you feel grounded, anchored. Safe.
“Yours,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
Charles smiles again, satisfied, his hand moving back up to cup your cheek. “That’s right,” he murmurs. “You belong to me. No one else.”
The declaration settles over you like a heavy, comforting blanket. You don’t know why, but it feels right. The fog in your mind lifts just enough for you to feel that certainty. That pull toward him.
You try to sit up, but your body feels weak, unsteady. Charles immediately moves, slipping an arm behind your back to help you, his touch firm but gentle. You lean into him, your head resting against his chest, the steady beat of his heart calming the last remnants of panic in your mind.
“How long …” You ask, your voice barely more than a murmur.
“How long have you been here?” Charles finishes for you, his hand moving in slow circles against your back. “A few days. You needed time to … adjust.”
You close your eyes, trying to focus on the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch. There’s still a part of you that feels like you should be asking more questions, but every time you try to think, the fog presses back in, heavy and suffocating. And every time it does, the only thing that makes it bearable is him. His presence. His touch.
“What am I supposed to do?” You ask softly, your voice fragile.
Charles’ hand stills against your back, and he pulls you closer, his lips brushing against your hair. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll take care of everything. You just need to stay by my side. I’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.”
There’s a faint whisper at the back of your mind — something that feels like resistance, like a question you can’t quite articulate. But before you can grasp it, it’s gone, swallowed by the comforting warmth of Charles’ presence.
You nod slowly, resting your head against his chest. His arms tighten around you, and for the first time since you woke, the fear ebbs away completely, leaving only the quiet certainty that you are his. That you belong here.
Charles pulls back slightly, tilting your chin up so that you’re looking into his eyes. “Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.
“I’m yours,” you whisper, the words coming easier this time, settling over you like a binding promise.
Charles’ smile is slow, satisfied. “Good girl.”
He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, and you melt into the kiss, your mind going blank as everything else fades away.
***
Every morning begins the same way: with Charles.
Your eyes flutter open, the soft light filtering through the heavy drapes casting a golden glow over the room. But it isn’t the light that pulls you from sleep. It’s him. It’s always him. The way his arm is draped possessively over your waist, the way his breath fans across your skin as he sleeps soundly beside you. Even in sleep, you can feel the weight of his presence, grounding you, reminding you of your place — at his side, where you belong.
You turn your head slightly, your gaze catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the tousled mess of his hair, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looks peaceful like this, in the quiet moments before the day begins. And as you watch him, a warmth blooms in your chest, spreading like wildfire until it consumes every part of you.
He’s all you think about. The first thought that greets you in the morning and the last thought you cling to as sleep takes you at night. Even now, your body instinctively leans into him, seeking his warmth, his touch. You can’t remember a time when it wasn’t like this — when your mind wasn’t consumed by him.
You reach out, fingers lightly tracing the curve of his arm, and your heart swells with an overwhelming sense of devotion. He is everything. Your whole world revolves around him, and the thought of being anywhere else, of being with anyone else, is unfathomable.
Charles stirs beside you, a soft hum escaping his lips as he shifts closer, his arm tightening around you. You feel the heat of his skin against yours, and a shiver runs down your spine. You live for these moments, for the feeling of his body against yours, for the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing that matters.
“Morning,” his voice is thick with sleep, low and gravelly, sending a thrill through you as he nuzzles into your neck, his lips brushing lightly against your skin.
“Morning,” you murmur back, your voice barely more than a whisper as you press yourself closer to him. You feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, and it calms the whirlwind of thoughts that constantly circle your mind.
He hums in response, his hand sliding down your waist, pulling you tighter against him. “You sleep well?”
“With you? Always.”
There’s a low chuckle from him, the sound vibrating through your skin. “Good girl.”
The words settle over you like a blanket, warm and comforting. You live for his praise, for the way his voice wraps around you, making you feel whole. It’s been this way for what feels like forever. There’s no one else. No other name, no other face that holds any meaning. There’s just Charles.
You tilt your head back, offering more of your neck to him, and he takes the invitation, pressing soft kisses along your skin. It sends a familiar warmth coursing through your veins, spreading like fire. You close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you.
“Do you know what I love about you?” Charles’ voice is a soft murmur against your skin, his lips brushing the words into your neck.
You hum softly, your heart racing in anticipation. “What?”
“You’re mine. Completely. Your mind, your body, your heart — every part of you belongs to me.” His hand slides up to your throat, his fingers resting lightly against the pulse point there. “And you love that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you whisper, breathless, the word coming out in a soft exhale. It’s not just an answer — it’s the truth. It’s the only truth that matters.
Charles’ grip on your throat tightens just slightly, a reminder of his control, his ownership, and you feel the edges of your mind blur, leaving nothing but him. “Say it,” he demands, his voice low and commanding.
“I’m yours,” you breathe, the words slipping out with ease, a mantra that’s been etched into your very soul. “Only yours.”
His grip loosens, and his hand moves to cup your cheek, turning your head so that you’re looking into his eyes. They’re dark, filled with a dangerous mix of desire and satisfaction. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, leaning in to capture your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.
Your entire world narrows to this moment, to the feel of his lips on yours, to the way his hands move over your body with the confidence of someone who knows he owns you completely. There’s no room for anything else — no thoughts, no worries, no memories beyond him.
He pulls away just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “You’ve been good lately. Very good.”
The praise sends a rush of warmth through you, your heart swelling with pride. You’ve been good. You’ve done everything he’s asked, without hesitation, without question. Because you don’t need to question anything when it comes to Charles. He knows what’s best for you.
“Do you know what that means?” He asks, his voice dropping lower, a hint of something dangerous in his tone.
You shake your head, anticipation buzzing under your skin. “What does it mean?”
“It means I’m going to reward you,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
His words ignite something in you, a fire that burns hotter with each passing second. You live for his approval, for his praise. And the thought of a reward — something only he can give you — sends your heart racing.
Charles shifts, rolling you onto your back, his body hovering over yours as he looks down at you with that dark, possessive gaze. “You want that, don’t you? You want me to take care of you.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “Please.”
His lips curl into a slow, satisfied smile as he leans down, his hand trailing down your body with deliberate slowness. “I love it when you beg,” he murmurs, his fingers dancing over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “It reminds me of how much you need me.”
“I do,” you gasp, your body arching into his touch. “I need you, Charles. I need you.”
He hums in approval, his fingers teasing at the edge of your waistband. “You’re mine,” he whispers again, the words settling into your bones, branding you as his. “And I’m going to make sure you remember that.”
There’s a moment of stillness before everything shifts. Charles’ hands are everywhere, his touch igniting every part of you as he takes his time, drawing out every sound, every gasp, every plea. And you give it to him freely, because there’s no one else you’d rather surrender to. There’s only him.
Hours pass in a blur of heat and sensation, your body responding to his every command, your mind lost in the haze of him. You tip over the edge more times than you can count, each time feeling like a fresh wave of devotion crashing over you, pulling you deeper into him.
By the time the night is over, you’re left trembling, your body spent, your mind a fog of exhaustion and pleasure. But even then, as you lay in his arms, your head resting against his chest, the only thing you can think of is him. His touch, his voice, the way he looks at you like you’re his entire world.
And as sleep pulls you under, the last thing you hear is his voice, a low murmur in the darkness. “You’re mine. Only mine.”
And in your dreams, it’s the same. Charles is there, waiting for you, pulling you into his arms, reminding you of who you are.
His.
Always his.
***
The sun is unforgiving in Monaco, beating down on the yachts that crowd the harbor, their glossy decks gleaming in the light. Philip adjusts his sunglasses, squinting against the glare as he navigates the narrow streets leading toward the marina.
This mission wasn’t supposed to be anything out of the ordinary — routine surveillance, gathering intel on a trafficking ring suspected of operating through the port. But the heat is unbearable, the air thick with the scent of saltwater and sunscreen, making it harder to focus.
He tugs at his collar, feeling the weight of the mission pressing down on him. Monaco always feels claustrophobic, all the wealth and power packed into such a small space. Everywhere he looks, there’s money, status. It’s suffocating.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, reading the latest message from his supervisor.
Stay sharp. Don’t let your guard down.
He rolls his eyes, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. Standard procedure. Philip’s eyes drift to the yachts moored in the harbor, each one more extravagant than the last. His attention lingers on one in particular — a massive, sleek vessel, easily the largest in the marina. The name etched on the side glistens in gold: La Bellezza.
It doesn’t take long for him to recognize it. Charles Leclerc’s yacht. Of course, it had to be Leclerc. The rumors about the man are legendary — how he runs his empire with an iron fist, how he’s untouchable in Monaco, how anyone who crosses him ends up six feet under. It’s why they never found-
Philip shakes his head, pushing the thought away. There’s no use dwelling on the past, on missions gone wrong. Y/N was one of the best agents Interpol had, and when she went dark, they all knew what that meant. There was no coming back from that. Charles Leclerc didn’t make mistakes.
Still, as he watches the yacht, a figure steps onto the deck, catching his attention. At first, he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. The sun is too bright, the distance too far, but there’s something about the way she moves, the silhouette that feels … familiar. He takes a step closer, narrowing his eyes.
And then he sees her.
His heart stutters in his chest.
It can’t be.
Philip freezes, staring at the woman on the deck. She’s laughing, her hair catching in the breeze, and Charles is right beside her, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. She turns, and for a split second, their faces are clear.
It’s you.
It’s Y/N.
His throat tightens. This isn’t possible. Y/N is dead. You’ve been dead for months. They had a memorial service for you, for Christ’s sake. He remembers the grief, the unanswered questions. No body was ever found, but that’s how it goes with someone like Charles. You must’ve been discovered. You must’ve been killed.
And yet … there you are. Alive. Right in front of him.
Philip’s mind races, trying to make sense of it all. He can’t trust his eyes. Maybe it’s someone who just looks like you. Maybe this is some sick coincidence. But everything in him is screaming that this is no mistake.
He takes a step closer, heart hammering in his chest.
“Y/N?” He calls out, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Then, louder. “Y/N!”
The woman doesn’t even glance his way. No flicker of recognition crosses your face. You’re entirely focused on Charles, your hand resting on his arm, your body pressed close to his.
Philip’s stomach drops.
This doesn’t make sense. If it’s really you, why wouldn’t you respond? Why wouldn’t you … remember?
Before he can call out again, Charles leans down to whisper something in your ear, and you smiles — a soft, genuine smile, one that Philip hasn’t seen in months. It’s a smile he used to know well, back when you were both agents, before everything went wrong.
Philip feels a wave of nausea wash over him. There’s no way you would be here, on Leclerc’s arm, if you knew who you were. If you remembered.
He pulls out his phone, fingers trembling as he dials his supervisor. It rings twice before the familiar voice picks up.
“Philip, what’s going on? You’re supposed to be surveilling the port.”
“I … I just saw Y/N.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end.
“Philip,” the supervisor says slowly, as though speaking to a child. “Y/N is dead. You know that.”
“No,” he insists, his voice urgent. “I’m looking at her right now. She’s on Charles Leclerc’s yacht. I swear, it’s her.”
“Philip,” the supervisor sighs, a heavy, resigned sound. “You’re tired. You’ve been in the field too long. We all grieved Y/N, but you need to accept that she’s gone. No one survives after crossing Leclerc. You know that better than anyone.”
Philip’s hand tightens around the phone, his mind spinning. “But-”
“Enough,” the supervisor cuts him off. “Stay focused on the mission. Do your job. That’s an order.”
The line goes dead, and Philip is left standing there, staring at the yacht, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind refuses to believe it, but what other explanation is there? He knows what he saw. He knows your face, your mannerisms. But if you’re really alive, then …why are you acting like you don’t know him?
As he watches, Charles takes your hand, leading you to the center of the sundeck. From this angle, Philip can see everything. The way you gaze up at him with a look that could only be described as adoration. The way you follow his every movement, like he’s the only thing in your world.
Philip’s stomach turns. This isn’t right.
Then, without warning, you sink to your knees in front of Charles, your eyes fixed on him as though he’s the sun and you’re orbiting him. Philip’s breath catches in his throat, disbelief surging through him.
What the hell are you doing?
Charles leans down, his fingers lazily tugging at the string of your bikini top, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s a calculated display, one meant to assert control, dominance. And you — you just kneel there, completely submissive, completely his.
Philip feels the bile rise in his throat as the knot comes undone, your bikini top slipping off your shoulders. You don’t flinch, don’t hesitate. You just kneel there, bare before him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For a long moment, Philip can’t breathe. The scene playing out in front of him feels like a punch to the gut. This isn’t the Y/N he knew. The Y/N he knew would never …
But then, maybe you aren’t the same person anymore. Maybe you’ve been broken down, rebuilt into someone else entirely. Someone who belongs to Charles Leclerc.
As Philip watches, rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away, he feels a crushing sense of helplessness settle over him. Y/N — if it is you — has been lost to him. To them. To everything you once were. And there’s nothing he can do to bring you back.
Charles pulls you up by the chin, his lips brushing over yours in a possessive kiss that’s all dominance, all control. You lean into him, your eyes half-lidded, completely pliant in his hands.
Philip turns away, his stomach churning. Whatever happened to you, whatever Charles has done — he’s too late.
“You sure she doesn’t snap in half when you’re together?” Lando’s voice rings out over the steady hum of the paddock, casual, like he’s asking about the weather.
Oscar’s head jerks up, his eyebrows knitting together. “What?”
“You know …” Lando gestures vaguely with his hand, as if the meaning will somehow fill the air between them. “You and her. She’s, like, tiny. Can’t imagine it’s easy for you.”
Oscar frowns, confused for a second before the meaning of Lando’s words sinks in. Lando is grinning like he’s delivered the world’s best punchline, but something twists in Oscar’s chest. The words linger. Too long.
“Mate, seriously?” Oscar scoffs, trying to laugh it off, but there’s an odd tension in his voice. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”
Lando shrugs, all casual, like he hasn’t just dropped a grenade between them. “Just making conversation. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
Oscar doesn’t respond, choosing instead to shove Lando lightly in the shoulder, pushing past him. His heart beats a little too fast, and he finds himself suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of Lando’s comment.
He tries to shake it off, but the thought is like an itch at the back of his mind, one he can’t quite reach to scratch. Size. How could he have never noticed it before? Of course, he knew you were smaller — he had to lean down to kiss you, had to watch his step to not bowl you over in tight spaces. But he’d never really thought about it. Not like that.
Now, though … now he can’t seem to stop thinking about it.
Later that evening, he’s at your apartment. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, flipping through some magazine, while he stands in the kitchen, mindlessly sipping from a water bottle. His eyes keep drifting over to you, studying the way you’re curled up. Small, Lando’s words repeat in his head. So much smaller.
You glance up and catch him staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly. You squint, unconvinced.
“Oscar,” you say, drawing out his name like you’re prying for a confession. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he repeats, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him.
You set the magazine down, leaning back against the cushions. “You’re staring at me like I’ve grown a second head or something.”
Oscar clears his throat, still not moving from his spot by the counter. “It’s not — I mean, Lando said something stupid earlier.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Lando always says stupid things.”
He chuckles, but the sound is half-hearted. “Yeah, but this was, like, extra stupid.”
“What’d he say?”
Oscar hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s dumb, really.”
“Now you have to tell me,” you say, tilting your head, that teasing smile starting to curl at your lips. You always get that look when you know he’s holding something back, and he knows you won’t let it go until he spills.
He sighs, finally pushing away from the counter and walking over to sit beside you on the couch. “It’s just … he made some joke about, uh … about our size difference.”
Your brows furrow. “What about it?”
Oscar pauses, trying to find the right words. “He basically said … I don’t know. That it must be … hard. You know, because you’re, uh, smaller than me.”
Your lips press together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as the meaning hits. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Oscar lets out a breath, rubbing his palms over his jeans. “I didn’t think much of it at first, but now I can’t stop … noticing it.”
There’s a beat of silence between you, the kind that feels heavier than usual.
You swallow, shifting a little on the couch to face him. “Is it weird for you?” You ask quietly. “Our size difference?”
Oscar’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “No — no, it’s not weird. It’s not like that. I’ve just … I never really thought about it before. And now it’s in my head.”
“So it’s in your head that I’m small?” You ask, a teasing edge to your voice, though there’s a hint of nervousness underneath it.
He laughs softly. “It’s not just that you’re small. It’s … everything. Like, I never thought about how I have to be careful with you. When I hold you, or when we’re … close.”
You tilt your head, curious. “You don’t think about it when we’re close?”
“I mean, I think about it,” he admits, his voice dropping. “But not in a bad way. I just-” He falters, searching for the right words. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Your heart skips a beat at his honesty, the vulnerability that’s starting to seep through the cracks. You reach out, placing a hand on his knee. “You wouldn’t hurt me, Oscar.”
“I know that,” he says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “But I guess … sometimes I just worry that I might. Without meaning to.”
The air feels thick between you, charged with something unsaid. You chew on your bottom lip, considering his words, the way he’s looking at you now — like he’s seeing you in a new light, or maybe just realizing something that’s been there all along.
“I don’t mind that we’re different sizes,” you say quietly, and your voice is sincere, even if there’s an underlying nervousness. “I actually … I like it.”
Oscar’s eyes flicker with surprise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod, your hand still resting on his knee. “I like that you’re taller, and that you can hold me, and that I feel … safe with you.”
Something shifts in Oscar’s expression. It’s subtle, but you see the way his shoulders relax, the tension that’s been building all evening starting to fade away. He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You feel safe with me?”
“Of course I do,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper now. “You’re … I don’t know. You’re so careful with me. I can feel it when we’re together.”
Oscar’s hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “I just … I don’t want to screw this up,” he admits, his voice raw. “I care about you too much to mess this up.”
You feel your breath hitch in your throat. “You’re not messing anything up, Oscar. You’re being … you.”
He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “I don’t want to be weird about this,” he says softly. “But after Lando’s stupid comment, it’s like … it’s stuck in my head. And now I’m overthinking everything.”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re overthinking it because Lando’s an idiot.”
Oscar laughs too, the sound breaking the tension a little. “Yeah, he really is.”
You shift a little closer to him, your knees brushing against his. “You don’t need to worry about our size difference,” you say gently. “I don’t.”
He nods, though there’s still a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “It’s just … I’ve never been with someone who’s, like … so much smaller than me. I don’t want to … I don’t know, hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you assure him, your voice steady. “I trust you, Oscar. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t.”
Oscar’s eyes search yours, as if he’s trying to find some reassurance in your words, something to silence the doubts that Lando’s careless joke planted in his mind. Slowly, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours, and for a moment, everything else fades away — the worries, the overthinking, the stupid comments.
It’s just the two of you, and in that kiss, there’s no size difference, no hesitation. Just you and him, connected in a way that feels effortless.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath, warm and steady. “You’re sure?” He whispers, his voice laced with vulnerability.
You smile, your hand finding his. “I’ve never been more sure.”
Oscar lets out a breath, his lips curling into a soft smile. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
The tension between you melts away, replaced by a quiet understanding, a mutual trust that wasn’t spoken but was felt in every word, every touch. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, as if to prove to himself that he can hold you without worry.
And for the first time since Lando’s stupid joke, Oscar doesn’t think about the size difference. He just thinks about you, and how perfectly you fit in his arms.
***
As you and Oscar walk through the doors of your hotel suite, the adrenaline from the day still buzzes between you both. The aftermath of the Hungarian Grand Prix win feels almost surreal, hanging in the air between his excited glances and your proud smiles.
Oscar drops his race gear bag on the floor, exhaling loudly as he runs a hand through his messy hair. “God, I still can’t believe it. I actually won.”
You grin, closing the door behind you. “I told you, didn’t I? You’ve been ready for this. You’ve always been ready.”
He turns toward you, his face lighting up in a way that makes your heart skip. He looks different tonight — his usual quiet confidence magnified by the thrill of victory. There’s a hunger in his gaze, something deeper than just excitement for the race.
“It feels … different now,” he admits, stepping closer. “Like, I knew I could win, but doing it? Crossing that line first? Hearing the crowd?” He trails off, his eyes locking on yours, and for a moment, everything else in the world disappears.
You step closer, resting your hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “You were incredible out there.”
Oscar’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. His voice drops lower, more intimate. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. After the race, I just wanted to get back here. With you.”
You bite your lip, the tension between you sparking to life. There’s something in the air tonight, something that feels inevitable. The closeness, the energy — it’s all leading somewhere.
Oscar’s lips hover just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I need you,” he whispers, the rawness of his voice sending shivers down your spine.
Your response is immediate, instinctual. “Then take me.”
His mouth crashes against yours, urgent and heated, and suddenly, all the restraint he’s ever shown around you evaporates. His hands are everywhere — on your waist, in your hair, pulling you closer as if he can’t stand the space between you. You’re breathless as he backs you up toward the bed, his kisses growing more fervent, more desperate.
When the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, Oscar pulls away just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with something deeper than you’ve seen before. “Are you sure?” He asks, his voice thick with both desire and hesitation. “I don’t want to rush this.”
You’re already reaching for the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one swift motion. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
The sight of his bare chest, muscles taut and glistening under the dim hotel lights, makes your stomach flip. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but tonight it feels different. He’s yours tonight.
Oscar stares at you for a moment, his eyes raking over your body as if trying to memorize every inch of you. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing over your hips, lifting your shirt just enough to slide his hands underneath.
You shiver at the contact, leaning into him as he slowly works your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside. His hands linger on your skin, tracing patterns that leave your skin tingling.
As his fingers move to unbutton your jeans, Oscar hesitates for a second. “I don’t want to … hurt you,” he says softly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt.
You shake your head, reaching up to cradle his face in your hands. “You won’t. I trust you.”
That seems to be all the encouragement he needs. Oscar quickly strips you of your jeans, his hands trailing up and down your thighs, his gaze fixed on you like you’re the most important thing in the world. And then, for a moment, he pauses.
His eyes drop lower, and when he sees you in nothing but your underwear, something primal flashes across his face. You can see the shift in him — the boyish uncertainty replaced by something darker, more insistent.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself. His hands tremble slightly as he runs them over your hips, then slowly slides your panties down your legs. The sight of you bare, exposed for him, seems to steal his breath.
You reach out, your fingers brushing over the waistband of his jeans. “Your turn,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.
Oscar quickly complies, undoing his belt and pushing his jeans down. But when he finally kicks them off, and his boxers follow, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He’s … big. Much bigger than you expected. The sight of him has your heart racing, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding through you.
His size suddenly makes Lando’s stupid joke replay in your head, but instead of fear, you feel a strange sense of anticipation building inside you. The sight of him, hard and ready, only makes you want him more.
But Oscar hesitates, his eyes darting between you and himself, concern flickering in his expression. “I-I don’t want to hurt you,” he says again, his voice more serious now. “You’re so … small.”
Your lips part, a flush creeping up your neck. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure, but the truth slips out before you can stop it. “I can take it,” you whisper, your voice shaking with need. “I want it.”
Oscar’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he seems at a loss for words. His hands shake slightly as they slide up your thighs, his fingers brushing over the sensitive skin between your legs. He takes his time, his touch slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says softly, his eyes locked on yours as he eases a finger inside you. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, your body tensing for a moment before you relax into his touch. “Are you okay?”
You nod quickly, your breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “I’m okay,” you manage to say, your voice breathless. “Please, Oscar. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He adds another finger, his movements slow and steady as he works you open, his thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you writhe beneath him. Your body arches off the bed, your hands gripping the sheets as you try to hold on to the edge of your sanity.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his brows furrowing in concentration. “I need to make sure you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” you breathe, though your voice is shaky with both nerves and desire.
Oscar leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he continues to stretch you with his fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats, his voice a mix of concern and restraint.
You bite your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. “I know. But I want you, Oscar. I want all of you.”
His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he pauses, as if weighing the gravity of what’s about to happen. But then he nods, his eyes locking on yours as he finally positions himself between your legs. His hands grip your hips, his touch firm but gentle.
“Are you sure?” He asks one last time, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” you breathe, your heart pounding in your chest. “Please.”
Oscar takes a deep breath, and then, slowly — agonizingly slowly — he begins to push inside you. The stretch is immediate, and your body tenses as you feel the overwhelming pressure of him filling you. It’s more than you expected — more than you’ve ever felt before. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s too much.
Oscar freezes, his eyes wide with concern. “Am I hurting you?”
You shake your head quickly, though your breath is shaky. “It’s just … a lot. But I’m okay. Don’t stop.”
He bites his lip, clearly unsure, but he keeps going, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. The sensation is intense — painful at first, but as your body adjusts, the pain quickly morphs into something else. Something deeper. Something euphoric.
Oscar is still, hovering above you, his chest heaving as he struggles to keep himself in check. “God, you’re … you’re so tight,” he whispers, his voice strained. “I can feel … I can see it …”
You look down, and your breath catches in your throat. You can see the outline of him, pressing against your lower stomach, and the sight is enough to send a shiver down your spine.
Oscar’s eyes are glued to the sight as well, his hands gripping your hips tighter. “Holy … I can see myself inside you,” he breathes, his voice thick with awe. “I’m not hurting you?”
You shake your head, your body trembling with a mix of pleasure and disbelief. “No. It feels … it feels incredible.”
He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes darkening as he slowly pulls back, only to push into you again, the movement sending a wave of pleasure through your body. You moan, your hands gripping his shoulders as he begins to move, his thrusts slow and controlled at first, but growing more urgent as the pleasure builds between you.
Oscar’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes never leaving the sight of himself inside you. “You’re so … perfect,” he groans, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. His movements grow more desperate, the tension between you building to an almost unbearable intensity. Your body is on fire, every nerve alight as he fills you completely. You can feel him so deep, every inch of him stretching you in ways you’ve never experienced before.
And then, just as the pressure becomes too much, you tip over the edge.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing around him, muscles tightening and pulsing in rhythmic waves. The pleasure is blinding, sharp, your breath hitching as you cry out his name. You’ve never felt anything like it, the intensity of the release leaving you shaking beneath him, your legs trembling as you clutch at his shoulders.
The sudden tightening of your body around him pulls a deep groan from Oscar’s throat, and you feel him lose control. His thrusts falter, becoming erratic as he buries himself inside you one last time. His jaw clenches, his eyes squeezed shut as his own orgasm rips through him. His release is overwhelming — hot and thick, spilling into you with an intensity that leaves you both breathless.
Oscar collapses against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he gasps for air. You can feel him still twitching inside you, the last remnants of his orgasm making him shudder against your body. He’s still buried deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you so completely it almost feels unreal.
You’re both silent for a moment, just breathing together, the weight of what just happened settling between you. Then, slowly, Oscar lifts his head, his eyes hazy and dazed as he looks down at you.
“Are you okay?” He whispers, his voice rough, concern flickering in his eyes even as he struggles to catch his breath.
You nod, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. “I’m more than okay.”
His gaze softens, and his hand moves down to your stomach, where you can feel an odd fullness, a strange weight that wasn’t there before. His palm rests over your belly, and when you both look down, you see it — the way your stomach has a slight bulge, rounded out from how much he’s filled you.
Oscar’s eyes widen, his hand pressing down gently as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “I … did I do that?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
You bite your lip, heat flooding your cheeks as you nod. “I think so.”
A low groan escapes him, his eyes glued to the sight of your swollen belly. “Jesus … that’s … fuck, that’s so hot,” he mutters, almost to himself, his hand rubbing slow, gentle circles over the small bump.
His obsession with it sends a new wave of heat through you. The feeling of being so full, so utterly claimed by him, is intoxicating. You reach down, covering his hand with yours, pressing it harder against your belly. “You like it?” You ask, teasingly, though you already know the answer.
Oscar’s eyes flash up to yours, dark and filled with something primal. “Are you kidding? I’ve never seen anything like this. I can’t … I can’t stop looking at it.”
He keeps rubbing your belly, his fingers tracing over the slight rise, his gaze fixed on the way your body holds all of him. You shiver beneath his touch, the sensation of his hand against your skin sending jolts of pleasure through you. You can feel him starting to soften inside you, but there’s still a delicious fullness that leaves you squirming, your body craving more despite how completely wrecked you feel.
Oscar seems to notice, his eyes narrowing slightly as his hand trails lower, his fingers brushing against your sensitive clit. You gasp, your body jerking in response, and he smiles softly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.
“You’re still sensitive,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your bundle of nerves with gentle pressure. “I can feel it.”
You bite your lip, trying to suppress a moan as he continues to tease you, his movements slow and deliberate. “Oscar …” you breathe, your voice trembling. “I don’t think I can …”
But you can. The tension in your body builds again so quickly, it’s almost dizzying. His touch is relentless, his thumb rubbing slow, firm circles that drive you insane. The combination of the fullness in your belly and the stimulation at your core is overwhelming, your body teetering on the edge of another orgasm before you can even process it.
“I can feel how tight you still are,” Oscar whispers, his voice husky as he watches you squirm beneath him. “God, you’re so perfect.”
His words, his touch, the sight of him above you — it’s all too much. Your body arches off the bed, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you fall over the edge again, your second orgasm hitting you harder than the first. The pleasure is intense, bordering on painful as your muscles contract around him, your body shaking with the force of it.
Oscar groans, his hand still rubbing slow circles over your belly as he watches you come undone beneath him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You gasp for air, your body trembling as the waves of pleasure slowly subside, leaving you feeling utterly spent. Oscar finally stops his teasing, his hand still resting on your belly as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Are you okay?” He asks again, his voice gentle, almost tender.
You nod, a lazy smile spreading across your face. “Yeah … more than okay.”
He chuckles softly, shifting his weight to lie beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you close. His hand remains on your belly, though, still fascinated by the slight swell he’s caused.
“I can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple.
You turn to face him, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his chest. “I’m the lucky one,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with affection for him.
For a while, you both just lie there, wrapped up in each other, the weight of what just happened settling in. There’s no rush, no urgency — just the quiet intimacy of being together after something so intense.
Oscar’s hand continues to rub slow, soothing circles over your belly, and you feel yourself slowly drifting toward sleep, your body completely relaxed and satisfied. Just before you drift off, you hear Oscar’s soft voice in your ear, filled with quiet wonder.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over how perfectly you fit me.”
And in that moment, you know that nothing has ever felt more right.
***
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft rays of sunlight across the hotel room. You stir in the bed, blinking your eyes open, the haze of sleep still thick in your mind. As you stretch, your entire body reminds you of the events from the night before. Every muscle feels heavy, a delicious soreness radiating from deep within you. You smile to yourself, the memory of Oscar’s hands on your body, his whispers in your ear, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
Your bladder protests, urging you out of bed, but as soon as you shift to swing your legs over the side of the bed, a sharp jolt of soreness runs up your thighs. You pause, blinking in confusion, then try again — more gingerly this time. Your legs are stiff, the muscles weak and uncooperative as you push yourself to stand.
You barely make it two steps before your legs give out beneath you.
The floor rushes up to meet you, and with a soft thud, you crumple into a heap on the carpet. A surprised gasp escapes your lips, and before you can process what’s happened, Oscar is jolting awake beside you.
“Shit — what was that?” He mumbles groggily, but the second he sees you on the floor, his eyes go wide, panic flashing across his face. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
He’s out of bed in an instant, rushing to your side, his hands gripping your shoulders as he kneels next to you. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
You can’t help but laugh softly, though your body feels like it’s been through a marathon. “I’m fine, I just …” You bite your lip, wincing as you try to shift. “I guess my legs don’t really work right now.”
Oscar’s brows furrow in concern, and he gently lifts you, pulling you into his arms and carrying you back to the bed like you weigh nothing. “What do you mean your legs don’t work?” His voice is tight, laced with worry, and he lays you down carefully, as if he’s afraid you’ll break.
You groan softly as you sink back into the mattress, your legs still trembling from the effort. “I’m just … really sore. Like, everywhere.”
Oscar’s face pales, and you can see the guilt washing over him in an instant. “Oh my God, I hurt you, didn’t I?” His voice is barely a whisper, his hands hovering over you as if he’s afraid to touch you again. “I knew I was too rough. I knew I was too big. I’m so sorry, I-”
“Hey, no,” you interrupt, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “It’s not like that. I’m just sore from … you know.” You feel a flush creeping up your neck, but you manage a small smile. “It’s a good kind of sore.”
Oscar shakes his head, his jaw clenched tight. “No, no, this isn’t okay. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I should’ve been more careful.”
You let out a soft laugh, though it’s strained as you shift slightly in bed. “Oscar, I’m fine. Really. I feel amazing, actually. This is just … the aftermath.” You wiggle your toes experimentally, and while the soreness is still there, it’s more of a reminder of the pleasure you felt last night than actual pain.
Oscar isn’t convinced. He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “You couldn’t even walk this morning because of me,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with guilt. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
The tenderness in his voice makes your heart ache, and you sit up slowly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Oscar, you didn’t hurt me,” you say softly. “You made me feel incredible. Yes, I’m sore, but it’s because of how good it was. Not because you did anything wrong.”
He looks up at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “Are you sure? I mean, you literally fell out of bed.”
You bite your lip, holding back a grin. “Yeah, well … maybe that’s just proof of how well you did.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but the worry still lingers. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
You shake your head, your hand moving to rest on his thigh. “No. I’m saying it because it’s true. I’ve never felt like that before, Oscar. You didn’t hurt me — you made me feel alive.”
His expression softens at your words, but you can still see the guilt etched in the lines of his face. He exhales slowly, his hand covering yours on his thigh. “I just … I don’t want to ever do something that makes you feel like you can’t even move the next day.”
“Well,” you say, biting your lip playfully, “if it’s the kind of thing that leaves me this sore, I think I could get used to it.” You wink at him, trying to lighten the mood, but Oscar’s eyes widen, and he groans.
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
You laugh softly, wincing at the tightness in your hips as you shift again. “I mean, there are worse ways to be sore. Besides, this is kind of your fault. You can make it up to me.”
Oscar’s brows furrow in confusion. “How?”
You give him a mischievous look. “By doing it all over again and making sure I can never walk properly again.”
He blinks at you, momentarily stunned. “You’re joking, right?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Oscar stares at you for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to find the right words. “I — but … you’re already sore.”
You lean back against the pillows, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. “Exactly. So you might as well make it count.”
For a second, he’s speechless. Then, his lips twitch, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “You’re serious?”
You nod, biting your lip to hide your grin. “Very.”
He laughs, the sound low and warm, and you can see the tension start to melt away from his shoulders. “You’re unbelievable.”
You shrug, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “I have a high pain tolerance. Besides, I think I deserve a little reward after surviving last night, don’t you?”
Oscar’s smile fades slightly, and he looks at you with a mix of affection and disbelief. “You’re really okay?”
You nod, your hand squeezing his thigh again. “More than okay, Oscar. I’m serious — I want you again. Even if it leaves me sore for a week.”
His expression softens, and he leans down, brushing a gentle kiss against your forehead. “You’re something else, you know that?”
You grin up at him. “I try.”
Oscar’s hand trails down your side, his fingers brushing lightly over your skin as if testing how much you can handle. “I don’t want to push you too hard,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your temple.
“You’re not pushing me,” you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want this.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods, his hand moving lower, tracing over your stomach and down between your legs. The touch is featherlight, testing, but even that small contact sends a shiver through your body.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Oscar says, his voice low and serious, but you can already feel the heat building between you again, and the soreness fades into the background of your mind, overwhelmed by the need rising in you.
“I will,” you breathe, already arching into his touch.
Oscar’s lips find yours, soft at first, but quickly growing more urgent as the tension between you sparks back to life. His hand slides lower, teasing you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel yourself growing wet again, your body responding to him despite the lingering ache.
He pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “You really want to do this again?”
You nod, breathless. “I need you.”
That’s all it takes for Oscar to give in. He shifts above you, his body pressing against yours as he positions himself between your legs. The weight of him is comforting, familiar, and despite the soreness, you crave the feeling of him filling you again.
Oscar moves slowly, carefully, but the stretch is just as intense as last night. You gasp as he pushes inside, your body still adjusting to the sheer size of him, but it’s not painful this time — just overwhelming in the best way.
“Oh my God,” Oscar groans, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder as he pushes deeper. “You’re still so tight.”
You can only moan in response, your body trembling as he moves inside you, the pleasure building quickly despite the soreness in your muscles. The mix of discomfort and ecstasy is intoxicating, and soon, you’re lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, your mind blank except for the sensation of him filling you completely.
Oscar’s hands grip your hips, his movements growing more urgent as he finds his rhythm. You can tell he’s holding back, trying not to hurt you, but even with the restraint, the intensity of it all has you teetering on the edge again.
“You’re so perfect,” Oscar murmurs against your skin, his breath hot on your neck. “I can’t get enough of you.”
You shudder beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you feel yourself nearing the edge once again. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, your body arching into his as the pleasure coils tight inside you, threatening to snap.
Oscar groans in response, his pace picking up, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, until you're barely holding on. You can feel the intensity building between you, the friction, the connection driving you closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tighter, his breath hot against your neck as he murmurs, “God, you feel so good. I could do this forever.”
The words send a thrill through you, and you grip him harder, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Oscar,” you breathe, your voice trembling as the pressure inside you mounts, overwhelming, unstoppable.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes locking with yours as he drives into you again, deeper than before. “Come for me,” he whispers, his voice husky with desire. “I want to feel you.”
That’s all it takes. His words send you spiraling, your body clenching around him as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. You cry out, your legs trembling, your hands gripping him as tight as you can, pulling him closer as your entire body shakes with the force of your release.
Oscar groans as your body tightens around him, his control slipping as he watches you fall apart beneath him. His rhythm falters, then he pushes deep one last time, his release hitting with a shudder as he spills inside you. His breath is ragged, his body trembling as he holds himself over you, the weight of his body grounding you as the aftershocks of your orgasm pulse through you.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, your bodies tangled together in the aftermath. Oscar collapses against you, his head resting on your chest as he tries to catch his breath. You run your fingers through his hair, a soft, satisfied smile on your lips as the warmth of his body soothes your soreness.
After a long silence, he finally speaks, his voice soft and a little shaky. “You … okay?”
You laugh softly, your body feeling like it’s been thoroughly worked over, but in the best way possible. “Yeah,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “More than okay.”
He lifts his head to look at you, his eyes filled with affection but also a hint of lingering concern. “I didn’t hurt you?”
You shake your head, smiling up at him. “No, you didn’t hurt me. You were perfect.”
He relaxes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Good,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Because I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
You hum in contentment, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all. “Just make sure I can walk by tomorrow, okay?”
Oscar chuckles, his hand trailing down to your hip as he pulls you close. “No promises.”
***
Oscar steps out of the car first, scanning the airstrip where McLaren’s private jet waits. His brow furrows slightly, a flicker of concern in his eyes. The morning sun is harsh, casting long shadows on the tarmac, but his focus is entirely on you. He turns back, opening the car door carefully, like he’s preparing for something delicate.
You wince as you try to swing your legs out of the car. The soreness from last night has reached a whole new level, and every movement feels like your muscles are made of lead. You’d tried standing when you first woke up, but it was a no-go. Now, as you attempt to shift out of the car, it’s confirmed: you really can’t walk.
Oscar leans down, his hands gently coming to rest on your hips. “Ready?” His voice is soft, a little sheepish, like he’s still not over the guilt from earlier.
“Do I have a choice?” You joke, though your body aches in a way that’s both painful and satisfying, a reminder of last night’s passion.
He gives you a small smile, his eyes soft as he reaches under your knees and lifts you effortlessly into his arms, bridal style. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, leaning into his chest as he straightens up.
“Okay, this is officially ridiculous,” you mutter, burying your face in his shoulder, half-embarrassed, half-amused.
Oscar chuckles, holding you close. “You’re the one who said you wanted to make sure you couldn’t walk properly again.”
You lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”
He grins, but you can see the hint of worry still lingering in his eyes. “Too late now. Besides, I think I might enjoy this.”
“You enjoy having to carry me across an airstrip in front of your entire team?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your tone light, though you know it’s about to get a lot more embarrassing once people start noticing.
Oscar shrugs, shifting you slightly in his arms as he starts walking toward the jet. “I enjoy taking care of you.”
You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, your earlier embarrassment fading. He’s so earnest, so gentle, even now, and it’s hard to feel anything but safe in his arms.
As you near the jet, you can already see the crew milling around, loading luggage and prepping for departure. And, of course, Lando is leaning casually against the stairs leading up to the plane, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as soon as he spots the two of you.
“Well, well, well,” Lando calls out, his voice full of teasing glee. “What do we have here? Oscar playing the hero?”
You groan softly, burying your face in Oscar’s shoulder again. “Please no,” you mutter under your breath.
Oscar doesn’t slow down as he approaches, though you can feel his body tense slightly. He’s protective, even if he’s trying to laugh it off. “Don’t start, Lando,” he warns, though there’s a playful edge to his voice.
But Lando’s never been one to back off, especially when there’s an opportunity to tease his teammate. He pushes off the stairs and stands directly in front of you two, hands on his hips. “What, did she trip or something? Or is this …” He pauses dramatically, raising an eyebrow. “Is this because of Sunday night?”
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks immediately. You’ve had your fair share of teasing from Lando before, but this — this is next-level mortifying. Oscar adjusts his hold on you slightly, and you can feel the subtle tightening of his grip, like he’s shielding you from whatever’s coming.
“Lando,” Oscar says, his tone warning, but not harsh. “Seriously.”
But Lando’s not done. His eyes dart between you and Oscar, and his grin widens. “Wait — wait. Hold on. Is she not able to walk?”
You don’t say anything, but your silence must be enough because Lando’s grin fades, replaced by a look of genuine shock. “Oh my God. You’re actually serious.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens, and he shifts you in his arms again, turning slightly like he’s ready to move past Lando and end this conversation. But Lando steps closer, his playful demeanor slipping into something more serious as he realizes the situation is … real.
“Mate,” Lando says, his voice lower now, almost incredulous. “Did you … I mean, you didn’t-”
“No,” Oscar cuts him off quickly, his voice firm but not defensive. “I didn’t hurt her.”
You peek out from Oscar’s shoulder, meeting Lando’s wide-eyed gaze. “I’m fine,” you add, trying to inject some normalcy back into the situation. “It’s just … you know.”
Lando’s brows shoot up. “I really don’t know.”
You laugh softly despite yourself. “Well, I’m not hurt. Just … sore.”
Lando’s mouth opens and closes as if he’s trying to find the right words, but for once, he’s speechless. He glances between you and Oscar, and then shakes his head, half in disbelief, half in amusement.
“I mean, I’ve heard of being ‘swept off your feet,’ but this …” Lando trails off, his eyes flicking down to your legs, which you’re certain look completely useless at this point. “This is next level.”
Oscar rolls his eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You done?”
Lando lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just saying — next time, maybe leave her able to walk? Just a suggestion.”
You groan, leaning your forehead against Oscar’s shoulder again. “Please make him stop.”
Oscar chuckles, squeezing you gently. “Lando, I swear, if you don’t move, I’m going to drop her on you.”
Lando steps aside, holding his hands up. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good. But seriously,” he adds, glancing at you with a smirk. “You two should probably invest in some crutches.”
You shoot him a withering look, but there’s no malice behind it. “You’re not funny.”
“I disagree,” Lando grins. “I’m hilarious.”
Oscar shakes his head, moving past Lando and toward the stairs. As he climbs up, still carrying you effortlessly, you whisper, “I’m never living this down, am I?”
Oscar leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Probably not.”
By the time he settles you down in one of the plush seats on the jet, the soreness in your legs has turned into a dull throb. You sink into the cushions with a relieved sigh, stretching out as much as you can without wincing. Oscar sits beside you, his hand immediately resting on your thigh, a silent check-in.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asks again, his brow still slightly furrowed.
“I promise,” you say, reaching for his hand. “I mean, yes, I probably won’t be running any marathons anytime soon, but it’s worth it.”
Oscar gives you a lopsided smile, but the concern doesn’t fully leave his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d actually-”
You cut him off, squeezing his hand. “Oscar, stop. You didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, I’m the one who asked for it.”
His cheeks flush slightly, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Still.”
You lean closer, brushing your lips against his. “It was perfect,” you murmur softly. “You’re perfect.”
He exhales, some of the tension finally leaving his body as he leans into your kiss. “If you say so.”
“I do,” you whisper against his lips, then lean back with a grin. “Now, how are you going to carry me once we land?”
Oscar laughs, a sound that’s light and warm. “I’ll figure it out.”
From across the aisle, Lando chimes in, “Just get a wheelchair. Might be worth the investment if this is going to be a common occurrence.”
You throw a pillow at him. “Shut up, Lando.”
But deep down, despite the teasing and the soreness, you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
Summary: Charles is trying to move on. His new girlfriend checks all the boxes, but there’s one problem. He can’t stop thinking about Y/N. And their dog, Leo, is making it worse. From suspicious barking to full-on sabotage, Leo clearly has a favorite. Now Charles has to figure out what’s louder: his own heart or a very dramatic golden dachshund.
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Childhood Best Friend!Reader
Contains: A matchmaking dog, unresolved feelings, suspicious barking, soft denial, and a love story Leo is tired of waiting for.
Author’s Note 🏎️:
This story is purely fictional and written just for fun. No hate or shade toward anyone, especially not Alex. I genuinely love and respect her. This is just a lighthearted, chaotic little fic with a matchmaking dog and lots of feelings. Enjoy the drama, the fluff, and Leo’s unhinged energy 💛🐾
₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚
If you asked Charles when he first fell in love with Y/N, he wouldn’t know what to say. There wasn’t a moment. No lightning bolt. No fireworks. Just one day, she laughed at one of his terrible jokes and it hit him like a truck.
Oh. I love her.
But he never said anything. Because they were best friends. They’d been through braces, bad breakups, go-kart drama, and years of race weekends. Saying something now? Too risky. Too much.
So instead, he suffered. Silently. Like an idiot.
That is, until everyone around him decided to make it their business.
“You’re in love with her.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Pierre didn’t even look up from his phone as he threw the accusation out during a group dinner in Monaco. Arthur nodded, backing him up. Carlos just sipped his drink, waiting for Charles to cave.
“I’m not in love with Y/N,” Charles repeated, stabbing his pasta like it had personally offended him.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Then why did you threaten to fight a grown man because he looked at her in Italy?”
“I did not-”
Carlos pulled out his phone. “I have screenshots.”
“Those don’t count!”
“Charles, come on,” Pierre said, finally looking at him. “You’ve been in love with her since we were kids.”
Charles clenched his jaw. “I’m over it.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
They all laughed.
“I’m serious,” Charles insisted. “I’m dating someone.”
Everyone stopped laughing.
“You’re what?” Arthur asked.
Charles cleared his throat. “I’m dating someone.”
Pierre narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Who?”
“…Alex.”
Pierre blinked. “As in Alexandra? The art girl?”
“Yeah. That Alex.”
“Holy sh-”
Arthur slammed the table. “You’re dating the art girl just to prove a point!”
“I’m not!”
“You so are!”
Charles stared at them. “Can’t a man just date someone without being accused of emotional crimes?”
“No,” Pierre said. “Not when he’s obviously in love with someone else.”
———
Truthfully? Alex was great. Alexandra, technically, but he liked calling her Alex. She was pretty, cool, interesting. She dragged him to museums and taught him how to sketch like some artsy romantic. She didn’t blink when he zoned out at dinner, probably lost in some Y/N memory. And when he kept talking about Y/N? She just smiled and nodded like she already knew.
But it didn’t feel serious. Not even a little.
It felt like both of them were playing pretend. Like they were together just to not be lonely.
So, naturally, they made a Very Normal Couple Decision.
They got a dog.
Enter: Leo 🐾
“You don’t have to,” Alex had said, scrolling through an adoption site on her tablet. “But I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“I’m in,” Charles said too quickly.
A week later, Leo arrived.
He was a golden ball of fluff with judgmental eyes and a powerful attitude for someone who weighed less than a helmet.
Leo liked tennis balls, selective cuddles, and destroying Charles’ socks.
He hated the vacuum, Alex’s perfume, and being told what to do.
But overall? He was okay.
Until he met Y/N.
———
“Look at him!” Y/N gasped the first time she came over.
She dropped to the floor faster than Charles could blink. “Who’s the most handsome boy ever? Is it you? I think it’s you.”
Leo, who had previously ignored Charles for two hours, threw himself into her lap like he’d found his long-lost love.
Charles stood off to the side, arms crossed.
“He never lets me pick him up,” he muttered.
Y/N rubbed her face into Leo’s fur. “Because he has standards.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t get jealous just because your dog likes me more.”
“I’m not jealous of my own dog.”
Leo licked her nose.
Pierre, who had somehow FaceTimed himself into the situation, laughed through the phone. “Charles. You got replaced by a dog. In your own house.”
“Hang up.”
From that moment on, Leo was obsessed.
He wanted Y/N. Only Y/N.
She’d walk into a room, and Leo would bolt to her side. She’d laugh, and Leo would spin in circles. She’d leave, and Leo would sit at the door and whine.
Charles, meanwhile, was slowly losing his mind.
“Bro,” Arthur said one day, watching Leo ignore Alex. “He hates your girlfriend.”
“He doesn’t hate her. He’s just… more attached to Y/N.”
Pierre sent a voice note. “Aka..Leo knows who his real mom is.”
“Shut up.”
Max even sent a photo he took of Leo asleep in Y/N’s lap with the caption “he looks happier than you’ve ever been.”
Charles replied with ten middle finger emojis.
———
Operation: Escape
One night, Charles came home and nearly had a heart attack.
“Leo?” he called.
Nothing.
He ran around the apartment. Backyard? Empty. Under the table? Gone. Not even in the laundry basket, which was his usual throne.
Then his phone buzzed.
Y/N: “Look who showed up at my door 🐾😭”
A photo of Leo curled up on her couch like a prince.
Charles stared at the screen. “He escaped.”
He showed up at her door at 1 AM. In the dark. Somehow navigated Monaco like he had GPS.
“I swear this dog memorized your address,” Charles said when he picked Leo up the next day.
Charles glared at Leo. “You’re grounded.”
Leo yawned.
———
The thing was, Charles knew it was coming.
Alexandra wasn’t stupid. She saw it too.
They were having dinner on her balcony, the lights soft, the food untouched, and Leo sleeping a full three feet away like even he wanted distance from the situation.
She was staring at him.
He was staring at the table.
“Can I ask you something?” she said finally.
“Sure.”
“Have you ever been in love with me?”
Charles blinked.
There it was.
He opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Alex smiled. Not sad. Not mad. Just… knowing. ‘Yeah. That’s what I thought.’”
He let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She shrugged, poking at her pasta. “I knew before we started. I mean, come on. I’m an art girl, Charles. I read body language like newspapers. You look at your best friend like she hung the stars.”
He swallowed. “We’ve known each other forever.”
“And you’ve been in love with her for just as long.”
Charles ran a hand through his hair. “We never talk about it.”
“Maybe you should.”
A silence fell between them.
Then Alexandra raised her glass. “To not wasting each other’s time.”
He smiled faintly. “To peace.”
They clinked glasses.
And that was that.
No yelling. No fighting. No guilt.
Just quiet understanding.
As they cleared the plates, Alexandra glanced at Leo, still dead asleep on the floor. “You know,” she said, “he’s gonna be thrilled.”
Charles raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“The breakup,” she said. “Leo. He’ll probably throw a party.”
Charles snorted. “He did growl at you for hugging me once.”
Alex laughed. “That little traitor. He’s been shipping you and Y/N since day one.”
Charles rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. As weird as it sounded… she wasn’t wrong.
They hugged goodbye at the door. No drama. No tears. And just like that, it was over.
Alex left with her tote bag slung over her shoulder and her headphones already in, waving once before disappearing down the hallway.
And that was how Charles found himself officially single, standing in a quiet apartment with a half-asleep dog who barely reacted to the breakup.
Leo just blinked up at him from the floor like, Finally.
———
After Charles and Alex broke up, things went weirdly quiet.
No more dinner reservations. No more fake-couple photo dumps. No more Leo trying to wedge himself between Charles and Alex on the couch like a clingy toddler.
Just Charles. And Leo. And the occasional judgmental huff when Charles tried to feed him kibble instead of grilled chicken.
The breakup was mutual. Predictable. Emotionally flat. Charles couldn’t even remember who technically said it first. All he remembered was walking Leo later that night and thinking, “Well. That’s over.”
And then came the weirdest part…Y/N started borrowing Leo. Constantly.
“Oh, can I take Leo to the park?”
“Leo and I are going to get puppuccinos!”
“Do you mind if I bring Leo on a drive? He likes the windows down.”
And every time, Charles said yes. Because it’s Y/N. Because Leo would actually whine at the door if she was late.
But lately… something felt off.
Because every time Leo came back from one of these mysterious little Y/N adventures, he would stand in front of Charles, stare him dead in the eyes, and bark.
Not just a “hello” bark. No, this was aggressive. Personal. Like he was trying to say something. Like he was personally offended by Charles’ existence.
“You okay, buddy?” Charles asked one day, crouching down as Leo barked directly into his soul.
Leo responded by turning around and peeing on Charles’ shoe.
Cool.
———
One Race Weekend Later
Charles was sitting with Max, Lando, George, and Pierre in the hospitality lounge, trying to eat his salad in peace, when Y/N appeared like a sunshine-wrapped grenade.
“Hi!” she smiled, leash in hand. “Returning your son.”
Leo trotted beside her, tail wagging like he’d had the best day ever.
“Oh, thank you,” Charles said, standing up and reaching for the leash. “Did he behave?”
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “Didn’t you, Leo?”
Leo sat down like a good boy. Looked up at Charles. Then immediately stood up on his hind legs and barked. One. Two. Three times. Loud. Sharp. Full-body commitment.
Y/N blinked. “Well, I’ll leave you to it!” she chirped, patting Leo’s head. “Bye, boys!”
She turned on her heel and walked away.
Leo watched her go. Tail still wagging. Love in his eyes.
Then he lost it.
BARK. BARK. BARK. BARK.
Straight at Charles.
Again.
Lando nearly dropped his water bottle.
“Mate,” George said slowly, “I think your dog’s yelling at you.”
Pierre was already doubled over. “No, no. He’s scolding him. Like a parent. You hear that? That’s ‘I raised you better than this’ energy.”
“What could he even be trying to say?” Max asked, half-laughing.
Charles sighed, rubbing his temples. “He always does this when he comes back from Y/N’s. Every time.”
“Maybe he’s saying stop making him spend time with her,” George suggested, shrugging.
“Stop spending time with Y/N?” Lando repeated. “Leo? The same dog who ditched Alex mid-walk just to run into Y/N’s arms? That Leo?”
“The dog who literally adopted Y/N as his real parent?” Pierre added.
“Are we talking about the same Leo?” Max joined in. “The one who escaped Charles’ house at one in the morning, ran three blocks, and rang Y/N’s doorbell with his paw?”
“That wasn’t even a one-time thing,” arthur said. “He did it again two nights later with Charles’ wallet in his mouth. Like he was leaving him.”
Pierre was howling. “Leo said ‘divorce is real.’”
“Guys,” Charles muttered, covering his face with both hands, “he’s just a dog.”
“You mean the dog?” Max said. “The dog that growled at Alex for three straight days and wouldn’t let her sit on the couch?”
“I just think it’s suspicious,” Lando added. “He doesn’t bark like that for anyone else. Only after Y/N drops him off.”
“Okay,” Pierre said, clapping his hands dramatically. “Let’s list the possibilities. Option one: Leo is trying to tell you Y/N’s keeping secrets. Option two: Leo is mad you’re not confessing your feelings. Option three: Leo is a reincarnated therapist and wants you to get your shit together.”
“Option four,” Max said, sipping his water, “he’s just deeply disappointed in you.”
Leo barked again. Loud. One single, dramatic bark.
Everyone went silent.
George pointed slowly. “That sounded personal.”
Lando suddenly gasped. “Wait. You said he only does it after Y/N drops him off, right?”
Charles blinked. “Yeah?”
“Then maybe he’s mad about something they did during the day.”
George nodded seriously. “We need to find out what.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “You want to follow Y/N?”
“Yes,” Pierre said instantly, already pulling out a cap like this was Ocean’s Eleven. “We follow her. We watch. We learn. We discover what Charles did to offend the Dog Overlord.”
Charles groaned. “Guys-”
“You’re outvoted,” Lando said. “You’ve been barked at. That makes you biased.”
———
The Next Day: Operation Bush
The mission was a disaster from the start.
For starters, their idea of stealth was laughable. A group of grown men in bucket hats and sunglasses, wearing a chaotic mix of Ferrari and McLaren hoodies. And of course, Max in his Red Bull Against the World. All of them crouched behind a bush across the street from Y/N’s building like that somehow made them invisible.
“She’s coming out!” Lando whisper-yelled.
Y/N stepped out, leash in hand, Leo happily trotting beside her like a kid on summer break. She was wearing sunglasses, humming something under her breath.
“She looks normal,” George whispered.
“Too normal,” Pierre muttered, scribbling something down.
“She’s heading to the park,” Max said, already power-walking to keep up. “Everybody act casual.”
So, of course, they walked in a straight line behind her, all five of them holding identical takeaway cups and pretending to talk to each other like this was a team-building exercise.
She sat on a bench. Leo ran around. She took selfies. Leo chased a leaf. They sat together and watched ducks for 15 full minutes.
“She’s literally just existing,” George said flatly.
“Wait. Wait. She’s leaving,” Lando pointed. “Where now?”
Y/N walked for a bit, Leo trotting beside her, until she turned the corner into a cozy-looking street and entered a small café with fairy lights and plants spilling out of every windowsill.
They all scrambled into a bush across the street.
“She always comes here,” Charles said softly. “It’s her favorite. Says the view’s the best outside.”
They watched as she sat at her usual corner table on the terrace, the one that overlooked the marina. She unhooked Leo’s leash and plopped him into the seat beside her like he was royalty.
“That’s his seat?” George blinked.
“Oh, he’s definitely her son,” Lando whispered.
Suddenly, the owner walked out. Mid-twenties, charming smile, carrying a tiny dessert plate.
“Here you go!” the guy grinned, placing the dessert in front of Y/N. “Your usual. And of course it’s on the house, for my number one fan.”
“HA!” Pierre whispered. “Number one fan?! You heard that right?!”
Y/N laughed. “You’re the best, Marco.”
“Anything for you.” He winked.
“Oh my God, they’re flirting,” George gasped.
“They look like a couple,” Lando added. “This is how rom-coms start.”
Charles was frozen. Silent.
Leo, however? Leo snapped to attention. Sat up in his little chair like a mafia boss. Eyes locked on Marco.
Then it began.
BARK. BARK. BARKBARKBARK.
He tried to stand on two legs, pawing furiously at Marco. Tail stiff. Deeply offended.
“Leo! Not again,” Y/N groaned, holding his collar. “He’s a nice guy! I swear, he’s never like this with anyone else.”
Marco chuckled, adjusting the plate. “It’s fine. He’ll eventually end up loving me. Everyone does.”
The boys collectively gasped from the bush.
“OH MY GOD HE’S CALLING SHOTGUN,” George whisper-screamed.
“HE SAID eventually. As in, he’s sticking around,” Lando added.
“HE’S BASICALLY DECLARING HIS INTENTIONS IN FRONT OF THE DOG,” Pierre shouted in a whisper.
Leo was now practically crawling over Y/N’s lap, trying to wedge himself between her and Marco, paws pushing, tail going wild.
“You’re gonna knock the dessert over. Leo, STOP!”
Charles hadn’t said a word.
———
Twenty Minutes Later: Nearby Restaurant
The team had relocated to a corner restaurant around the block, all huddled in silence around a table, water glasses untouched, menus ignored.
Nobody spoke for a full minute.
Until-
“So that’s why he’s been barking,” George said softly.
“Charles,” Pierre began gently, “even Leo is telling you to make a move.”
“You’ve had years,” Max said. “And a dog figured it out in one café trip.”
“Even a dog can tell other guys to back away from Y/N,” Lando added, “but you? You’re just standing there letting leo fight your battles.”
“He literally tried to commit assault by paw,” Pierre said. “For you.”
Charles sighed. “They were just laughing.”
“They were giggling, Charles. Giggling. Do you know what it means when a girl giggles?!” George shouted.
“Marco said ‘eventually’ like he’s planning the wedding.”
“LEO is fighting for your woman harder than you are!”
“Hold on. Are we saying Leo’s the main character now?”
₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚
Charles wasn’t even pretending to be chill anymore.
He stood at the front door, arms crossed, pacing like he was about to meet the principal. Behind him, the living room was full of chaos.
Pierre was sprawled dramatically across the couch. George was holding Leo’s favorite toy like a support item. Max and Lando were eating snacks like they were watching a pay-per-view event.
“I thought you guys were going home,” Charles muttered, glancing back.
“We are,” Max said, mouth full. “After Leo returns.”
“Yeah,” George added. “Can’t miss the bark show.”
“This is messed up,” Charles muttered.
“This is science,” Pierre corrected. “We’re studying the phenomenon of Bark Communication.”
And then, the doorbell rang.
Everyone sat up straighter like trained dogs themselves.
Charles nearly tripped over his own feet getting to the door. He flung it open, smiling too fast.
“Hi!” he said, a little too eagerly.
“Hi, Y/N,” George, Pierre, Lando, Arthur, and Max called from the couch like a chorus of nosy aunties.
Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, hi…?”
Charles ignored the chaos behind him. “Had a good day? Where did you go? Who did you meet?”
Y/N squinted at him suspiciously. “Just the park. A cafe. You know…around.”
Charles leaned slightly forward. “Who did you meet?”
“Oh, just… someone,” she said vaguely, bending down to unclip Leo’s leash. “Here’s your baby back.”
Leo padded into the apartment like a prince returning from war.
“Thanks for letting him spend the day with me,” Y/N said, smiling as she straightened up. “Makes the start and end of my day so much brighter.”
Charles blinked.
George mouthed bro you’re done for.
Pierre audibly sighed like he was watching a romance movie.
“See you guys,” Y/N waved, completely unaware of the crowd watching her.
“Bye!” Charles said quickly.
“Bye Y/N!”
“See you again soon!”
“Say hi to Mar-!”
Charles slammed the door.
Leo trotted into the kitchen for a dramatic slurp of water like a man who had experienced too much.
The boys already buzzing.
“Oh oh,” Lando said, pointing as Leo walked into the living room. “It’s scolding time.”
Sure enough, Leo marched right up to Charles. Planted his feet. Looked him dead in the eye.
And barked.
Loud.
Three times.
“Here we go,” George grinned. “Translation: you absolute moron.”
“Are you mad at me, Leo?” Charles asked, eyebrows raised.
BARK.
“That’s a yes,” Pierre said, nodding solemnly.
“Is it because you don’t like guys being all over Y/N?” Charles continued.
Leo let out a growly bark and gave what definitely looked like a head nod.
Charles blinked. “Well… I also didn’t like that.”
“Then why don’t you bark at him too?” Max said dryly. “Start a turf war.”
“Bring Leo for backup,” Lando added. “Two dogs, one girl, one love story.”
“This is ridiculous,” Charles muttered.
“No, this is destiny,” Pierre corrected.
Charles looked at Leo, who was now wagging his tail like mad, practically vibrating.
“Okay,” Charles said softly. “I’m going to talk to Y/N. About everything.”
Leo’s tail kicked into overdrive. He circled Charles like a little tornado of golden fluff. Let out a high-pitched happy bark and practically jumped onto the couch in victory.
Everyone stared.
George whispered, “Did… did Leo just do a happy dance?”
“He did,” Max said. “That was definitely a happy dance.”
“Even the dog is celebrating and you haven’t even confessed yet,” Pierre pointed out. “Imagine how much tail wagging we’ll get when you kiss her.”
“I’m telling you,” Lando said with his mouth full of popcorn. “Leo’s not a dog. He’s a wingman. And he’s doing God’s work.”
“Better than Charles is,” George added.
Leo barked in agreement.
———
The next morning, Y/N was already at Charles’ place with Leo when he casually walked over, trying not to look like he’d rehearsed this four times in the mirror.
“Hey,” he said, voice too casual. “Can I tag along today?”
Y/N looked up from where she was adjusting Leo’s collar. “With me and Leo?”
“Yeah. Just… you know, hang out. Go wherever you two usually go.”
She smiled. “Sure. You’re the owner. You’re allowed to see your dog.”
Charles grinned. Leo wagged his tail like he knew.
Later That Day…
It was honestly… nice. Strolling through the park, walking along the promenade, stopping by the market where Y/N bought Leo a cookie and Charles a lemonade “because you’re always dehydrated, idiot.”
Charles was floating. Leo was smiling. Even the pigeons weren’t annoying today.
But then. Then came the café.
Y/N’s café.
The Café of Flirtageddon.
They sat at her usual table outside. Leo was curled up at her feet, the sun was shining, the breeze was light. Then Charles suddenly started scanning the area like a man on a mission.
“What are you doing?” Y/N asked, amused.
“Nothing,” he muttered, frowning at the door like it had personally offended him.
Enter: Marco. The friendly cafe owner. Carrying Y/N’s favorite dessert with a practiced hand and a charming smile.
“Here you go,” Marco said, setting the plate down. “Same as always. Best customer gets the best treatment, huh?”
Charles’ eyes narrowed.
Y/N smiled. “Thank you, Marco.”
Marco leaned on the table slightly. “You know, I added extra caramel today. Thought of you when I made it.”
“Oh, it looks amazing-”
“Actually,” Charles cut in, loudly, “Y/N can’t eat too much sugar. She’ll get a headache.”
Y/N blinked. “Charles, what—”
“Also, we’re gonna walk Leo after this. Sugar and walking, not the best combo, right?” he added, folding his arms.
Marco looked confused. “Uh. Right. Well… enjoy!”
He left with an awkward smile, and Y/N slowly turned her head.
“Charles,” she said, grinning. “What was that?”
“What?” he asked, pretending innocence. “Just looking out for your health.”
She laughed but said nothing else.
Charles did not notice the idiots sitting behind a hedge across the street, disguised once again in hoodies and sunglasses.
“Bro,” Pierre wheezed, recording the whole thing. “He interrupted every sentence. Like... every Single. One.
“Marco didn’t even get to blink without Charles breathing down his neck,” Lando added.
George cackled. “Oh my god. Side-by-side video. Leo vs Charles. Interrupting Bros.”
Max just snorted. “Looks like we know where Leo got it from.”
They filmed everything. Charles footage. Charles turning red. Marco fleeing.
Iconic.
———
Back at the Table
Y/N was giggling to herself.
“What?” Charles asked, confused but suspicious.
Y/N pointed at him. “Now I know where Leo gets it from.”
“Gets what?”
“That.” She laughed. “Interrupting my conversations when I’m talking to guys.”
Charles blinked. “I don’t do that.”
“You literally did it ten minutes ago.”
Charles tried to change the subject, flustered. “What do you mean Leo does it? Like… how often?”
Y/N picked at her dessert. “Well, at first I thought he just didn’t like strangers. But I noticed he’s only like that when I’m with guys. Even with your brother Arthur. He started guarding me like a jealous boyfriend.”
She laughed again, clearly joking.
But Charles didn’t.
He went quiet. Rubbed the back of his neck. Cheeks turning very, very red.
“Yeah. I guess he got it from me.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
Charles looked down. “I mean… I always interrupt. I get mad. I get jealous. Because I-because I’ve been in love with you. For a long time.”
Y/N froze.
Charles rushed on, nervous. “I get it if you don’t feel the same. I just… Leo clearly sees it, and I thought maybe…”
Y/N cut him off.
“I feel it.”
Charles stopped. Looked up.
“What?”
Y/N smiled softly. “I feel it, Charles. I’ve felt it for a long time. I literally told you the other day.”
He blinked. “You… what? When?”
(Flashback)
Y/N handing Leo back at the door, grinning.
“Thank you for letting him spend the day with me. Makes the start and end of my day brighter.”
She had looked right at him when she said it.
Not Leo.
Him.
(END)
Charles’s eyes widened. “That was about me?”
Y/N nodded.
Charles laughed, completely overwhelmed, before pulling her into a tight hug. “I am Stupid, I am stupid”
“You are,” she mumbled into his shirt.
Leo barked, circling them happily before wedging himself right between them like the chaos king he is.
“Of course,” Charles muttered, laughing. “He wants in too.”
———
Later That Night…
Charles was curled up on the couch with Y/N, her head tucked under his chin, his arms around her. Leo was squished between them like the furry bridge that started it all.
Suddenly, Y/N’s phone pinged.
It was a message from Pierre.
Video attachment: 🐶🐶 “WHO DID IT BETTER?”
The video had two side-by-side panels.
On the left: Leo interrupting Marco.
On the right: Charles interrupting Marco.
Same energy. Same timing. Same dramatic expression. Even the tail wag (in Charles’ case, it’s obviously metaphorical).
Y/N burst out laughing, ruffling Charles’s hair.
“What?” he mumbled into her neck.
She showed him the video.
He groaned. “I hate all of them.”
“They’re your best men at the wedding,” she said immediately.
Charles blinked. “Wedding?”
She smirked. “Manifesting.”
Leo barked once, very confidently.
Charles kissed her temple and sighed. “Unbelievable.”
Author’s Note: Hello, author here! Before we jump in, I just want to give a huge thanks to my amazing beta reader Tammie (@tammiesheep). They're incredibly patient with me and helped a lot with this chapter.
While this fanfic is tagged as Malleus x Reader, it leans much more heavily into the psychological horror genre. All relevant trigger warnings are listed, so if you feel this might not be the kind of content you’re comfortable with, please feel free to explore something lighter on my blog.
Also, this fic draws a lot of inspiration from gothic literature - so expect metaphors, symbolism, and things that aren’t meant to be taken 100% literally. It's more about mood and meaning, so take your time, and let the story sink in.
Thanks so much for reading and supporting my work. I really hope you enjoy this chapter.
Trigger Warnings: death, angst, grief, mentally unstable Malleus, implications of depression, implied suicide, sex with a ghost (symbolic), obcession, sexual content, gaslighting (implied), unreliable narrator, canon-divergent characterization, darkfic, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT!
MDNI
Characters Count: 12015
In his dreams, he saw you.
You moved through endless fields, bathed in dying sunlight, your silhouette veiled in golden haze. The fabric of your garments danced with the wind - soft, weightless, almost otherworldly - as if nature itself was afraid to touch you too roughly. Your laughter rang out, distant and crystalline, echoing like wind chimes forgotten in a long-abandoned garden, a sound too delicate to belong to this world. And there you stood - or seemed to - framed in wildflowers. But whenever Malleus reached for you, fingers trembling with a desperate wish to touch your body once more, you dissolved like mist between his hands. Then, you fell. Every time. Just as you had the night you plummeted from the tower, limbs collapsing like broken wings, eyes empty before they even met the ground, just like a dead dove, shot by someone too cruel to be called a person.
He always woke the same: drenched in cold sweat, lungs seizing, breath dragging ragged through his chest as if he’d been underwater. His heart slammed against his ribs like a prisoner demanding release. And there - waiting in the silence like a curse - was your ghost. Not quite you, but a cruel imitation: a mask of your face stretched over emptiness, attempting (and failing) to mimic the softness that once lived in your eyes. Malleus would rise without a word, drawing in a breath as heavy and hollow as a funeral bell - and begin pacing the endless corridors of his castle.
You followed, of course. You always did.
Your presence trailed him with persistence, like a bad memory who refused to let him go. Malleus no longer pretended to guide his steps, nor to command the weight of the ghost that haunted them. Since the first moment your specter returned to the castle - wreathed in silence and actions colder than death - he had lived beneath your gaze. Not loving. Not cruel. Just watching. A judgment draped in the shape of you, delicate and dreadful. You were grief made flesh, a memory that walked, and, everywhere he turned, you were there - hovering behind with the stillness of something divine, eyes fixed not on his face, but deeper - into his soul. As though you were cataloging every moment of his failure, every sin he'd tried to bury beneath titles and time.
At first, Malleus welcomed it. To be haunted by the one he loved most felt like a mercy compared to forgetting. He whispered to you beneath the moon, confessions unspooling like prayers: how he missed you, how desperately he longed for the warmth of your touch, how sorry he was - for everything. Every wrong, every silence, every night he wasn't enough… for being such a cruel lover. But you never spoke back, you only smiled. That damned smile. The kind only the dead can wear - knowing, unblinking, stitched with the knowledge of every secret the living still try to hide. It wasn't warm. It wasn't forgiveness. It was the smile of a corpse that had seen beyond the veil… and returned only to remind him of what he lost.
You were always there.
Every day, without fail, you lingered just beside him - whether he sat upon his throne, strolled through the castle gardens, or stood before the great stained glass of the chapel, lit by fractured sunlight. No matter the hour, no matter the company. You hovered like a breath at the edge of awareness - silent and constant, unbearable. Yet no one else ever saw you. To the courtiers, there was no miracle. No resurrection. Only a king slowly going insane beneath the weight of loss. Whenever Malleus let his gaze linger too long upon the empty air beside him - when he murmured soft, broken words meant only for your ears - the court exchanged glances, whispering of grief’s toll and the slow erosion of sanity. Pity dripped from their voices like honey hiding rot. But it didn’t matter. None of them could ever comprehend the depth of his devotion - the searing ache of love twisted by death. They didn’t know what it meant to yearn for someone with such ferocity that even their ghost was a treasure… and a torment. You were both: A blessing, a curse, a constant reminder of everything he had and everything he lost.
But it was at night that his restraint unraveled - when grief and lust blurred into each other, becoming a mix of his urges. Under the cover of darkness, with only the gods as witnesses, Malleus would press himself against your figure, lips brushing the hollow of your neck like a man praying at the altar of a long-dead deity. His kisses traced the slope of your collarbones, then your lips - searching for something lost, some flicker of warmth, a single spark of the soul he had loved beyond reason. But you never properly responded to him.
Your gaze remained fixed and empty, as though staring through him. Undeterred, he continued, hands trembling as they trailed down your sides, mouth worshipping the skin he once knew so well. He settled between your thighs, lips parting against the memory of your intimacy, tongue tasting what remained, fingers clutching at your legs like a drowning man clings to driftwood. Then, he looked up, eyes wide - not with lust, but with hope and desperation. As if, this time, you might sigh, whisper or beg. Gently guide his head with a breathless moan and remind him that he was still wanted and deeply loved.
But there was no gasp. No plea. Not even a shiver. Just that mocking smile of someone who thought his pain was amusing. For this poor, broken dragon, the act felt like sacrilege because the flesh beneath his hands - though shaped like yours, though clothed in the memory of your scent and smile - was not you. It wore your face like a mask, your body like a borrowed dress. But it wasn’t you. And oh, how cruel that realization was.
With every thrust, every whispered whimper was like making love to a painting. To a statue. And in that terrible, shuddering clarity, it felt - for just a moment - like he was inside someone else's body. Yet he didn’t stop. Because the illusion, however faint, however sickening… was all he had left. And to let go of it would be the same to admit you were never coming back.
And so, each night, he buried himself inside you. Your flesh wrapped around him like the grave itself, tight but lacking any love. His hips moved with aching slowness, driven not by pleasure, but by desperation. He panted against your throat, breath fogging against skin that no longer warmed beneath his touch. It was nothing like the nights you once shared - when your body radiated heat and love, when your moans stitched themselves into his soul like lullabies, when he whispered between kisses how fragile you were, how divine, how he sometimes wished to lock you away just to protect your life.
His hips moved with frantic rhythm, desperate and uneven, chasing the phantom of a hunger that once felt real. It was a poor imitation of the way you had once welcomed him in life: warm and alive, smiling beneath him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, offering yourself as if he were a starving god and your body, the altar. He remembered it too well - how you used to wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, whispering his name like a lover would. But now, your body was as unfeeling as carved marble.
Still, he thrust into you with the same frenzied devotion, as if his desperation alone might summon your soul back into your bones. One hand gripped your hip, guiding you against him with futility. The other braced against the mattress, slick with sweat, as his head fell back and a groan tore from his throat - raw, choked, caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. His jaw slackened, lips parted in a breathless gasp as the name he’d tried not to say rose unbidden to the tip of his tongue.
You, however, would not follow him: Your smile was too cruel to belong to the living. It curved across your lips with the malice of a curse - neither loving nor mocking, but something worse: indulgent. The kind of smile worn by ghosts who remember everything. The kind that didn’t symbolize forgiveness, but of the power that comes with being remembered. Your limbs moved slowly, unnaturally - like a marionette pulled by unseen strings - as you reached for him. Cold fingers brushed against his fevered skin as an invitation. You guided him, gently, wordlessly, deeper into the spiral. Deeper into hunger. Deeper into the madness.
And he followed. Of course he did. He always followed.
Your eyes, glazed and fixed on some distant point past him, never once met him. Blank, as though your soul had left long ago, and only the vessel remained to perform this ritual of flesh and grief. And still, it was enough. Because somewhere in the thick, heavy silence that clung to the chamber like a shroud, your voice still lingered. Not spoken, not sung - just present. A breath on the nape of his neck. A whisper in the walls. A perfume long faded from your skin, but never from his memory.
What you did now wasn’t born of the intimacy of the living. It was not the sacred unity he once believed in. It was mechanical and mournful, a ghost of desire clinging to a corpse of love. More an act of grief than of passion, more like masturbation with a memory than the merging of two souls. And sometimes, in the cruel quiet after release, that thought would strike him - sharp, shameful. Was it really your ghost he fucked each night or had his loneliness become so loud that his mind conjured you as a balm, while his own hand did the work beneath the illusion? He never sought the answer, some truths are too cruel to name aloud.
The fae stared at you, as though lost inside some forgotten corridor of his own mind. There was a softness in his eyes for the briefest of moments, a glint of sorrow that flickered like candlelight before a storm. Perhaps he would cry. Perhaps he would fall to his knees and shatter beneath the weight of it all. But instead, he smiled. It was not a smile of love, nor remorse - it was something broken. Night after night, without fail, he surrendered to the ritual. He touched you, worshipped your body like a saint defiling a relic. His lips traced your throat in supplication, his teeth sinking into the hollow of your neck, just where pulse once danced beneath skin now long gone cold. He whispered into your flesh - not poems, not praise, but pleas: Don't leave me. Stay. Stay. Stay.
And you obeyed, as he so desperately wished. How could you not? He had long mistaken love for possession, so certain that even in death, you would bend for him. And in a way, you did. You let him touch you, let him tremble against your cold skin, let him believe you were still his. You gave him what he wanted. Or rather, what he thought he deserved. After all, what better punishment for a man so enamored with control… than to let him have everything he asked for? You watched him reduced to something pathetic. Crawling over your corpse like a sinner over a shrine, eyes wild with need, with longing, with a child's confusion that the world dared to take something away from him. Smiling, crying and pleading like a boy who had never been told no.
And still he didn’t understand. Didn’t understand that when you cage a bird - clip its wings, steal its sky, strip it of freedom and call it love - the song eventually fades. The light behind the eyes dulls and the joy dies. And when that bird, desperate for the wind, finally sees a window crack open - even just a thin crack - it will leap. It will fall. Better to crash against the ground, bones shattered by freedom, than to rot in velvet-lined captivity. But he never saw the difference between falling and fleeing. He only saw betrayal. Abandonment. So he bound you tighter - even in death.
And with every night he desecrates the memory of who you were - panting over flesh he hollowed with his love - you do not scream. You do not strike. You only stare. Because now he is the caged thing, so lost in his own grief to wonder if you are real or just a part of his brain rotting over the need to love something once again.
