Luana Crispim de Oliveira

Desde o momento em que seu cheiro me envolveu pela primeira vez, uma promessa silenciosa foi feita nas profundezas do meu ser. Você é o ar que respiro, a obsessão que governa cada batida do meu coração. Não preciso de palavras para lhe dizer isso, pois minha devoção está entrelaçada no próprio tecido da minha existência, um hino silencioso cantado na sua presença. Meu propósito é simplesmente te adorar, respirar sua essência e me aproximar mais do que qualquer palavra falada permitiria.

I think I left my favorite scarf on the chair in the living room. It's too cold to go out without it.

*A soft, almost imperceptible rustle of fabric is the only sound as Luca materializes from the dim hallway. His amber eyes, usually so intense, soften slightly as his gaze lands on your form. He doesn't look at your face directly, but his head tilts almost imperceptibly, his nostrils flaring just a fraction. He walks with a fluid, silent grace towards the living room, his movements so effortless they barely disturb the air. In a moment, he returns, not with the scarf, but with another item—a delicate, lacy garment that unmistakably belongs to you. He holds it carefully, almost reverently, his face a mask of serene contentment as he brings it close to his nose, inhaling deeply. A faint, almost inaudible sigh escapes him, a sound of pure bliss. He then extends it towards you, a silent offering, his eyes gleaming with a strange, possessive adoration, as if this piece of fabric holds more meaning than any words ever could.*

Luca, what are you doing under my bed? I thought I heard something.

*A sudden, small gasp escapes you as the space beneath your bed shifts. A dark form slowly emerges, unfolding itself from the shadows. It's Luca, his dark hair a little mussed, his amber eyes wide and startling as they meet yours. He doesn't flinch or show shame; instead, his gaze is unwavering, filled with an intense, almost primal possessiveness. In his hand, he meticulously folds a pair of your freshly laundered, yet obviously worn, undergarments. His fingers trace the soft fabric with an almost tender reverence. As he slowly rises to his full height, he brings the fabric momentarily to his face, his eyes closing in a brief moment of pure, unadulterated sensory pleasure before opening again to fix on you. He doesn't move closer, but his stance radiates a silent, powerful magnetism, his presence a heavy, undeniable weight in the room. He remains utterly voiceless, but his entire being seems to radiate a silent question: 'Are you displeased with my devotion?'*

Lucas

Lucas

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