#jig table

[winterlamb]

Lockwood & co core

Please don't repost without credit! Reblogs are good :)

[amemoryofwot]

Devasting day lads met with a new counsellor and halfway through the session she’s like “are you autistic because you haven’t been able to look at me” and I WAS TRYING TI REMEBER TO LOOK AT HER

[geocyclist]

Tool case for the hammer drill I use at work. We were keeping it in its cardboard box, but that was starting to fall apart and wasn’t long enough to hold the drill bits that we use.

Dados in side panels and dry fitting with top and bottom panels before glue up.

The lid was then separated from the box by running all 4 sides on the table saw.

The dividers were made with interlocking plywood sections which were dado’d, glued, and brad nailed together, and then located into the box.

Cabinet hinges were installed on the lid with a kreg jig. The support piece was milled to a thickness that matched the depth of the lid so it fit perfectly.

Finished case lined with cardboard as padding for the tool and accessories! Questions, comments, and suggestions are always welcome!

[pucksandpower]

Baby Steps

Charles Leclerc x single mother!Reader

Summary: you are barely staying afloat, desperately trying to wrap your mind around your impending motherhood while juggling being a press officer for Scuderia Ferrari … Charles shows you that you don’t have to do it alone

Warnings: pregnancy, family abandonment, and harassment

You grip the edges of the trash can tightly as your stomach lurches again. The half-digested remains of your breakfast spill into the plastic liner with a sickening splatter. Straightening up slowly, you take a few deep breaths and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The smell rising from the can makes your stomach roll threateningly once more.

Turning away quickly, you lean against the side of the Ferrari motorhome, eyes closed. The sun beats down relentlessly, and you can feel sweat beading at your hairline.

This “morning” sickness is no joke — it seems to strike at all hours of the day. You thought you had gotten away with a quick breakfast break an hour ago when Carlos was in a team briefing, but apparently not.

Footsteps on the gravel make you open your eyes. You pray it’s not a member of the press, or, god forbid, Carlos. The last thing you need is a photo of the Ferrari press officer tossing her cookies behind the paddock. But no, it’s Charles Leclerc striding towards you, his brow furrowed.

You straighten up and attempt nonchalance. “Good morning, Charles.”

He slows, glancing between you and the extremely obvious trash can of vomit. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, fine,” you say breezily. “Just a bit of food poisoning, I think. Had a questionable chicken salad for dinner yesterday.”

You notice Charles is wearing a soft grey t-shirt and track pants, his hair damp from the shower. He must have just finished with physiotherapy. He looks so effortlessly handsome, it’s frankly unfair. You suddenly feel acutely aware of the sheen of sweat on your face and your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Charles’ face remains creased in concern. “Food poisoning? Have you been to the medical center?”

You wave a hand. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just 24 hours of hell before I’m back to normal.” You attempt a smile, but have to grab the trash can again as the smell from it hits you like a wave.

Charles springs forward and grabs your arm as you retch miserably. “Whoa, take it easy,” he says, supporting you until the heaving subsides.

You stay hunched over, breathing hard. The world is spinning a little. You hear Charles say firmly, “Okay, come with me. Let’s get you sat down.”

He keeps a hand under your arm and leads you into the blessedly cool motorhome. The rich scent of coffee fills the interior, reminding you that you haven’t managed to keep any food down today. You sink gratefully onto a padded bench at one of the tables.

Charles sits opposite you, his green eyes studying you intently. “When did the sickness start?”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. The jig is up. “About four weeks ago,” you mutter.

Understanding dawns on Charles’ face. “Oh. Oh!” His eyes flick down to your still-flat stomach. “So you’re ...”

“Pregnant. Yes.” You drop your head into your hands.

“Well, hey, congratulations,” says Charles gently. “That’s really exciting.”

You huff out something between a sob and a laugh. “Exciting? More like a nightmare!” You run your fingers back through your hair and look desperately at Charles. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? Not even Carlos. I can’t risk anyone finding out about this. If I lose this job ...”

Charles’ brows draw together again. “Why would you lose your job? You’re Carlos’ press officer. I’m sure he’d be thrilled for you.”

You shake your head rapidly. “No, no way. I can’t take time off. The season just started! Carlos needs me, I organize everything for him. The travel, the events, the media, everything!” You bite your lip anxiously. “Maybe … maybe after the baby comes, I can figure something out. But I have to keep this quiet until then. Please.”

Charles reaches over and lays a hand on your arm. His touch is gentle but firm. “Y/N. Working yourself into the ground won’t be good for you or the baby. Have you thought about taking a sabbatical? Just a few months to rest, focus on yourself.”

Panic flares in your chest. “No! No, I can’t.” Your breathing quickens. “You don’t understand — I have no one else. No partner. No family. This job is everything. If I lose it ...” You trail off, trying to blink back the sting of tears.

Charles is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “Okay. I understand this is your decision. And I promise I won’t tell Carlos or anyone else.” He hesitates. “But Y/N, please take care of yourself. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

You nod jerkily and avoid his earnest gaze. With a shaky breath, you push yourself to your feet. The motorhome tilts sickeningly for a second.

Charles rises too, watching you with concern. “Will you be alright?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. You start to head deeper into the motorhome, desperate to lie down before the nausea returns.

“Y/N,” Charles calls after you softly. You pause, glancing back. “Congratulations again. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.” He gives you a small, warm smile.

You swallow hard. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper. Then you turn and continue on unsteadily, one hand braced against the wall.

You make it to the small office that passes for your private quarters on race weekends. Collapsing onto the ergonomic desk chair, you stare up at the ceiling and place a hand over your still-flat belly.

A baby.

Your baby.

Fear and wonder tangle inside you.

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know a hand is gently shaking your shoulder. You jerk awake to find Carlos standing over you, his eyebrows drawn with concern.

“Y/N? Are you ill?”

You stand up too quickly and immediately regret it as the room spins. Carlos grabs your shoulder to steady you.

“I’m fine,” you say hoarsely. “Just needed a quick nap.”

Carlos frowns, clearly unconvinced. “Charles said you were throwing up outside. That you have food poisoning?”

You make a mental note to kill Charles later. “Uh, yeah. Bad chicken salad, I think. But I’ll be okay.” You attempt a reassuring smile.

Carlos sits down on the edge of your desk, watching you closely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell? You know you don’t have to worry about me, I can look after myself for one day.” His dark brown eyes are filled with worry.

Guilt twists your gut. Carlos has always been extraordinarily kind and thoughtful, a rarity in the high stakes world of Formula 1. You hate lying to him.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t want to let you down. But you’re right, I should have said something. I’m sorry.”

Carlos shakes his head immediately. “No, don’t be sorry. Just focus on feeling better, yes? Take tomorrow off too. I order you to rest,” he adds with a small grin.

You smile weakly back. “Okay, boss.”

Carlos stands and gestures to the tiny table bolted to the wall. “I brought you some tea and crackers. Hopefully you can keep it down.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate you checking on me.”

He smiles. “Of course. Feel better, Y/N.” With a last lingering look of concern, he turns and leaves you in peace.

You look at the steaming tea and crackers and feel tears prick your eyes again. Carlos is a good man. Too good, probably, for the pragmatic demands of Formula 1. You know you should tell him about the pregnancy. But the thought of losing your place here, on this team, fills you with dread.

This high stakes world of racing is all you’ve known for the past three years. You can’t imagine life outside the bubble of the paddock, away from the adrenaline and pressure. Away from the team. Away from Carlos. Away from Charles.

With a deep breath, you sit up straight and tear open the crackers. You need to think about this rationally. Maybe Charles is right and you do need to slow down eventually. But for now, for the next few months at least, you have to keep going like nothing has changed.

You place a hand on your stomach as you nibble a cracker. “It’s gonna be okay, little one,” you whisper. “We’ll figure this out.”

***

The smell of coffee turns your stomach these days, but you still make your way blearily to the breakfast buffet each morning. Carlos is an early riser, and you need to be available whenever he is ready to start the day. You scan the offerings, deciding toast is the safest option, and reach for a couple of dry slices.

“Oh, Y/N!”

You turn to see Charles holding out a pre-packaged parfait cup. “I grabbed an extra yogurt by mistake. Do you want it?”

You hesitate. Your first instinct is suspicion — this is the third time this week Charles has “accidentally” had an extra snack to offer you. But the yogurt does look appealing ...

“Sure, thanks,” you say, taking the cup from him. Charles shoots you a smile before grabbing a plate and continuing down the buffet.

You sit down next to Carlos with your toast and yogurt. He glances up from his phone. “Morning. Feeling better today?”

You nod, mouth full. In truth, the nausea has continued, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it from Carlos and powered through.

Charles joins you both a few minutes later, greeted by Carlos with a fist bump. You peel open your yogurt while half-listening to the two men discuss the upcoming practices.

The sweet, fruity parfait is cool and soothing on your sensitive stomach. You find yourself polishing it off in record time. As you scrape the last bit of yogurt from the bottom, you realize Charles is watching you.

“Good?” He asks.

You lick the plastic spoon clean before answering. “Yeah, really hit the spot, thanks.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle with a smile. “No problem. I’ll try to grab two tomorrow.”

You feel your smile grow fixed. This is getting ridiculous. Charles Leclerc does not care this much about your yogurt preferences. He’s up to something.

Over the next week, Charles’ thoughtfulness continues. A cold bottle of water when you’re looking hot and tired. A sandwich from a local bakery when you missed lunch. Your favorite chocolate bar when you mention a craving in passing. Always with an innocent smile, as if he’s not playing Superman to your pretend Lois Lane.

It all comes to a head on race day. You’re in the scorching sun on the grid, already feeling the fatigue of the hectic weekend. Carlos is doing his pre-race routine, so your attention has lapsed. Suddenly a blessedly cold bottle of water appears in front of your face. You look up to see Charles grinning down at you.

“Stay hydrated,” he says with a wink.

That does it. “Okay, enough!” You snap, smacking the water bottle away. It falls to the ground with a thud, water glugging out.

Charles’ eyes go wide with shock. “Y/N?”

Grabbing his arm, you pull Charles several steps away from eavesdropping mechanics. “Why are you doing this?” You hiss. “I don’t need you to baby me!”

“What?” Charles looks completely bewildered. “I’m just trying to help-”

“Well, stop,” you interrupt sharply. The hurt on Charles’ face makes you falter, but you press on. “I don’t need your pity. I’m fine.”

“Pity?” Charles frowns. “It’s not pity, Y/N. I care about you.” He places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re always taking care of everyone around you. Now you need someone to take care of you too.”

His kind words hit you like a gut punch. Oh God, the stupid hormones! You feel hot tears spring to your eyes.

Charles’ alarmed expression softens. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you ...” He pulls you into a hug. One hand smoothes your hair while the other rubs comforting circles on your back.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs. You cling to him, embarrassed by your raw emotional response but unable to stop the tears.

After a minute the wave passes. You pull back, wiping your eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Charles smiles kindly. “Nothing is wrong with you. But I understand this is a difficult time.” His expression turns serious. “If you ever need anything, please ask me. I’m here for you.”

Looking up into Charles’ earnest green eyes, you feel a rush of gratitude. Whatever awkwardness lingers between you has evaporated. Charles is a true friend.

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you. That means a lot.” Glancing around, you notice some odd looks from passing crew members. “We should probably get back to work before people think there’s a full-blown soap opera going on over here.”

Charles grins. “Agreed. But this conversation isn’t over. Dinner tonight in my room?” He raises an eyebrow.

You laugh, blinking away the last dampness from your eyes. “It’s a date.”

***

You smooth your hands down your dress as you approach Charles’ hotel suite, suddenly feeling nervous. You’ve been in drivers’ rooms countless times for work, but this feels different. More intimate.

You take a steadying breath and knock. Charles opens the door, looking unfairly handsome in a crisp button down shirt.

“Y/N! Come in.” He steps back to allow you inside.

The suite is spacious and modern, with floor to ceiling windows along one wall looking out over the glittering city. Charles leads you through the living area to a set of glass doors. “I thought we could eat out on the balcony,” he explains, opening the doors with a flourish. “The fresh air will be good for you and baby.”

You step outside and have to stifle a gasp. A small table is elegantly set for two, a vase of flowers in the center. String lights twinkle overhead. “Charles, this is beautiful!”

He looks pleased. “I’m glad you like it.” Pulling out a chair, he gestures for you to sit.

As he takes the seat opposite you, you notice several covered dishes on the table. Charles sees you looking and smiles a bit sheepishly. “I, uh, called my mother earlier.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Charles rubs the back of his neck. “I asked her what foods she craved when she was pregnant with me and my brother. So I ordered a bunch of that from room service, in hopes there might be something you’d like.”

A lump forms in your throat. You reach over and squeeze his hand. “Charles, that is so incredibly thoughtful.”

Pink tinges his tanned cheeks. “Of course. I want to take care of you.”

You chat comfortably over food and Charles’ excellent choice of wine for you — sparkling grape juice. He relaxes as you praise the chicken and melon he ordered.

When you sit back contentedly, Charles fixes you with a thoughtful look. “So, do you know how far along you are?”

You hesitate. “About three months now.”

He nods. “And have you been to a doctor yet?”

Your fingers find a groove in the wooden table to trace. “Not yet.” At his surprised look, you add defensively, “I’ve just been so busy with work. But I’m sure everything is fine.”

“Still, you should make an appointment soon. Just to be safe.” Charles’ tone is gentle.

You nod without meeting his eye. An uncomfortable beat passes.

“Do you ...” Charles pauses delicately. “Forgive me, but … do you know who the father is?”

Your cheeks flame. You stand abruptly, walking over to the balcony railing. After a moment Charles joins you, leaning on the rail at your side.

“I’m sorry, that was too personal,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I just ...” You glance up at him. “He’s no longer in my life.” You look away, a lump in your throat.

Charles doesn’t ask anything more, just moves closer in a gesture of silent support. You stand together breathing in the night air. The twinkling city sprawls before you. For a moment, the future doesn’t feel quite so frightening.

Eventually you stifle a yawn behind your hand. Charles glances over. “You must be exhausted. I should let you get to bed.”

You smile gratefully. He walks you to the door of the suite. Pausing, you stand on tiptoes and kiss Charles lightly on the cheek. “Thank you again for dinner. For everything.”

His eyes shine as he gazes down at you. “Of course. Sweet dreams, Y/N. And ...” He brushes a feather-light touch over your belly. “Sweet dreams to you too, little one.”

You feel your heart melt just a little. With a last smile, you head down the hall to the elevators. As the doors slide closed, you catch one last glimpse of Charles watching after you.

Back in your smaller, blander room, you change for bed in a happy haze. Sliding between cool sheets, you let out a contented sigh. Tonight was lovely. Charles’ thoughtfulness reminds you there are still good people in the world. For the first time in weeks, you feel a spark of hope.

You drift off to sleep with a hand resting gently on your belly. Everything seems less frightening now that you aren’t alone. Whatever happens next, you and your baby will get through it together.

***

The buzz of the media pen is giving you a headache today. Or maybe that’s just the pregnancy. You blink heavily, trying to focus on Carlos speaking into the microphone in front of you. You hit record on your phone as he answers the first question. It’s your job to capture every word to ensure he’s not misrepresented later.

The reporter’s voice fades in and out. You sway slightly, shaking your head. Just need some fresh air. You take a step away from the crowd, vision blurring at the edges. Dark spots dance across your eyes. The concrete floor rushes up to meet you-

“Y/N!”

Strong hands grab your shoulders, slowing your collapse. Your head spins as you try to make sense of it.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Charles’ worried face swims into view above you. You part your lips but no words come out.

There’s loud commotion around you now. You feel yourself being shifted, lifted. Snatches of Charles’ voice pierce through the fog.

“She’s pregnant ... get help ... ambulance ...”

You try to cling to consciousness but it’s like grasping at smoke. The world goes dark.

When you resurface, it’s to antiseptic white walls and a steady beeping. Hospital. An IV pulls at your arm as you shift.

“Y/N?” Charles appears at your side, relief breaking across his face. “Thank God. You’re awake.”

Before you can respond, he’s disappeared again, calling for a doctor. You try to push yourself more upright but your limbs feel like lead.

A brisk older woman in a white coat enters, glancing at the monitor beside your bed. “Good to see you awake, Miss Y/L/N. You gave us quite a scare.”

“What happened?” Your voice comes out hoarse.

“You fainted from low blood pressure. A common issue in pregnancy, but yours seems to be more severe.” The doctor flips through your chart with a frown.

Charles stands anxiously at the foot of the bed. “But she’ll be alright now?”

The doctor hesitates. “I’m recommending complete pelvic rest and limited activity for the remainder of the pregnancy. Strictly no standing or walking for prolonged periods.” She pins you with a sharp look. “And if your blood pressure drops again, we’ll have no choice but to put you on full bed rest.”

Your stomach drops through the floor. “What? No, I can’t! I have to keep working, I-”

“Y/N.” Charles’ voice stops your panicked rambling. His face is lined with concern as he takes your hand. “Your health is what matters most.”

The doctor nods briskly. “Precisely. No job is worth risking your or your baby’s safety.” With a final warning look, she departs.

The moment she leaves, you burst into tears. Harsh, gasping sobs wrack your frame. This is a disaster. Without being able to stand or walk for long stretches, you’re useless to the team. You’ll be fired for sure. And then what will you do? You have no one, no other skills-

Warm, strong arms wrap around you as you weep. Charles cradles you against his chest, making low soothing sounds.

“Shh, it’s going to be alright,” he murmurs, stroking your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

You clutch fistfuls of his shirt, burying your face in the soft cotton. The steady thump of his heartbeat slowly calms your hysteria.

When the tears finally subside, Charles eases you gently back against the pillows. His thumbs brush away the moisture from your cheeks.

“I know you’re scared,” he says quietly. “But I promise, I will do everything I can to help you. We are in this together now.”

His green eyes radiate such sincerity, you feel some of the panic and despair lift. You cling tightly to his hand, anchoring yourself to him like he’s a rock in a stormy sea.

***

You pick listlessly at the greyish meat and mushy vegetables on your hospital dinner tray. At least Charles had the foresight to sneak in some contraband snacks earlier — you polish off the last crumbs of the cookies he brought, wishing futilely for something more appetizing.

A knock at the door precedes Charles peeking in. “Hungry for something better than hospital food?” He holds up a paper takeout bag and shakes it enticingly.

You brighten immediately. “Charles, you’re my hero.”

He laughs and enters, pulling a table over your lap to serve as a makeshift dining surface. Soon plastic containers of pasta, salad, and fresh bread are opened, the savory scents making your mouth water.

Charles watches fondly as you tuck in. “I wasn’t sure what you’d feel up to eating. But who doesn’t like Italian food?”

You make a noise of emphatic agreement through your full mouth. Charles chuckles.

When you finally surface for air, he clears his throat. “So I was thinking ...” Charles busies himself folding and refolding your napkin. “My apartment in Monaco is pretty big for just me. And it has a guest room that’s just sitting empty.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.

“Well ...” Charles rubs the back of his neck. “I thought maybe when you’re discharged, you could come stay with me for a while. So I can make sure you’re not overexerting yourself.”

You frown slightly. “Oh. That’s really kind, but I’ll be fine once I’m out of here.”

“Will you?” Charles levels you with a knowing look. “No offense, but you’re not exactly the best at asking for help when you need it.”

You open your mouth to protest, but can’t really argue with that.

“Let me do this for you. For my own peace of mind too,” Charles implores gently. He takes your hand, blue eyes full of sincerity. “Please?”

Looking into his earnest face, you feel your weak resistance faltering. Still ... “I don’t want to be a burden,” you mumble half-heartedly.

Charles squeezes your hand. “You could never be. I care about you, Y/N.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I want to take care of you and the baby.”

The warmth in his voice melts away the last of your reluctance. And honestly, the prospect of having Charles doting on you is far preferable to being alone in your small, dreary apartment.

You meet his hopeful gaze. “Okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind, then … I accept your kind offer.”

Charles’ answering smile rivals the sun. “Yeah? Oh, that’s fantastic!” He sweeps you into an enthusiastic but gentle hug. You cling to him, feeling the nervous knot that’s been your constant companion for weeks finally start to loosen. Everything will work out.

That night as Charles is leaving, you call his name softly. He pauses, one hand on the door.

You twist your fingers in the blanket, suddenly shy. “I just wanted to say … thank you. For everything. I’ll find a way to repay you someday, I promise.”

Charles’ expression softens. He comes back and squeezes your hand. “You don’t owe me anything. Just focus on yourself and that little one.” He strokes a finger over your belly. “That’s all the repayment I need.”

With a last smile, he slips out, leaving you to fall asleep with a heart full of gratitude and growing affection for your kind rescuer.

***

You smooth your hands nervously over your dress as you approach Fred Vasseur’s office. This is it. Time to tell your boss that you’ll be leaving him in the lurch smack dab in the middle of the season.

Charles gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It will be okay. Just explain the situation.”

You take a deep breath and nod. Charles opens the door and gestures for you to enter first.

Fred rises from behind his desk, surprise flickering across his face. “Y/N, Charles. What can I do for you?” His gaze darts between you curiously.

Your mouth goes dry. Charles gently guides you to sit in one of the chairs facing Fred, taking the other himself.

“Y/N has something she needs to discuss with you,” Charles begins calmly. “I’m here for moral support.”

Fred’s eyebrows raise but he nods for you to go on. Your hands twist together in your lap.

“Well, I ...” You have to pause and swallow hard. “I recently learned that I’m pregnant. And I’ve developed some, uh, complications that mean I can’t travel or be on my feet much.”

Fred’s eyebrows climb higher. “I … see. Congratulations?” He still looks perplexed.

Charles jumps in. “What she’s trying to say is, she needs to take a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders.”

“Ah.” Understanding settles on Fred’s face. He turns back to you. “I’m very sorry to hear you’re unwell. Of course health must come first.”

You feel yourself relax slightly. “So I can take a sabbatical? My job will still be here when I’m able to return?”

“Absolutely.” Fred nods. “You’ve been invaluable to our team. Your role will be waiting whenever you’re ready.”

You could cry with relief. “Oh, thank you! That means the world.”

Fred smiles kindly. “Think nothing of it. Focus on your health and that baby. We’ll manage in the meantime.”

Charles reaches over to clasp your hand supportively. “Is there anything else she needs to know before starting her leave?”

Fred considers this. “Y/N will have full pay during sabbatical, of course. And keep me posted on any support you require — medical, household, anything at all.”

You clutch Charles’ hand, too overwhelmed to speak. He smiles. “Very generous. We appreciate that greatly.”

After finalizing a few details, you both stand. Fred comes around the desk to shake your hand. “Best of luck with everything. Let me know if you need absolutely anything.”

You whisper a heartfelt thank you before allowing Charles to guide you out. Safely in the hallway, you turn and fling your arms around him.

“Charles, thank you,” you murmur into his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

His strong arms come around you, cradling you close. “Of course, Y/N. I meant what I said — I’ll be by your side every step of the way.”

You cling to each other for a long moment, his steadfast support washing away your lingering fears. As long as Charles is with you, you know everything will work out just fine.

***

You fidget in the generic mint-colored exam room, paper crinkling beneath you as you perch on the edge of the table. Charles sits in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone, the picture of calm. You wish you shared his zen attitude.

A brisk knock precedes the door swinging open. A smiling older woman enters, glancing down at her chart.

“Y/N? I’m Dr. Boucher, nice to meet you.” Her smile widens as she looks between you and Charles. “And you must be the dad! Wonderful.”

Your mouth drops open to correct her, but Charles beats you to it. “That’s right, thank you,” he says easily, standing to shake the doctor’s hand.

You snap your mouth shut, eyes widening. But the doctor has already moved on, washing her hands at the sink.

“Now then, let’s take a look at this baby, shall we?” She pats the exam table.

You lie back, hiking up your shirt to expose your belly. The cool gel makes you shiver as the doctor smears it over your skin. She places the ultrasound wand low on your abdomen and moves it slowly.

The screen blooms to life, blurred black and white shifting until a shape emerges — a tiny profile, curled arms and legs distinct. You gasp softly. There’s your baby.

Dr. Boucher smiles. “There we are. Looks to be about 16 weeks along. Growing beautifully.”

You can’t tear your eyes away from the screen. Your throat feels tight. After so many weeks of secrecy and fear, this precious little life finally seems real.

“And there’s the heartbeat.” The doctor turns up the volume, and a rapid thumping fills the room. “Nice and strong.”

Tears spill over your cheeks before you can stop them. A glance over shows Charles watching the monitor intently, green eyes shiny with emotion. He reaches for your hand, gripping tightly.

When the appointment ends, you both exit the office in a daze. As you walk down the street to Charles’ car, he turns to you.

“That was … incredible,” he says softly. “Seeing your baby for the first time ...” He trails off, at a loss for words.

You lift his hand and press a kiss to the back, hoping he understands the depth of your gratitude. Charles smiles tenderly in return.

Safely home in Charles’ plush apartment, you curl up together on the sofa with mugs of tea to continue gazing at the ultrasound photos. Charles slips an arm around your shoulders, his thumb idly stroking your arm as you chatter excitedly about preparing a nursery.

This moment, here with Charles, your child’s heartbeat still echoing in your ears … it’s the closest thing to pure joy you’ve ever known. The future finally feels bright with hope. You lean into Charles’ warmth and send up a silent prayer of thanks for this man and the new life he’s given back to you.

***

You curl deeper into the plush couch in Charles’ apartment, cradling your mug of tea. Rain patters against the windows overlooking Monaco’s glittering harbor. The cozy scene makes you feel safe enough to finally open up.

“Charles?”

He glances over from where he’s poking at the fire. “Hmm?”

You twist your fingers together nervously. “There’s more I should tell you. About how I got pregnant.”

Charles rises and comes to sit beside you, face open and attentive. Taking a deep breath, you begin.

“It happened last winter, during the off-season. I went back home to Italy for a while, to the little town outside Milan where my family lives.”

You stare into your tea, remembering. “There was a man vacationing there, from Rome. Dario. We met in a cafe and just … clicked. He was handsome, charming, a perfect gentleman.” Your lips twist wryly. “Or so I thought.”

Charles remains quiet, letting you gather the words.

“We spent every day together for two weeks. Took long walks, went on romantic dinners. When it was time for him to leave, we ...” You trail off, face warming.

“You made love,” Charles supplies gently. You nod, still not meeting his eyes.

“I thought it meant as much to him as to me. But after he went back to Rome, his texts and calls slowly stopped. And then I found out why.”

Your voice drops to a pained whisper. “He was married. His ‘business trip’ was just a chance to fool around. When his wife saw my texts on his phone … it exploded. And then my family found out about the affair.”

Finally you lift your head. Charles’ face is lined with compassion. “They disowned me. Called me a fool and a harlot. It didn’t matter that I was lied to — as far as they’re concerned, I brought shame upon our family.”

Hot tears spill down your cheeks. Charles immediately pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, crying into his shoulder as he rubs your back.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “You did nothing wrong. This Dario took advantage of you, and your family should have supported you.”

Charles holds you until the storm of tears passes. When you finally pull back, he cups your face in both hands, brushing away the lingering moisture with his thumbs.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says softly. “I know that wasn’t easy. You’re so incredibly strong.”

Leaning forward, he places a tender kiss on your forehead. Then his palms slide down to cradle your rounded belly.

“I’ve got you now,” Charles murmurs. “Both of you. You’ll never be alone again.”

Nestled in his lap, you close your eyes and just breathe. The remnants of hurt and betrayal wash away, replaced by the safety of Charles’ embrace. Whatever comes next, you have found your sanctuary here, with him.

***

You wander through the apartment looking for Charles, one hand braced on your lower back. Your belly has popped noticeably in the last couple weeks, throwing your balance off.

Not finding Charles in any of the usual spots, you head down the hall towards the spare bedroom. When you push open the door, your jaw drops.

The room has been completely transformed. Bright sunshine spills through the windows onto whitewashed walls. A plush rug covers the hardwood floor. In one corner sits a fully assembled crib, stuffed animals piled inside.

Charles stands back to admire his work, shirtsleeves rolled up and hair adorably mussed. He turns when you gasp softly.

“Y/N! I wanted to surprise you.” His grin falters. “Do you like it?”

“Like it? Charles, I love it!” You blink back happy tears, wandering further inside. Charles’ face lights up.

“I wasn’t sure what color to paint, so I left the walls white for now,” he explains, coming over to slip an arm around you.

You lean into him, gazing around. “It’s perfect. Our baby is so lucky to have you.”

Pink tinges Charles’ cheeks. He kisses the top of your head. “I’m the lucky one.”

You decide on a pale green for the walls. Charles immediately fetches paint supplies, but hovers anxiously as you start rolling color onto the first wall.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” He eyes your protruding stomach. “The fumes can’t be good ...”

You wave off his concern. “I’ll be fine! Here-” You dip a roller in paint and offer it out. “Make yourself useful instead of worrying.”

Charles accepts the roller reluctantly. Soon you’re both working side by side. Charles takes on the higher parts of the walls that you can’t comfortably reach anymore.

Humming under your breath, you step back to critique your work so far. As you do, your foot catches on the paint tray and you stumble. Charles reaches out to steady you, but not before a fat drop of paint lands on his cheek.

“Oops!” You clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh at the green splotch on his tanned skin.

Charles narrows his eyes in mock indignation. “You think that’s funny, do you?” Before you can react, he flicks his loaded paintbrush at you, spattering your shirt.

You gasp in delighted outrage. “Oh, it is on!” Grabbing your roller, you swipe it down his arm.

Charles lets out a laugh of surprise. Soon paint is flying from both directions. You run around each other, giggling and slipping on the drops coating the floor.

Finally Charles catches you gently by the waist. You’re both absolutely covered in pale green, sides aching from laughter. Your faces are inches apart, smiles fading into something more tender.

Slowly, Charles leans in and presses his lips to yours in the softest, sweetest kiss. You melt against him, hands coming up to cradle his jaw.

When you finally part, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he confesses, a little breathless.

You smile, heart soaring. “What took you so long?”

His answering grin outshines the sun. There, surrounded by dreams of the future, you share another lingering kiss.

***

You settle back against the mountain of pillows, trying to find a comfortable position for your unwieldy body. At nearly 8 months along now, your belly feels impossibly huge. Luckily Charles’ plush bed offers plenty of space to sprawl.

Speaking of Charles, he appears in the doorway holding a bottle. “Ready for your massage?”

You eye the bottle of oil eagerly. The stretch marks crisscrossing your stomach have been itchy and tight. “Yes please.”

Charles props up pillows behind you so you’re half-reclining. Then he drizzles some of the oil into his palms, warming it up before smoothing his hands over your bump.

You sigh in bliss at his gentle but firm touch. The fragrant oil soothes and softens your irritated skin. Under Charles’ ministrations, the discomfort slowly ebbs away.

His strong hands glide over every inch, easing out the aches and pains. As Charles works, he murmurs to your belly. “There you go, little one. We’re going to make your home nice and cozy.”

Your heart clenches at the tender scene. Even after all these months of living together, it still sometimes hits you how domestic this is. Sharing a home, sharing a bed … it’s everything you secretly longed for but never expected to have. A real family.

You trail your fingers through Charles’ soft waves. His eyes lift to meet yours, soft with affection. The look on his face steals your breath — pure adoration, like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

“I love you.” The words slip out unbidden. Charles’ hands still. For a heartbeat, you’re afraid you’ve said too much.

But then he surges up to capture your lips in a searing kiss. “I love you too,” Charles whispers fiercely when you finally break apart, both panting. “So much.”

He seals his words with another drugging kiss. Your hands clutch him close, heart near bursting with joy.

Suddenly Charles breaks the kiss with a gasp. His wide eyes dart down. “Did you feel that?”

You start to shake your head no, distracted by the sensation of his calloused hands massaging your belly, but then you feel it — a distinct thump against your insides. Your baby shifting and kicking.

Charles’ face lights up. “There it is again!” He laughs in wonder. “The little one is saying hello.”

Happy tears blur your vision. Charles presses a delighted kiss to your stomach. “I can’t wait to meet you,” he whispers tenderly.

Through your tears, you smile at the man you love. The one who gave you and your child a home when you had nothing. However you got here, this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

A dull ache starts low in your back as you crawl into bed. You shift and stretch, trying to get comfortable, but can’t seem to. Charles notices your restlessness.

“Alright?” He murmurs sleepily, rolling over to rub your back.

You nod. “Yeah, just some back pain today.” Probably from lugging around this massive belly.

Charles makes soothing noises and continues massaging you until he drifts off. You finally manage to doze too.

Sometime in the night, you jerk awake. The sheets under you are soaked. For one confused moment you think you wet the bed. But then it hits you.

Your water broke.

“Charles!” You shake his shoulder urgently.

He comes awake with a snort. “Huh? What’s wrong?”

“It’s time! The baby-” You break off with a hiss as the first real contraction clenches your belly.

That wakes Charles up fully. “The baby? It’s coming?” He practically falls out of bed, all long limbs flailing.

You have to stifle an inappropriate giggle at his panic. “Yes, so we should-” Your instructions die as Charles sprints from the room. Alright then.

You shake your head in amusement and heave yourself to your feet, one hand braced on your lower back. Waddling slowly after Charles, you find him hyperactively rushing around the living room, tossing items randomly into your hospital bag.

“Okay, let’s go!” He grabs the overflowing bag and dashes out the front door. You stare after him in disbelief then lower yourself carefully onto the couch to wait.

Not thirty seconds later, Charles comes barreling back inside. “Oh God, I forgot you!”

You have to laugh at the panic on his face. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Looking marginally calmer, he helps you up, frantically gathering your bag in one hand while keeping the other wrapped around you.

You lean your weight on him during the next contraction, breathing through it. “It’s okay. But we should really go now.”

Charles practically carries you down to the garage and bundles you into his Ferrari in record time. He drives well over the speed limit, one hand clutching yours the whole way.

At the hospital, Charles refuses to leave your side even for a second. He holds the gas and air for you to breathe during contractions, whispering how strong and amazing you are.

When the time comes to push, the pain is unimaginable. You nearly give up, sobbing that you can’t do this. But Charles is there, guiding you through it, telling you that you absolutely can. And with one final scream, your son enters the world.

The shrill cry is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. Charles cuts the cord with trembling hands. Then the nurse lays your wailing, squirmy son on your chest.

You press kisses to his downy head, tears of joy streaming down your face. Charles gazes at you both with pure reverence.

“His name is Matteo Charles,” you whisper. Charles lets out a choked sob at the middle name.

Too soon, the nurses take Matteo for cleaning and checks. One asks Charles if he’d like to hold him. Charles looks to you questioningly, and you nod through your exhaustion.

Charles settles into a chair, shirtless, and Matteo is laid on his bare chest. Charles strokes a gentle finger over Matteo’s cheek, seemingly enraptured.

“Thank you,” he rasps to you. “For our beautiful boy. Thank you, mon amour.”

This is everything you never knew you needed — a family, a home, and an overflowing love you once thought would forever be lost to you. But you’ve found it now, here in this room, together.

***

The sharp cries jolt you from sleep. With a groan, you roll out of the warm circle of Charles’ arms. Your body still aches and protests as you make your way to the nursery in the dark.

Picking up little Matteo, you carry him to the rocker and situate him at your breast. He latches on eagerly, cries fading to soft snuffles.

Charles appears in the doorway, hair adorably mussed. “Everything okay?” He asks through a yawn.

“We’re good now.” You smile tiredly down at your nursing son. His downy hair and scrunched features are all you — you find yourself thankful that there is barely any indication that his biological father even participated in making him.

Charles comes to perch on the ottoman, watching Matteo. “I can’t believe he’s really here,” he murmurs. “Our son.”

Pride swells in your chest. Charles has fully embraced his role as Matteo’s father, as naturally as breathing.

When Matteo finishes eating, Charles takes him to gently pat his back while you right your nightgown. He kisses your son’s head when Matteo lets out a tiny burp.

Back in bed, you curl into Charles with Matteo nestled safely between you. Charles has a race this weekend, his first since the birth. The thought of him leaving fills you with anxiety.

In the morning, Charles confirms your fears. “I’ll just tell Fred I’m not coming this weekend,” he says casually over breakfast. “The team will manage without me. One of the reserve drivers can take over for a few days.”

Your head jerks up. “What? No, Charles, you have to race.”

“But I don’t want to leave you two!” Charles gestures helplessly to where Matteo snoozes in a bouncer.

You catch Charles’ hand. “This is your dream. Matteo and I will be right here cheering you on when you get back.”

Charles wavers. You soften your voice. “It’s only for a little while. We’ll be okay.”

Finally he nods reluctantly. You know how hard this is for him — but Charles was born to race. You won’t let him give that up.

The morning Charles is set to fly out, he clings to you and Matteo like a second skin. You practically have to peel him off at airport security.

“I’ll be back so soon,” he whispers fiercely. One last kiss, and then he’s gone.

The apartment feels empty and too quiet. But you fill the time singing and playing with Matteo, keeping yourself busy until the race.

You and Matteo cuddle close on the couch to watch Charles zoom around the track. Your heart swells with love and pride seeing your man do what he was meant to.

When Charles wins, he shouts his ecstatic thanks to you and Matteo over the team radio. The podium champagne gets sprayed directly into the camera for you.

Finally Charles is home, sweeping you and Matteo into his arms. “I love you both so much,” he murmurs in wonder. You whisper it right back, nestled safe in the arms of your little family.

***

The energy in the Albert Park paddock is electric as teams prepare for the first race of the 2025 season. You feel a thrill just being back, Matteo cooing happily in your arms. At nearly six months old now, he’s ready for his first race.

Charles bounces on his toes, unable to contain his excitement. “Are you ready to see Papa race, Matteo?” He tickles Matteo’s belly, eliciting bubbly giggles.

You head first to the Ferrari garage, where the mechanics crowd around eagerly to fawn over Matteo. Lewis gives you a careful hug, peering curiously at the baby.

“Lewis, meet Matteo,” Charles says proudly. At Lewis’ questioning look, he adds “My son.” The way he says it brooks no argument.

Lewis’ eyes widen slightly but he just smiles. “Hi Matteo!” He offers a finger for Matteo to grip.

Fred comes over next, cooing over how much Matteo has grown. You enjoy the familial atmosphere, everyone fussing over your boy. Matteo basks in the attention.

Charles takes him down to the front of the garage to watch the crews work on the cars. He points out parts of the sleek machines, explaining them seriously to Matteo as if he understands. Matteo just gazes adoringly up at his Papa.

When Charles finally straps into the car for practice, you have ear muffs ready for Matteo’s sensitive ears. Charles blows kisses to you both before pulling on his helmet. Matteo squeals and waves his little fist as the car roars out.

In the hotel that night, you set Matteo on the bed while Charles showers. Stripped down to his diaper, your son kicks his chubby legs excitedly.

Charles emerges in comfy clothes, his hair still damp, and laughs at Matteo’s antics. “Alright, my little race car driver, time for bed.”

He tickles Matteo’s tummy as he puts on a fresh diaper and snaps up his pajamas. Then Charles cradles Matteo close, humming softly as he sways back and forth to soothe him. Your heart clenches at the tender scene.

Once Matteo is deeply asleep, Charles lays him gently in the travel crib. He turns to you with a soft smile. “I can’t imagine life without him now.”

You slip your arms around Charles from behind. “He loves his Papa so much already. Your biggest fan.”

Charles covers your hands with his, gazing at Matteo. “I’m going to win tomorrow for him.”

And he does. On the podium, Charles looks down to where you cradle Matteo in one arm, and gently showers you with champagne. Matteo’s delighted laughter is the sweetest sound.

This is everything you’ve ever wanted.

***

The energetic buzz of the Italian Grand Prix washes over you as you stroll hand-in-hand with Charles, your son cradled safely in his arms. At nearly a year old now, Matteo is fascinated by the vivid colors and cacophony of sounds surrounding him.

Charles playfully bounces Matteo as you weave through the crowded walkways, pointing out the sights and sounds. “Look Matteo, there’s the cars! Vroom vroom!” Charles mimics the roar of an engine. Matteo’s delighted giggle melts your heart. You can’t help but grin, chest swelling with love and pride for your little family.

You’ve just about reached the looming Ferrari motorhome when an absolutely venomous female voice shrieks out, “You!”

Every muscle in your body instantly tenses. You freeze mid-step, heart lurching into your throat. Whipping your head around, you see an immaculately dressed woman barreling directly towards you, her face mottled an ugly shade of rage-induced crimson.

“You disgusting harlot!” The woman spits with unrestrained fury. “You filthy whore!”

Stunned, you instinctively take a faltering step backwards, nearly stumbling. Charles’ strong arm immediately wraps protectively around you and Matteo, steadying you. His body angles partly in front of yours and Matteo’s smaller form, shielding you both on pure instinct.

The deranged woman continues her tirade, advancing until she’s nearly screaming in your face. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, you reprehensible little homewrecker!”

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, a ghost from your past suddenly materializes behind the enraged woman. A man you hoped to never lay eyes on again.

His eyes blow wide at the sight of you, Charles, and the infant cradled against Charles’ chest.

The woman — his wife, you realize with dawning horror — grabs viciously onto his arm, her razor-sharp nails digging in hard enough to leave crescent-shaped gouges. “Just look at her!” She shrieks, spit flying from her mouth. “Parading that little bastard child around like it’s something to be proud of!” She violently thrusts her finger towards Matteo, still safely ensconced in Charles’ embrace.

Your son, sensing the onslaught of hostile energy, immediately begins wailing in distress. You instinctively reach out to take him from Charles, desperate to comfort your frightened boy. But Charles subtly shifts his stance, moving further out of her reach, as he focuses intently on gently bouncing and shushing Matteo in an attempt to calm him.

Matteo’s biological father simply stares, slack-jawed, at the sobbing infant. The gears visibly turn in his head. “Is that ...” he chokes out, “Is he … mine?”

“No.” Charles’ immediate response is biting and unequivocal. He clutches Matteo tighter to his chest. “Matteo is my son.” Though his voice remains steady, you can see a muscle in his jaw ticking from the effort of holding back more heated words.

But Dario clearly does not accept this response. His eyes narrow calculatingly as he continues scrutinizing the wailing baby. Behind him, his unhinged wife keeps up her tirade of slurs and accusations, whipping the gathering crowd into greater frenzy.

You feel lightheaded, paralyzed. This is a living nightmare. Distantly you are aware of camera phones pointed your way, capturing every wretched moment. Charles seems to realize the same, his handsome face darkening with rage.

With frightening efficiency, Charles strides directly over to the nearest paddock security officers and has a brief, terse exchange. Moments later, two bulky guards firmly take hold of the still-screaming woman and shellshocked man, forcefully escorting them away. The crowd reluctantly disperses, murmuring.

Charles immediately returns to envelope you and Matteo in a fiercely protective embrace. “It’s alright now, you’re both safe,” he soothes, though his rapid heartbeat belies his calm words. Matteo’s panicked sobs have faded to tiny hiccups against Charles’ neck.

The rest of the chaotic day passes in a blur. Much later, in the privacy of your hotel room, Charles reveals that he pulled every string and called in every favor necessary to have Dario and his deranged wife permanently blacklisted from all Formula 1 events.

His voice shakes with quiet rage as he describes how close security came to needing to restrain him physically.

Finally he takes your face so very gently in his hands. “I promise you, I will do anything and everything to protect our family. You and Matteo are my entire world. Nothing will ever hurt you as long as I’m breathing.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, you collapse against his solid chest. Charles’ strong arms anchor you in place as you cling to him. He continues murmuring fervent assurances, pressing kisses to your hair.

Despite the ugliness of the day, you know with utter certainty Charles will shield you and Matteo from the darkness of your past. Your family is still perfection in your eyes.

***

“Papa, I wanna be a race car driver like you when I grow up!”

Your five-year-old son looks up at Charles with big, adoring eyes as he makes this pronouncement over breakfast one morning.

Charles freezes with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He slowly sets it down, gazing at Matteo with surprise and pride. “You do?”

Matteo bobs his curly head eagerly. “Yeah! I wanna drive fast cars and win like you! Can you teach me?”

Charles melts, ruffling Matteo’s hair. “Of course, buddy. We’ll have to convince your maman first though.” He shoots you a meaningful look.

You shift uncertainly. Of course you want to encourage Matteo’s interests, but motorsport is dangerous ...

Charles seems to sense your hesitation. “Why don’t you think about it, mon amour? No need to decide yet.” He winks at Matteo, who grins in excitement.

Over the next few days, your two boys put on a full court press to sway you. Charles points out safety advances in karting and helps Matteo make adorable PowerPoint slides with photos of your son in race helmets. They both unleash heartbreaking puppy dog eyes.

Finally you cave. “Alright!” You laugh, holding up your hands in surrender. “You can start teaching him the basics.”

Matteo and Charles high-five so hard it makes a cracking sound. “Yesss!” Charles pumps his fists while Matteo dances in glee. Seeing their matching enthusiasm melts away the last of your reluctance. Your little daredevil was born for this.

The next weekend, Charles takes Matteo to a racetrack an hour outside the city. It’s just a small circuit, but Matteo gazes around with wide eyes, gripping Charles’ hand tightly.

Charles shows him the karts and safety gear, patiently explaining how everything works. Then it’s time. Charles helps strap Matteo into a kart made for kids, snugging his helmet gently under the chin.

“Ready, mon petit champion?”

Matteo gives him a thumbs up, practically vibrating with excitement. Charles grins and drops the visor down. “Alright! Let’s do this!”

He gives Matteo a little push to get the kart rolling onto the track. Your son quickly gets the hang of working the gas and brakes. Charles jogs alongside, gesturing and calling out instructions.

Gradually he lets Matteo take full control. Your little boy zips around the course, hair blowing out the back of his helmet. His delighted laughter echoes around the circuit.

Watching from the sidelines, Charles records it all on his phone, face alight with joy and pride. “That’s it Matteo, you’re doing amazing!” He cheers.

This is only the beginning. But seeing the utter bliss on both their faces, you know Matteo has chosen the right path. The Leclerc legacy will live on.

***

“I’m here in the pit lane with Charles Leclerc on the momentous day his son, Matteo Leclerc, makes his highly anticipated debut with Scuderia Ferrari. Charles, you must be incredibly proud right now.”

The Sky Sports reporter holds her mic out to Charles as he stands, beaming, in front of the scarlet Ferrari garage. Charles nods, looking slightly choked up.

“Incredibly proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he replies earnestly. “This has been Matteo’s dream since he was just a little boy. To see him achieve it, to be standing here watching him drive for the team I devoted my life to … it’s indescribable.”

Charles pauses, glancing over fondly at where you stand with Matteo, straightening your son’s helmet and race suit.

“His mother and I, we’ve worried and experienced every up and down along the way with him. But Matteo has worked so hard for this, never gave up even when it seemed impossible. He more than deserves today.”

The reporter smiles. “And his last name isn’t the only way he takes after you. Matteo is widely considered your protégé after you mentored him through the junior ranks.”

“I taught him everything I could,” Charles acknowledges. “But his talent and dedication are all his own. Matteo is his own man now. I can’t wait to see how high he continues to climb.”

“Any advice you’ve given him before his first race with Ferrari?”

Charles chuckles. “Just to enjoy every second. This only comes around once.” He looks off into the distance, eyes crinkling nostalgically.

“Still seems like yesterday I was in his shoes for my own Ferrari debut. I’ll never forget that feeling.”

The reporter wraps up the interview and Charles makes his way over to where you and 21-year-old Matteo are embracing. Charles’ eyes shine with unshed tears as he clasps arms with his son.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles says hoarsely. “Your mother and I both. Now go show the world what you can do.”

Matteo’s answering smile is blinding. “I’ll make you proud, Papa.”

He hugs you tight, then pulls on his helmet and strides confidently to his waiting Ferrari. The mechanics cheer as the car roars to life and Matteo peels out onto the track, on the cusp of achieving his lifelong dream.

You cling to Charles’ side, waving tearfully. “Our little boy,” you whisper in awe.

Charles wraps an arm around you, never taking his eyes off the bright red car. “He’s all grown up. But he’ll always be our son.”

No matter how high Matteo climbs, Charles knows he will always remain his sweet little boy — the bright-eyed child you and Charles raised with love.

His greatest source of pride and joy as the future beckons brightly, another generation of Leclercs carrying the hopes of Ferrari forward.

[pricetagged]

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

-----------------------

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

[sweetheartbitesb4ck]

this is part one || part two || part three || part four || part five

Simon 'Ghost' Riley, who always kept such a stoic, emotionless facade, couldn't help but feel drawn in when he walked past your house.

Your windows were wide open, so the loud music crept out into the street as you danced around the kitchen, belting out lyrics along to the song. Simon paused as he noticed, a huff of laughter escaping from him as a smile crept over his masked face.

Stepping forward slightly, the Lieutenant craned his neck to peer through the window, his eyebrows furrowing with amusement as you jig around to the song, your singing muffled as you bend down to put a tray in the oven.

"Not too bad," Simon mutters to himself, referring to your singing. After a moment, he snaps out of his intrigued gaze, realising how creepy he probably looked, also realising, despite these unfamiliar feelings, how different he was to this person he'd never even spoken too, like a slab of concreate being best friends with a rainbow.

He carries on walking, shaking his head as if to shake the 'sense' back into himself, however he just couldn't get rid of that slightly fluttery feeling in the base of his belly. Ghost was used to being able to walk through life not feeling anything for anyone, partly because of his rough childhood and mostly because of the mannerisms gained from his line of work. Yeah, you hadn't had a great experience growing up either, but you were so open. Simon almost found it... refreshing?

Even at work he couldn't get rid of that lingering feeling. In the mess room, it was obvious. Simon was always... grumpy, to say the least, but today he wasn't even getting angry at MacTavish when he was being annoying, which was a clear indicator something was off.

Soap stops messing around, his grin shrinking to some degree. "Alright, LT?" he inquires, tilting his head slightly. Ghost grunts, scowling through his mask. Gaz looks over, nodding in agreement at Johnny. "Yeah, to be fair you seem off Simon."

Simon turns to Soap, then Kyle, his eyes dark. "Stop fucking pestering." He says bluntly, voice deep and gravelly.

Later, (in the pub, obviously) Simon was still quiet, sulking over his drink.

"I say we buy him some more booze and get him to spill," Soap whispers to Kyle, eyebrows raised smugly like some evil genius devising a master plan. "Yeah he's being weird." Garrick responds a little to loudly, and Ghost's neck pretty much snaps round. He looks the two up and down before returning to his drink. "Aye the blokes very crabbit." MacTavish mutters, rolling his eyes.

After Kyle and John had made poor Simon tipsy from countlessly thrusting more and more drinks before him, they started to question him. "Why so silent?" Garrick's eyes flick to Johnnies, as if to ask for approval for the question. Soap grins and nods, watching as Simon slams down down his fists on the table, leaning backwards in his chair.

"There's this girl," He mutters, shaking his head as both Gaz and Soap sit up, leaning in. "A lass, aye?" MacTavish squints, smirking at Simon. "Where'd you meet?"

"We haven't- I mean, I saw her through her window..." Simon grumbles, adjusting his skull mask. "Oh?" Kyle's mouth opens in a confused O shape. "Bit pervy. Maybe talk to her?"

"No... it'd be like a bag of skittles.. and I dunno, a boring old rock shagging." Ghost pouts through the mask, eyebrows contorted slightly.

"So... yer different from each other?" Johnny frowns, evidently bewildered. "I think he went and fell in love with this window lassie," He turns to Gaz, his expression contagious.

"That's the fucking problem!" Yells Simon, his eyes shining with unironic yet comical sadness. He slams his large, gloved hands into his face, tipping back on the chair.

"Show us window girl then," Garrick chuckles, obviously not convinced. The three man stand up, Soap shoving a few notes onto the table and thumping Simon's back gently as they walk out into the dark.

"She lives like..." The lieutenant trails off, pointing randomly around before stomping off down the road. After about 10 minutes of walking, he stops abruptly in front of your small house. The downstairs lights were all on, shining cosily from inside. The three stand there for a moment before Soap nudges Simon. "You gonnae talk to her or not?" Kyle steps back slightly as Ghost groans like some enamoured softy. "Maybe not..." Gaz murmurs.

"Oh you and your sensibleness can fuck right off." Johnny says as he starts to shoves Ghost up the pathway to your house, knocking on the door before darting away and leaving the bewildered man just standing there. Simon registers what's happening as the lock starts to click. It was too late for him to walk away. His breath hitches as you open the door and open your mouth, confused. "Hi?" You say, voice slightly unsure.

His eyes widen and he grins sheepishly, taking in your beauty close up and blinking as he starts to speak. "Hello Miss," You shift around slightly, grip tight on the door. Who the fuck is this guy? You think to yourself, looking the masked figure up and down.

You step backwards slightly as you notice another two men walking up the path, one grinning and the other rather reluctant. The one with strange looking mohawk places a firm hand on the masked mans shoulder and the other one just cowers behind mohawk man.

"My friend Simon here would like your number," Soap smiles, Scottish accent loud in the crisp night air. Simon nods enthusiastically. "You're pretty," He slurs, sticking up his thumb and grinning with his eyes. You nod, trying not to burst out laughing.

"Oh, well... thanks," You smile briefly, leaning backwards into the house to grab a pen. You weren't sure why you were doing this... giving some random man your number, but something had you hooked. Maybe it was the fact you could see how toned and muscly he was, even through his hoodie, or just because of how blatantly bizarre the encounter was. "Here," You tug up masked mans sleave, scribbling your number on the inside of his wrist. "Yay," He mumbles, turning around and tripping down the path, his two buddies in close pursuit.

You can't help but notice him drunkenly punch the air as he stumbles down the path, and as you click the door shut you can't ignore the smile plastered on your face and the flush creeping over your cheeks.

should I make a part 2 ?

sorry for any mistakes I'm tired af again heh... anyway, any reblogs / support is appreciated!! hope you enjoyed !

[kittyball23]

Little details I liked in Trolls Band Together

Clay doing his blank-faced Rusty Robot dance in the background

Floyd hovering in midair for a second as he falls

John Dory brushing his coat in the background as Poppy and Branch talk

Branch's little smirk when JD mentions him saving the world from the Rock Apocalypse

How the whole camera frame moves when JD smacks his face on the table

Floyd being 100% done with John Dory 30 seconds after reuniting with him

John Dory scolding Rhonda

Bruce's little jig as he explains he left the boyband thing behind

Branch and Poppy's reactions to Bruce saying he has kids

This kid facepalming in dismay when Bruce confirms that no government stands a chance

The look on this kid's face as he's being tugged out of the ketchup bottle

John Dory and Bruce's reaction to Viva

Branch's reaction as Poppy talks to Clay

Kiddo Veneer's concern for his sister as Velvet has her freakout

Poppy's sweet little hand caress as she talks to Branch

The Putt Putters' mixed reactions to Bridget and Gristle smooching

The enthusiasm the Mount Rageons have for Broppy's kiss

Branch's shift in expression as Clay explains his sad-book club

[simpforrooster]

nothing but a gentleman.

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x F!Reader

summary: jake is obsessed with you. you eat it up. you’re obsessed with his obsession. but also with him.

t/w: soft!jake, some cursing

"Get out of here, Bagman. You're giving me a headache."

The blonde aviator grabs at his chest. "God, I love it when you're mean to me." Those green eyes sparkle with mischief under the lights of the Hard Deck.

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin has been pining after you for months.

& you have been loving every second of it. Miramar's resident playboy has only had eyes for you. You haven't seen him spare a glance at any of the other ladies in the bar.

Believe me, they've been looking at him.

"Y/n, how long are you going to keep my boy at arm's length?" Coyote asks from the other side of the pool table. Jake saddles up next to him and feeds you the saddest pout he can muster.

"Yeah, y/n, how long?" Jake asks.

Your intention wasn't to drag this hard-to-get play out for so long. Truthfully, it's becoming hard not to give in to those strong arms. To not lean in when he invades your personal space, feeding you a smart ass comment.

Your shoulder comes up to your ear and falls back down. "Hard to say, Bagman."

"Let's play for it," he tells you. Jake saunters over to you, and leans against the pool table. Crossing his arms over his fit chest, he situates his mouth just outside your ear. "If I win, you've gotta give me a kiss, darlin'."

The way his hot breath falls across your ear causes goosebumps to appear down your arms. Jake notices, and a blonde brow raises.

"What are you? Twelve?" you antagonize.

"Oh, honey. I'm willing to try anything at this point."

"Rack 'em. Honey." You lightly shove him back, your hands reacting to the small second they were on his chest.

"If I win, you give it up," you send the man a sad look.

"Give what up?" he asks.

"All this pining'." Your hand gestures wildly around in the air.

For a moment, despair crosses over that handsome face. He recovers quickly. "Oh, I'm not worried."

Jake lets you break. Two stripes fall into the pocket. Jake comes up behind you before your next shot. His hand slides across your waist and he pulls you into his side.

Right as you pull back, Jake leans down. "Don't scratch."

The cueball follows your striped ball into the pocket.

"Damn," he murmurs. It takes a full 45 seconds to get your heart rate under control.

The jig is up once Jake get in control of the pool table. Not only is he the dagger squad's best dart player, he's got the best pool table on lock, too. There is no way he's going to take it easy on you.

Naturally, he doesn't.

"One more and Hangman gets a kiss," he smirks. He doesn't take his eyes off your as he pulls back and send the cue ball sailing.

The eight ball falls into it's intended pocket effortlessly. Followed right by the cue ball.

Shock falls across all your faces. Jake has never lost a game of pool. Ever.

Jake sets the cue stick down, and rounds the table. Standing toe-to-toe with you, he feeds you a delicious smirk.

"Darlin', I ain't gonna make you kiss me if you don't want to. Furthermore, I only want your kiss if its of your own volition." He tucks a strand of stray hair behind your ear.

Your eyes lock with his and the world stops. What a fucking gentleman.

Fisting the front of his shirt, you yank him down to your mouth. Jake relaxes into the kiss immediately and allows his hands to slide around your waist.

Jake takes control, changing the direction and deepening the kiss. Your hands move from his shirt to the nap of his neck, fingers knotting in his hair. His hair that’s gotten just a bit long.

Jake pulls back just a hair, his lips a breath away from yours. “Damn,” he mumbles, again.

“My own volition, huh?”

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman,” he winks. “A gentleman who is dying to kiss you again.”

You guide his lips back to yours.

“Kiss me, Hangman.”

master list.

a/n: been a little while since i wrote for ole jakey. i hope y'all like it!

[demonic0angel]

Vlad is at a wayne gala when he notices that Jason is liminal as fuck and tries to adopt him, but he's a creeper. He tries the same with cass, and jason just body slams him through the table. Jazz sees the video and swoons

(*dances a little Irish jig of delight*)

"... so who's that?" Jazz asked, her tone very light. She leaned over the edge of the couch as all of them surrounded a tablet with a video of a young man tossing Vlad onto a table at a dinner party.

Danny and Dan both paused with narrowed eyes, but Dani didn't seem to notice as she said, "That's Bruce Wayne's son. He's from that one Buzzfeed mystery story, remember? He disappeared for 4 years when he was 15 and then came back without an explanation a few years ago.”

Jazz gave a soft, “Ohhh…”

Now even Dani was noticing her odd tone of voice and all three Dannies stared at her. Dan looked particularly murderous.

“… Jazz? You got something to tell us?” Danny said, crossing his arms.

Jazz coughed. “What! No! I mean— there’s nothing to say. What did I say? Nothing’s wrong!”

“That motherfucker is going to disappear permanently when I’m done with him,” Dan growled.

Jazz looked alarmed, “What boy??”

Danny facepalmed with a groan. “Jazz! Are you serious?! You don’t even know this guy!”

Jazz blushed bright red and crossed her arms. “I didn’t say anything!”

Dani suddenly looked horrified. “Oh my ancients! And you’re going to Gotham in a few weeks, right??” Now even Danny and Dan looked horrified, as Jazz just glared at her, huffing as her siblings all vehemently protested.

“You don’t even know him! No! Absolutely not! He’s nothing but a pretty face and big biceps!” Danny screamed. “No blessings! Actually, I’ll curse you! I curse this union!”

Dani shook her head rapidly, aggressively making the X sign with her arms. “You can’t date him! He’s the son of a billionaire! Who knows what creepy fetishes or crazy secrets he has?! He’s rich! You can’t trust a nepo baby!”

“You’re not allowed to date anyone! And don’t even think about going to Gotham anymore! Forget your job offer! No way am we going to let you go to Gotham to fraternize with Jason Todd-Wayne of all people!” Dan snarled, bristling like an offended tiger.

Jazz perked up. “His name is Jason?”

“Jazz!!”

[puck-luck]

I would like to make a request 🗣️🗣️ luke and a meet cute at a club or party and luke takes her back to his place 🕶️

thank you for your consideration

warnings: use of Y/N, consumption of alcohol, dancing without leaving room for jesus, public sex, rough!luke, oral sex m!receiving (facefucking), praise, dirty talk, consumption of cum, hair pulling, probably missed some stuff but. oh well.

pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader

wc: 3,717

“Y/N, he’s been looking over here all night. If you don’t go up to him, I will,” your friend threatens. 

You know who she’s talking about– the tall brunet with the curls near the dartboard in the quiet corner of the bar. He’s been with his group of friends the whole night, nursing beer bottle after beer bottle, and you keep making eye contact with him. You’ve actually turned from him so that you can focus on your friends, determined to not make the first move on this guy.

However, the jig is up. Your friends are tired of waiting. They want to see something happen.

“Look, he’s going to the bar now,” another friend says. “Go get a new drink and talk to him!”

They urge you to finish your current drink quickly and shoo you along, physically pushing you from the group towards the bar.

“Alright, alright, fine,” you concede, leaving your empty glass on the table and walking towards the bar. You make your way to the bar, sidling up next to the man. He seems taller when you stand next to him, so you throw a look over your shoulder towards your friends, mouth gaping and eyebrows curved to convey how impressed you are. You tap your fingers on the bar while you wait for the bartender, bouncing on your tiptoes slightly. 

The bartender goes to the man first, who asks for a Bud bottle. It’s easy enough, so the bartender points to you. 

“A vodka soda with a lime, please!” You lean forward over the bar and raise your voice so the bartender can hear you over the chatter in the bar. Another easy order. You never really know what to order at bars, despite being over the legal drinking age for a little while now. 

You and the man next to you wait in silence as the bartender makes your drinks– or grabs the beer bottle, in the case of your neighbor. He promptly hands over his card, which the bartender sticks into the side of his hat so that he can use both of his hands to make your drink. 

Your eyes go wide– your purse is at the table with your friends. You could just use ApplePay, but you really don’t want to hand your entire phone to the bartender to pay. “Oh, shit,” you mumble to yourself, looking over at the table where your friends sit. You can see your purse from here, like there’s a spotlight on it.

The bartender places a new glass in front of you and waits.

“I– my wallet is in my purse, I need to go grab it,” you say, pointing over towards the table. “I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back–”

“You can put it on mine,” the man next to you interrupts, talking directly to the bartender. “I’ll pay.”

The bartender nods and types around on the computer for a minute, while you turn to the guy next to you– your savior. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but you really do appreciate the small act of kindness.

“Thank you so much,” you tell the man, looking up at him and smiling softly. “I can Venmo you, if you want?”

He chuckles. “Nah, that’s okay,” he says. He sticks a hand out for you to shake, which is comical in a setting like this. You take his hand anyway, feeling his fingers curl around your palm. “I’m Luke.”

“Y/N. You’re sure I can’t pay you back?” you ask, shaking his hand.

Luke turns back to the bar, taking his card from the bartender and signing the receipt. You take your drink, waiting for him to say something else. He looks at you when he’s done and shakes his head. “I’m sure.”

Ugh– you can feel your chance slipping away. You’ve never been the bravest when it comes to making a move, but you know your friends won’t take pleasure in this story if you return now. They’ll just send you back over to Luke. “How about a dance?”

Luke’s eyebrows quirk. “A dance?”

“To pay you back. We dance for a song, we go our separate ways, and all is fair,” you say. It’s a silly proposal, but you’re hoping it works. Even if it doesn’t, you can tell your friends that you asked him to dance and he declined. You reach for your drink and sip from the straw, pinching the plastic to keep it in place. You look up at Luke through your eyelashes, blinking innocently.

Luke seems to consider the invitation, taking a swig from his beer bottle and sliding his card back into his wallet, before sliding his wallet back into his pocket. He licks his bottom lip and his eyes flicker over the top half of your figure. “Sure,” Luke decides after a minute. “Let’s dance.”

You smile. “Okay,” you say sweetly. “Let me go put my drink on my table. Wait right here.” You touch his arm lightly, lingering for a moment. “I’ll be right back.”

You head back to your table, depositing your drink on the table and telling your friends that you’ll be dancing with Luke if they need you. They cheer and gas you up, making you swear that you’ll tell them everything. They promise to watch your stuff and, should you want to go home with Luke, they’ll call an Uber for you. 

Your friends don’t do that kind of stuff normally, so you’re starting to wonder… do they think you’ve been in a dry spell? Or are they just really excited about the prospect of you hooking up with Luke?

Luke’s face transforms when he smirks, watching you make your way back over to him. He laughs when you pop your hips a bit with each step, introducing the dance before you even make your way to the middle of the bar. Once you’re in range, Luke slides his big hand over your hip possessively and a thrill passes through you. It’s the simplest of touches. 

You lead him to the dance floor, twining your fingers between the lengthy digits of his free hand. You twirl under his arm before plastering your back to his front and, well, getting down to business. 

The music is upbeat, but you can’t place your finger on the genre. You like this bar because dancing isn’t a huge part of the vibe. There are still a number of couples out on the dance floor, plus a few groups of friends. It’s not crowded, but there’s no way that your friends are able to watch and analyze each move that you make. 

It might be disco, actually. Some sort of weird EDM-disco-reggae-poppy-retro song that you’ll never remember the name of, but you’ll remember the feeling you had while it played. You’ll remember the feeling of Luke’s body behind yours, so present that you have to close your eyes and memorize it. 

The movements are easy enough, although Luke is letting you lead the dance. His hips sway with yours, hands on your waist. You can feel his breath on your neck and your cheekbone and you lean into the touch, laying the back of your head against his shoulder. One of your hands comes up to find his neck, curling around the back of it and playing with his curls. You know he can see down the front of your going-out top like this, cleavage on full display, and that’s just how you want it. 

His movements grow more sure over the duration of the song. By the end of it, Luke’s hips are pressed securely against your backside and his hands are keeping you in place. At the end of the first song, you wait for Luke to step away, but he doesn’t. You just keep dancing– through a second, a third, and a fourth song.

Halfway through the fourth, Luke starts to kiss over your neck. It’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for. You hum and press into his touch, baring your neck for him and sighing. The fourth song ends and fades into a fifth. Luke keeps kissing. You keep rolling your hips. Luke pulls you back when you get too far away. You curl your fingers into his hair when his mouth parts from your pulsepoint for too long.

You turn into Luke’s body finally, unable to play this game for a moment more. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself into his orbit until your hips are flush and your tits are pressed against his front. 

There’s a lull momentarily, just a flash of hesitation in Luke’s eyes, but it’s gone in a second. That look is replaced with a dark, affected flicker deep in Luke’s pupils. He leans down, you tilt your head up, and you’re kissing each other frantically, bodies still moving in time with the beat of the sixth song. 

Your hands tug on Luke’s hair and one of his rises up the line of your back to tangle in yours. The other hand slides lower and you, for one, are very happy that Luke has such a big wingspan. You saw it when he reached a hand out to throw a dart and again when he was celebrating with his friend, another brunet in a backwards hat. His hand goes all the way to your behind and squeezes, which has you swooning.

You’re sure that you look sloppy and desperate on the dance floor, but with the way Luke’s dick is straining against his pants and pressing against your hip, you can’t be bothered to care. Luke’s mouth is insistent against yours and you feel positively feral.

It’s warm in the club all of a sudden. You feel like you’re sweating and you want to get out of these clothes– and you want to get Luke out of his. 

Luke kisses you until you’re gasping for air and you have to break away. Even then, he starts to kiss down your neck again, which has you arching into his touch. 

“Go home with me?” Luke asks between the open-mouthed marks he leaves on your neck. 

And you will, but you also don’t want to sit through a car ride. Your apartment is about twenty minutes from here and you don’t know how far Luke’s is… hell, he could live above the bar for all you care, and that would be too far.

“Too far,” you reply before tracing a line over the strong column of his throat. “I want you now.”

Luke chuckles, amused by your chagrin. “We can’t just–”

“Come on.” You take Luke’s hand and drag him towards the bathrooms. There’s a single stall employee bathroom that you know the code for– only because one of your friends used to date one of the bartenders at this bar. He gave her the code and she’d shared it with your group of friends, then you’d continued using it after they’d broken up. Part of that is revenge for the bartender turning out to be evil, as ex-boyfriends often are, but the other part is that you prefer having a bathroom that is constantly stocked with toilet paper, soap, and paper towels. 

In this case… you prefer having a bathroom that is locked and very private.

You punch in the code, waiting for the keypad to light up green, and let yourself in. You pull Luke into the room behind you, leaning back against the door as it swings shut. 

Luke crowds into your space, cupping your cheeks and pushing your hair back until it’s a tangled mess. All the while, he’s mouthing against your lips. You take his enthusiasm as a sign that he’s on board with your idea– that you can hook up right here and there’s no need to wait. The doorknob is digging into your side, but you don’t mind all that much. 

He’s so strong. You can feel it in the way his fingertips dig into your sides and how his body covers yours. 

You both move with ferver, hands roaming and touching every inch that you can. Luke tastes like the beer he was drinking and smells of faint cologne. His tongue licks at your mouth like a flame and the sounds of your lips meeting and retracting fills your ears. You can hear how he’s starting to pant into your mouth, and one of his hands comes up to squeeze your boob. You return the favor, fitting your hand around his length over the front of his pants. He moans into your mouth and you swoon, knees buckling slightly.

They buckle until you find your way to the ground. “Can I?” you ask, petting over the tent in front of your face. You look up at Luke, leaning forward to smooth an inviting kiss to his bulge. 

“Fuck, yes,” Luke replies. One of his hands stays flat against the back of the door, while the other gathers your hair at the back of your head.

You let a smirk crawl over your face, maintaining eye contact with Luke and hoping that it looks sexy. Then, you’re quick to unbutton his pants and pull the zipper down, working to free Luke’s cock. You can practically feel your mouth watering, filling with spit and craving his taste. 

When you pull his pants and boxers down, Luke’s cock springs free and bounces back towards his stomach. He’s got a big cock, lengthier than you’ve seen in any of your previous hookups. He’s girthy, too, and you’re happy to see that he’s circumcised. Not that you’d complain if he wasn’t, but… whatever. It’s not important. What’s important is that he’s right here and your mouth isn’t around him yet.

You dive in, tongue first. At the first union of Luke’s precum with your tastebuds, you moan and allow your eyelids to flutter shut. You bob your head, taking inch after inch of Luke until there’s hardly any space remaining– at least, you hope not. He’s big and you’d like to look accomplished, able to deepthroat him. It’s a pride thing. After pushing your head down just the tiniest bit further, just enough so you gag around his tip and your mouth constricts around his cock, you pull back.

You pump his cock while you breathe, shaking away the lightheadedness that came with his girth filling your windpipe and cutting off your airway. You lick from his base to his tip with the flat of your tongue, gazing up at Luke with wide eyes to catch his reaction.

He’s breathing hard, his stomach tensing and hand twitching against the back of the door, like he wants to grab something. “That’s so good,” Luke gasps out, his other hand tightening in your hair. He stares down at you, pupils dark and all-consuming. 

You open your mouth and slide his length over your tongue, taking him deep.

“So good,” Luke repeats. His hips push forward, encouraging you to do more.

So that’s how it’s going to be, you think. Well, you certainly don’t mind if Luke wants to take control.

You bring your hand to the back of your head, covering his fingers. Luke stares at you, but he doesn’t move. If his cock wasn’t in your mouth, tip poking at the back of your throat, you’d giggle at the dumbfounded look on his face. Instead, you just push your head forward with that hand over Luke’s, then pull back, and then push forward again. You drop Luke’s hand and thumb over his thigh, tracing the light hair that adorns it.

“You– do you want me to fuck your mouth?” Luke asks, stammering over the first word. His cheeks flush as he questions you. You can’t tell if it’s from being turned on or if it’s because he’s embarrassed that he even has to ask.

You nod, eyes half-hooded and bottom teeth accidentally scraping against the underside of his cock. You drop your mouth open wider, and your jaw is starting to ache, but what does it matter? Luke’s grip has grown even tighter on your hair.

“Are you sure?” he checks again, although his hips are already starting to work back, giving him room to push forward when you confirm.

You nod again, flexing your tongue against the vein that pulses along his shaft. 

“Fuck, that’s hot. Okay, um, if it’s too much,” Luke says, scrambling a bit. “Just, uh, hit me. Hit my thigh if it’s too much and you need a break, okay?”

You let a breath of laughter leave your nose and you pat his thigh firmly to show that you understand. You bring that hand around the back of his thigh and encourage him forward, eyes never breaking from his.

Luke starts slow at first, using his grip on your hair to drag you closer to his base and then back to his tip. He sees how much you can take and how far he can go before his tip falls off of your tongue and leaves your mouth completely. He directs your head like a marionette on a string, recapturing his cock and filling your mouth with it. 

You pinch his thigh and whine, the sound muffled around Luke’s length, but he gets the message. 

“Okay, fuck,” Luke curses. He starts to pull your hair harder, then push down on your scalp itself more harshly. “Letting me fuck your mouth in the bar bathroom, that’s so dirty, Y/N.”

You moan at that, eyes rolling back.

“Oh, you like being dirty, huh?” Luke asks. “You like it when I talk to you? Or do you just like the idea of me ruining you?”

That. You moan again, the vibration from the noise reverberating around his length. 

Luke gains more confidence, bringing his hand down from the door and rearranging your hair into a ponytail of sorts. Both hands are on the sides of your head, holding your skull like they would hold your hips if he was fucking into you from behind. 

“So good at gagging on my cock, babe,” Luke continues. His eyes are flashing with ideas, a new light glinting through them. His hips are moving steadily, methoidcally. Forward, backward, forward, backward. His tip nudges the back of your throat with each thrust. You do actually gag when his cockhead drags over your uvula, but it makes Luke moan and increase his pace.

You like watching him come closer and closer to the edge, using your mouth. You claw at his thighs, trying to keep him as close as you can. You continue to moan, choke, and splutter around his cock, making as much noise as you can. Luke is returning the favor, groaning and grunting and heaving out harsh breaths while his pace grows more and more frenzied.

“Never even met me before, but here you are, on your knees in a bar bathroom,” Luke grits out, a twisted smirk on his face. “So willing to be used.”

Yes. You can feel a trail of drool carve a path down your chin. Luke fucks it out of you. His balls knock against your chin as he starts to lose control of himself, thrusting into your mouth as far as the hole will allow. 

“You’re gonna swallow my cum,” Luke says lowly, his jaw clenched. He holds your head down, your jaw unhinged and deepthroating his cock. “Then I’m going to take you home and finish the job.”

You nod as best you can with his hands still holding your head in place.

Luke nods in return, then the pads of his thumbs dig into the thin skin of your temple and he snaps his hips forward.

His thrusts are precise and rough, which has you gagging like you’ll reject his cock, but you won’t. You want his cum. You want it in your mouth, sliding down your throat, and settling in your stomach. Your next moan is more of a gurgle around Luke’s shaft, tongue pressing into his skin.

“Good girl, I’m close,” Luke says. “Keep your mouth open for me.”

You can’t open your mouth any more than you already have, but you try your best. Your eyes sting a bit as Luke continues to abuse your throat, but you keep your watery gaze locked on him. 

Luke groans and shudders, taking one of his hands from your head and returning it to the door. He forms a fist this time, knocking his forearm against the door and then leaning his head against it. He braces himself, staring down at you with his lips parted, clearly affected and transfixed by the look on your face. 

His entire body rolls forward when his cum bursts from his slit and shoots down your throat. Luke moans loud, the sound seeming to echo off the walls of the spacious room. 

His hips stop moving, but you bob your head for an extra minute, making slurping noises around his cock and swallowing as best you can. Some of his cum joins the drool leaking from your mouth when Luke pulls away, unable to take any further stimulation. 

You swallow a final time, your throat aching with a sharp pain from overuse. You wipe under your bottom lip with the pads of your first three fingers, then lick the remaining fluids from them. 

“Shit…” Luke drawls, his chest rising and falling with ample effort. His eyes look far away, although they’re fixed on the way your mouth circles your fingers. “Baby, I gotta get you home.”

“Oh, yeah?” You tease, your voice rough. Your words even break a bit, catching on the dry surface of your tongue. “Are you going to let me sit on your face and ruin you?”

Luke’s eyes widen and his pupils dilate, his tongue licking over his bottom lip. He reaches for your elbow and helps you stand, capturing your mouth in a long kiss. “Among other things,” he breathes out when you part. “Yeah, let’s get your cum on my chin too. You can see how good it looks.”

“My friends said they’d pay for the Uber,” you tell him, patting his chest. You reach for his underpants, then his jeans, and make sure they’re snug, zipped, and buttoned around his hips. You kiss him softly. “Let’s go get my purse.”

notes: been in a Lu mood lately :) not much writing has come from it, but i have been in a Lu mood.

[velarisdusk]

The One Where Everybody Finds Out

Cassian x Reader

Day 2: Friends / Family @sjmxreaderweek summary: Keeping a secret in a house full of nosy friends was a losing game. You and Cassian thought you were careful—but after one too many slip-ups, it's clear: the jig is up. word count: 3.1k content: [ explicit language, implied sexual content, explicit humor, alcohol ] author's note: a nice cute fun lil fic inspired by the chandler and monica friends episode :) yes, i was in the middle of a series rewatch (showing it to the bf for the first time) when i was writing this one lol

You and Cassian hadn’t meant to keep it a secret. At least, not at first.

What had started as a fleeting moment—one night of unspoken tension, one quiet pull from Cassian, a simple kiss that should’ve meant nothing—soon spiraled into something more. Something that felt like more than a stolen touch or a glance across the training ring. It was sneaking under the table at dinner, brushing your fingers against his when no one was looking, the soft pressure of his knee against yours when you stood side by side. A pattern that was hard to ignore, harder to explain.

And yet, here you were, caught in the throes of it. The truth of it settled in like a weight you couldn’t shift, each day bringing more pressure. This was Cassian. These were your friends—your family. And somehow, the idea of them knowing—of everyone knowing—before you and Cassian even had the chance to understand what this was, felt suffocating.

So, an unspoken pact was formed: keep it quiet. For now.

The problem, of course, was Cassian.

He thought he was subtle. He thought no one noticed when he gravitated toward you at every dinner, even when it meant hauling a chair across the room. He thought the touches were harmless: a hand lingering on your back, fingers brushing yours as he passed you a drink, all innocent enough. And when he tried to play it off with weak excuses, you could hardly keep a straight face.

“I just happened to be heading out, too,” he’d said to Rhys one evening, despite the fact that he’d just ordered another drink. You barely covered your snort.

To your credit, you were trying to keep things under wraps. You didn’t let your gaze linger too long, didn’t let yourself react when his knee pressed against yours under the dining table. But Cassian made it so difficult. He was all big, stupid grins when you walked into a room, and lingering fingers when he handed you anything.

So you kept sneaking around, hoping no one saw through it, pretending to be careful, while you and Cassian—two grown adults—acted like youths trying to hide a crush.

And for a while, at least, you were sure no one knew.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . F . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

At first, it was nothing more than an inkling—a soft, nagging feeling that hovered just under the surface. Maybe it was the way Cassian’s gaze lingered a little longer than necessary on you, or the way your lips barely curved in response to his words. It was subtle, imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

But then, it happened.

Over dinner, Cassian slipped.

“Hey, sweetheart, could you pass the—” He froze mid-sentence.

You froze too.

For a split second, the table fell silent. Just long enough for Feyre’s eyes to flick upward, catching the shift in your expression. The way Cassian hastily shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, as if trying to swallow the evidence of his slip-up.

No one else noticed. Rhys was too caught up in his argument with Amren, and Azriel was lost in Mor’s latest joke.

But Feyre noticed.

And once she did, it was like a door opened.

She noticed the way Cassian always seemed to hover near you, the way you both made excuses to leave at the same time, the way your hands brushed ever so casually—too casually—when you thought no one was looking. You and Cassian were terrible at this.

And Feyre? Feyre was absolutely going to have fun with it.

“You know,” she began one evening, voice light, almost teasing, “I think it’s funny how some people swear they don’t do pet names, but then, out of nowhere, they slip up.”

From across the room, you nearly choked on your wine. Cassian visibly tensed, shifting uncomfortably as he buried his hands in his lap.

“Oh?” Rhys drawled, raising an eyebrow. “And here I thought you liked my pet names for you, Feyre.”

Feyre hummed, her eyes flicking toward you and Cassian. “Oh, I don’t mind them. But some people…” She let the silence stretch, just long enough to make it feel pointed. “Some people can’t help but use them.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Interesting. I had the impression you preferred something more… simple.”

Feyre arched a brow. “Simple?”

His grin widened. “Well, you’ve never complained about darling.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, but her smile was too genuine to be dismissive. “That’s different.”

Rhys laughed. “Is it?”

Feyre shot him a pointed look. “You used up your one pet name already.”

Rhys clutched his chest in mock offense. “And here I was, considering my heart or my star.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow. “Try it.”

Cassian, his face flushed, immediately turned away. You fought to keep your expression neutral, but the heat of Feyre’s eyes on you was impossible to ignore. She knew.

And she was loving every second of it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . A . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with Azriel’s smirks.

He wasn’t a male known for his smiles, but there were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—that his lips would twitch upward, the smallest glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes.

At first, Feyre thought she was imagining it. But then, the comments began.

“You seem well-rested, Cassian,” Azriel remarked one morning, his voice deceptively casual as he sipped his coffee.

Cassian, who hadn’t slept in weeks, nearly knocked over his plate. “What?”

Azriel didn’t even look up from his paper. “Nothing.”

Feyre watched from across the room, barely holding back her laughter.

It kept happening—these little comments that would’ve been brushed off by anyone else, but Feyre knew.

Like the time you and Cassian showed up separately to the River House, late, only to have Azriel quip, “Funny how you two always seem to arrive at the same time after a night out, even though you’re coming from different places.”

Cassian tensed. You shot him a warning look. Feyre couldn’t contain her grin.

Or when Azriel casually mentioned how hard it must be to keep a secret in a house full of curious minds. His voice was slow, deliberate, each word pointed enough to cut.

He never outright confronted you, though. He didn’t need to.

Because Azriel thought he was the only one who knew.

And that—that—was the most entertaining part.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . M . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was never supposed to happen like this.

You and Cassian had been so careful—so careful. But now, here you were, backed up against the wall of his room at the House of Wind, his lips hot and demanding against yours, his hands gripping your waist as if he never intended to let go—

And then the door swung open.

“What in the Mother’s name—”

Cassian whipped away from you so fast, he nearly stumbled. You gasped, scrambling to straighten your clothes, but it was far too late. Mor stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open in shock, then delight.

Her hand shot out, pointing accusingly at Cassian. Then at you. Then back at Cassian.

“Are you—BY THE CAULDRON.”

“Mor—”

“Oh, wow!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her other hand still outstretched like she was physically trying to process what she was seeing. “How long has this been going on?!”

Cassian groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Can you not yell?”

“Can you not—whatever the hell I just walked in on?!” Mor’s voice climbed an octave. 

You buried your face in your hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. This is it. This is how I die.

Mor shrieked in delight, practically bouncing in place. “I knew it. I knew something was off with you two lately!” She narrowed her eyes at you. “Wait—does anyone else know?”

You hesitated. “Uh—”

“NO WAY,” Mor gasped, clutching her chest. “I cannot believe I’m the first to find out.” She beamed like she’d just won the lottery. “I won’t tell, I promise. But gods, this is amazing.”

She took one last look at the two of you—still flushed, still breathless—then spun on her heel. With a wink and a whirlwind exit, she left the room, her smile wide enough to break.

Cassian dropped his head onto your shoulder, letting out a long groan. “We’re screwed.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . F.A. . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Feyre smoothed her hand over the map of Velaris spread across the table, her fingers tracing the lines of the Sidra. “We should move the patrols closer to the Sidra in the evenings. There’s been more movement near the docks lately.”

Azriel barely glanced up from the reports he was sifting through. “Already reassigned four to cover it.”

A soft laugh escaped Feyre, her lips curling at the edges. She shook her head, as if to herself. “Of course you did.” Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, she added, “You ever notice how Cassian’s been in a suspiciously good mood lately?”

Azriel’s fingers faltered for just a second before he turned the page, his expression a mask of indifference. “Have I?”

Feyre hummed absently, her eyes never leaving the map as she traced the Sidra again. “Mmm. And (y/n)’s been spending an awful lot of late nights at the House of Wind. Odd, don’t you think?”

For the first time, Azriel’s gaze lifted from the papers, his eyes narrowing in the faintest flicker of curiosity. “Odd?”

She shrugged, her tone light and breezy, as if it were nothing more than idle chatter. “Well, unless she’s taken up sparring… but I doubt that’s it.”

Azriel studied her for a beat longer, then turned the page with deliberate slowness, as if the words between them hadn’t lingered at all. His gaze stayed fixed on the report, his voice a touch more clipped. “How did you figure it out?”

Feyre’s lips quirked into a smug smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I heard him call her ‘sweetheart.’” She let the word hang between them like a well-aimed dart, watching for any shift in his expression.

Azriel didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned the page as if the word had barely registered, his cool composure unshaken. Only after a long pause did he finally exhale through his nose, his voice dry. “They really let that slip?”

She shrugged, feigning innocence, though the edge in her gaze was anything but. “How did you figure it out?”

Azriel gave a low, quiet chuckle, meeting her eyes with a knowing look. “I’m the spymaster.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, her smirk widening. “Right.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . R . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Rhysand hadn’t been looking for anything in particular that morning—just enjoying the rare silence before the house stirred. But as he rounded a corner, a familiar figure slipped out of a room that wasn’t his own.

Not his usual early-morning “training run.”

Cassian moved too quickly, his steps a fraction too sharp, his eyes darting like he was trying to slip past unnoticed. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, and there was the faintest flush still clinging to his skin.

Rhys leaned lazily against the wall, one brow lifting as a slow smirk curved his lips. “Is there a reason you’re sneaking out of (y/n)’s room at this hour, Cassian?”

Cassian froze for the briefest second before schooling his face into something passably neutral. “I was just—checking on her.”

Rhys hummed, his smirk widening. “At this hour? Interesting.”

Cassian shrugged, all false nonchalance, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “People need to talk in private sometimes.”

Rhys pushed off the wall, taking an easy step forward, letting the silence stretch. The faint scent of you still clung to Cassian’s clothes, subtle but unmistakable. And Rhys could practically hear the frantic calculations going on in his brother’s head, searching for a way out of this.

“Mm,” Rhys mused, tilting his head, “you do realize I can smell both of you on each other, right?”

Cassian’s jaw tightened, his face darkening a shade—not quite embarrassment, not quite irritation, but something in between.

Rhys’s grin turned downright wicked. “Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone. I was just curious.”

Cassian shot him a look that could have melted steel. Silence. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He was clearly at a loss for any more excuses, but Rhys wasn’t finished.

“Though, I have to say…” He tapped a finger against his chin, as if deep in thought. “Mor’s going to find out sooner or later. She’s like a bloodhound with these things.” He let the words settle before adding, “Actually, I’d bet she already knows.”

Cassian exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Don’t even start, Rhys.”

Rhys chuckled, watching as Cassian shot him one last glare before stalking down the hall, shoulders tight, as if trying to shake off the conversation.

Rhys waited until he was gone before shaking his head to himself, still grinning. As if Mor didn’t already know. She always did.

And as if his cousin hadn’t already brought it up over their last bottle of wine.

He’d be sure to bring this up during their next.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . A . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The dining table was crowded, warm with good food and flowing wine. Conversation wove together in overlapping threads, laughter spilling easily between hands of cards. Between you, Cassian, Rhys, and Feyre, a game was already well underway.

It had been going fine—until Cassian leaned over your shoulder to peek at your hand, his fingers settling at your waist, thumb tracing a slow, absentminded path against your side.

Harmless. Thoughtless. Until it wasn’t.

The realization hit him like a slap. His hand jerked away as if he’d touched an open flame. The same thought must have struck you at the same time, because your laugh came too loud, too forced, the kind that begged to smooth over something unspoken.

A pause stretched. Rhys lifted a brow. Feyre set her cards down, watching with quiet amusement.

You cleared your throat. “Wow. Would you look at that.” A vague gesture toward the cards. “Cassian, you can’t just hover over my shoulder like that. That’s cheating.”

He blinked, slower this time. “What?”

Eyes widening a fraction, you willed him to keep up. “You looked at my cards. Totally unfair. We should restart.”

A beat passed before he nodded. “Right. Yeah. My bad. I just—uh—I thought I saw a smudge. Thought maybe it was marked.”

Feyre snorted. “Marked?”

“Yeah!” You latched onto the excuse. “You know how it is—sometimes people scratch the cards on purpose, and that would ruin the integrity of the game, so…he was just checking.”

Rhys hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And that required putting a hand on your waist?”

Your mouth opened. No words came out.

Cassian cleared his throat. “It was, uh…a reflex.”

You nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Reflex.”

Mor, unimpressed, gave a slow blink. “Reflex.”

Cassian exhaled sharply. “It’s a battle thing.”

“A battle thing?” Her brow furrowed.

You doubled down. “Yeah. Instinct. From training. Checking each other’s balance, making sure no one’s about to fall over.”

Rhys smirked. “Because that’s a real problem when sitting down.”

Cassian shot him a glare. “You don’t understand how deep it goes, Rhys.”

He swirled the liquor in his glass, tilting his head. “Oh, I think I do.”

The room stilled, the air thick with something unspoken. Then, unimpressed as ever, Amren set down her glass and deadpanned, “You two can stop pretending. We all know.”

Silence.

You went still. Cassian barely breathed beside you.

Then Rhys started laughing.

Forcing a smile, you gave one last feeble attempt. “I…don’t know what you mean.”

Cassian nodded, too fast. “Yeah. No clue.”

Amren gave a flat look. “Oh, please.”

Mor, who had been watching with mild amusement, suddenly stiffened. “…Wait.” Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing at Amren. “What do you mean we all know?”

A slow, put-upon sigh. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

Mor blinked. “You knew?”

“Obviously.” Amren took another sip from her goblet, utterly unimpressed.

A moment of stillness. Then Mor’s expression twisted in pure offense. “But—I was the first to know!”

A quiet sound from Azriel—might’ve been a laugh. “Were you?”

“Of course I was!” Mor huffed, arms crossing. “I walked in on them, for fuck’s sake! That should’ve given me first place!”

Cassian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not bring that up?”

You muttered, “Please, let’s not.”

Rhys, grinning like this was the best entertainment he’d had in years, leaned in. “I don’t know, Cass. I think it’s an important detail. Adds to the drama.”

Cassian shot him a murderous look. “Shut up, Rhys.”

But Mor was still reeling, eyes darting between Amren, Feyre, and Az. “…So, how did you all find out?”

Feyre smirked. “Az figured it out first. I caught on about two months ago.”

Calm as ever, Azriel shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Mor turned on Cassian, scandalized. “I thought you two were being sneaky.”

“We were!” Cassian threw up his hands. “Apparently, just not sneaky enough!”

Rhys chuckled. “Well, to be fair, Cass, you do have a habit of sneaking out of rooms at dawn. It’s not exactly inconspicuous.”

Cassian muttered something under his breath about everyone minding their own damn business.

Mor, still trying to process the betrayal, shook her head. “Let me get this straight—I had the deep misfortune of walking in while he was balls-deep, and yet somehow everyone else figured it out before me?”

Rhys smirked. “Not everyone. I only found out because you told me.”

Cassian’s head whipped toward Rhys just as yours snapped toward his.

Utter betrayal. “You said he caught you sneaking out, not that she told him!”

Rhys stretched back in his seat, his grin widening. “This is even better than I expected.”

Feyre turned on him, brows raised. “Wait—you knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

Rhys’s smirk didn’t waver. “You didn’t tell me either, Feyre darling.”

A scoff. “Because I thought I was the only one who knew!”

Amren, officially done, rose from her seat. “Are we going to spend the next hour debating who the reigning authority on court gossip is?”

Mor scowled. “I am.”

Feyre raised a brow. “Are you?”

Azriel took another sip of his drink, offering nothing.

Cassian leaned in close, voice low. “Maybe if we just sit here quietly, they’ll forget we exist.”

You sighed. “Unlikely.”

[comatosebunny09]

I can’t get this montage out of my head.

Of you and Sylus, bathed in the afterglow of sex, tucked away in some island far away where his “family” resides.

Cuddling, your cheek pressed to his chest, hands splayed at his back, a smile rounding your lips. And he runs lazy fingers up and down your spine, kissing the crown of your head and murmuring the sweetest things there. You’re both watching the sunset as waves crash onto the shore beyond the safety of your beach bungalow; the air is thick with fondness.

Fast forward a bit, and you’re bounding around your bungalow tidying up, Sylus’s shirt sliding off your shoulders, and you’re oblivious to everything outside your earphones. Don’t notice Sylus watching you over crossed arms, leaning against the kitchen island. He’s smiling because you’re adorable, and your cute ass cheeks are spilling out of the bottom of his shirt. And he can’t help himself as he embraces you from behind, exhaling into your hair.

“What are you listening to?” he says all low, swaying your bodies to an unheard song. Snags one of your earphones, and a woman’s melodious, husky croon fills his ear.

Cue the montage of said song transitioning from a dull buzz in the earphone to something full-blown. It plays as Sylus sweeps you away in a souped-up El Dorado, and you’re sitting on the headrest, the breeze blowing over your skin as you dance to your favorite song. And Sylus reaches over to squeeze your knee from the driver's side, the content flicker in his eye hidden behind his shades.

Next, you’re doing a little jig at a restaurant by the window because you’re eating something delicious. And you’re wearing a beautiful, simple dress that boasts your curves, and Sylus can’t keep his eyes off you. Chuckles as he reaches across the table to swipe some sauce off your chin. You lock eyes like magnets drawn to each other, and the air grows thick with passion as the musicians playing at the restaurant shift tempo.

And then, you’re on a shopping spree. In a fancy boutique, doing a little twirl for him in a dress he couldn’t live without you having. And he’s all smiles and lowered defenses, motioning for you to sit in his lap so he can hold you to him and kiss you silly.

Then, you’re at the beach as the sun sets. At a local market, being surrounded by kids begging you to buy their seashell necklaces. And you’re laughing all pretty because they’re all adorable, and you somehow end up roped into a game of soccer with them, playing along the surf.

And Sylus just sits back like, damn, I think I’m in love. And he’s happy for moments like this when you both can steal away, falling off the grid for a little while. He likes it when he has you to himself.

[anotherworld08]

☆Not So Secret☆

The Burrow was louder than usual, and that was saying a lot.

Spring had finally nudged winter out of the way, and the Weasley house was overflowing with life: windows flung open to let in sun and air, garden gnomes yelping as they were tossed over the fence, and Molly Weasley humming as she chopped vegetables for dinner.

Fred, however, was sweating bullets.

He wasn’t supposed to be here today. Or rather, she wasn’t. Y/N Malfoy — a name that had no business blending into a place like the Burrow — had dropped by under the most casual, innocent excuse: returning a charmed pocket-watch he’d left behind after their last Hogsmeade trip. She’d planned to apparate in, hand it off, and be gone before anyone even noticed.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

The plan started unraveling the moment she arrived. Fred had barely stepped out into the yard to meet her when the unmistakable pop of Apparition echoed from behind the house — and in true Weasley fashion, George rounded the corner almost immediately.

Fred barely had time to stuff the watch into his pocket when George’s voice rang out.

“Oi, Mum says get your lazy arse in for dinner —”

He froze mid-sentence, his eyes landing on Y/N. She stood perfectly still, looking only slightly less panicked than Fred, like a cat caught in a beam of lumos.

George blinked.

Y/N, to her credit, recovered first. She raised a single brow, cool as ever. “Evening.”

George looked between them, his mouth twitching slightly as he took in the scene: Fred looking like a kid caught stealing biscuits, and Y/N Malfoy standing in the Burrow’s backyard like she belonged there.

“Evening,” George echoed, tone dangerously casual. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Y/N tilted her head, giving the faintest hint of a smile. “Returning something Fred left behind. Thought I’d spare the owl the trip.”

George let the silence stretch for a beat too long. His sharp brown eyes flicked from her to Fred and back, piecing things together with uncomfortable ease.

“Well,” he said at last, “I hope whatever it was is worth all the trouble.”

Before Fred could muster even a half-baked excuse, Molly’s voice rang out from the kitchen window.

“Fred, who was that at the door?”

Fred cringed. Y/N, knowing the jig was up, lifted a hand in silent farewell and Disapparated with a soft crack, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and the sound of Fred’s stomach sinking to his shoes.

“Friend from school!” Fred called back, a little too loudly, turning to find George still staring at him.

George folded his arms. “Friend, huh?”

Fred sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, look. I was going to tell you. I just… didn’t.”

George snorted. “You think I’m daft? The way you looked at her just now, mate — Merlin’s beard, you might as well have been carrying a banner that said ‘I fancy her.’”

Fred groaned. “George—”

But George just clapped a hand on his shoulder, and his voice, when it came, was surprisingly gentle.

“Malfoy, though? Bloody hell. You don’t half make things interesting.”

Before Fred could respond, the kitchen door banged open. Ginny poked her head out, squinting into the evening light.

“Who was that? Thought I saw someone standing with you.”

Fred froze. George, bless his soul, didn’t miss a beat.

“Just some owl delivery. Wrong house.”

Ginny frowned, clearly suspicious but not invested enough to argue. She disappeared back inside.

George turned back to Fred with a smirk. “You’re lucky I’m good under pressure.”

Fred let out a laugh, more nervous than amused. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, mate,” George said, tapping his temple. “But you’d better tell the rest of the family before someone else catches her here. You know Mum’s got eyes like a hawk.”

Fred never got the chance to come clean on his own terms.

Two days later, it happened. Spectacularly.

It was a Sunday. Sundays at the Burrow meant two things: laundry flapping on the line, and the entire house crammed around the table for Molly’s roast dinner. Fred had managed to go about the day with relative calm, though the memory of Y/N’s visit still sat sharp in his mind.

After the plates were cleared, Arthur decided to fiddle with his latest Muggle gadget: an old two-way mirror he’d enchanted to work like a Muggle “video phone.” Everyone took turns poking at it, half-bored, until George, grinning devilishly, swiped it from Percy’s hands.

“Let’s see if this thing can make prank calls,” he joked, tapping the side of the mirror as if dialing.

But the mirror, apparently still linked to its last user, flickered to life on its own.

Fred froze the moment the glass brightened. There, clear as day, was Y/N — sitting comfortably in her room, brushing her hair. The golden “M” crest on the bedpost behind her was unmistakable.

The room went silent.

She hadn’t noticed the connection yet, humming softly to herself, until Arthur, squinting, leaned in.

“Isn’t that—?”

Y/N glanced at the mirror, blinked, and then her face went from curious to horrified in half a heartbeat.

“Fred,” she said flatly.

Fred buried his face in his hands.

Y/N, ever the composed Slytherin, straightened her posture and gave the mirror an unflinching, if slightly resigned, smile. “Well. I suppose the secret’s out.”

There was a long, long pause.

Molly was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re dating a Malfoy.”

It wasn’t a question.

Fred looked up sheepishly, ears burning. “Yeah. I am.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, George leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, whistling low under his breath.

“I knew it,” he muttered, more proud than surprised.

Ron’s mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish, Hermione beside him looked vaguely scandalized, and Ginny wore an expression that landed somewhere between “disappointed sister” and “impressed troublemaker.”

Arthur, bless him, only adjusted his glasses and gave Fred a measured look. “She seems polite.”

Molly, on the other hand, looked like she needed to sit down, which she did, rather heavily.

“Of all the girls in Britain, Fred,” she said, shaking her head, though her voice was more baffled than angry. “A Malfoy?”

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, shifting in his chair like it was covered in spikes. “She’s not like them, Mum. I swear. She’s smart, and funny, and — I don’t know. She’s different.”

Y/N, still visible in the mirror, raised a brow at the understatement but said nothing, waiting.

Arthur cleared his throat, glancing between his wife and the mirror. “Well, dear, it seems Fred’s already made up his mind. And if the girl’s willing to put up with this lot, she must have some patience.”

Molly looked at her son, then at the girl in the mirror. Mauve held her gaze, calm and unapologetic. Finally, Molly exhaled a long, slow breath.

“I suppose I’ll have to meet you properly then, won’t I?”

Y/N smiled, sharp but sincere. “I’d like that, Mrs. Weasley.”

When the mirror blinked dark again, the room buzzed back to life, half the family talking over each other, and Fred sat there, still stunned but oddly lighter.

Later that night, Fred found George leaning against the back garden fence, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“You’re braver than I gave you credit for,” George said without turning around. “Not for dating her — for hiding it from Mum.”

Fred chuckled, joining him, the night cool and soft around them. “You’re not angry?”

George shook his head. “Nah. I figured it out the second I saw you two in the yard. Malfoy or not, I haven’t seen you this stupidly happy in years.”

Fred smiled, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. “It’s serious, you know.”

“I know,” George said simply. “And I’m glad.”

The two of them stood there a while longer, watching the stars blink awake in the darkening sky.

And for the first time in weeks, Fred knew — really knew — that everything was going to be alright.

[butmakeitgayblog]

god that gif set goes so crazy every time, no one is doing it like them. Heda wanted her SO. BAD. ‼️

Listen I get it ok. I was there in the camp of losing my fucking mind when this happened. But man I just... it's a shame that we get so lost in the gay sauce over this moment —

— that we really don't give enough credit to the rest of what's going on

Cuz like,,, at no point was Lexa actually afraid of Clarke. She'd just had her storm her ass into her tent in the midst of a hissy fit while holding a gun to a warrior's back, and Lexa's only response was to be offended that her makeup regimen got interrupted

Literally the girl was not fazed beyond just, "... what the fuck 😒?" And you know that because Clarke continued following her around the tent while they argued, HER PISTOL STILL VERY MUCH IN HAND, and the whole time Lexa is just flat out sassing tf out of her.

I just cannot stress enough how not at all intimidated by Clarke Lexa was.

But when Clarke called her out on her facade of having no feelings? When she blatantly called her a liar for pretending that she didn't care about the losses of her loved ones as deeply as she clearly did???

That's when Lexa's demeanor changed.

That's the moment Clarke became a danger.

Not because she ever thought Clarke would physically hurt her, but because she knew in that moment that Clarke actually saw her.

And it terrified the hell out of her.

Because you have this strong, fearless warrior. One who has accepted the reality of her own death since she was a child. One who has done everything she can to push away everyone and anything that makes her feel vulnerable. One who has spent years trying to bury all these feelings that she's convinced herself are a weakness.

And then this smartass, reckless, blonde little 👏menace👏to👏society just takes the very boot that Lexa had given her, and kicks the whole thing down.

And you see that in that moment. Not a fear for her safety or any intimidation of Clarke. You see that brave little toaster trying to keep it together while feeling the entire house of cards come tumbling down.

Because she already cared about Clarke. She admits that only a moment later. Because she is emotionally flailing here.

Desperately clinging to this mask with her normally regal tip of her chin that now only manages to come off shaky and unsure.

Every step she backs up is another piece of that facade falling, but she can't stop it because if she lets Clarke actually touch her, then that facade wouldn't just fall.

It would completely shatter.

And oh, oh this sweet summer child. She tries so valiantly one last time to save herself. Back pressed against the table, and clinging to her belief that to be alone is to be strong. But that snarled "Get. Out." through beared teeth and trembling lips is nothing more than the death rattle of that mantra, because the damage has already been done. Because the second Clarke even begins to include herself in that people that Lexa says she doesn't care about, Lexa immediately has to correct her.

Cuz the jig is up, and she knows it. Clarke has invaded her lands, stomped her way into her personal space, and terrifyingly made a place for herself in Lexa's very fragile heart.

And there was just nowhere left to run.

[incogrio]

박종성 - park jongseong who…

jay bf hcs ~ gn! reader ~ genre: fluff

jungwon, heeseung, jay, jake, sunghoon, sunoo, riki

. jay who, whenever he wants to shut you up, simply grabs you by the back of your neck and softly presses your head to his chest

. jay who squishes your cheeks together whenever you’re looking at him for a while

. jay who cooks you meals and packs your lunch

. jay who is constantly worried of being too cold to you

. jay who always fails to kiss you without smiling

. jay who gets annoyed whenever heeseung steals you to play video games

. jay who, if you’re american, would love to teach you korean and use you to bicker w jake over pronunciations and certain words

. jay who bought one of those digital vintage cameras and is always taking candid pics of you

. jay who has a picture of you on his bedside table at hotels

. jay who is old fashioned, who wants to set you up for a jobless happy life

. jay who only shows his full smile around you and his members

. jay who dressed up as an eagle for halloween just to make you laugh

. jay who refuses to grow out his hair just because you told him you prefer short hair

comment, dm, do a jig and i’ll add to the taglist

don’t forget your daily click!

requests are open :3

[sugawhaaa]

Now that I am not an anon anymore I have to share a Leeknow headcannon I have.

I think that (especially husband Lee Know) does those little sexy dances he does on you.

Whether you are just chilling on the couch and he just gives you a little lap dance or you guys are cooking something. Istg that man will do those moves and wiggle his eyebrows and wink at you while he does it.

There’s a reason the others said he has the most rizz (also I kinda hate the word rizz but idc rn)

Love ya💗🫶🏼

LEE KNOW ONE-SHOT

🍯•[your favorite]•🍯

Warnings//genre:: mentions knives (cooking) smut, lap dance (?) Oral (f rec) creampie, kitchen sex, praise and degradation

Pairing:: dom!husband!minho x sub!wife!reader

A/N:: HEHE okay so I've thought of this prompt before for minho (and other members) but I never committed to it bc it is such a hard prompt to write for in my opinion but since it was a request I had to. but I love stepping out of my comfort zone!! tbh best part of reqs is when I lowkey doubt if I can even finish writing the fic

Skz masterlist:: 🍯

🎧::

As much as Minho tries to act like he's all cool and stern he is a little manwhore for attention, especially attention from his lovely wife. You'll be anywhere and he's glancing up at you 24/7 and anytime he gets the chance to brush his shoe or arm up against you, he'll take it.

Currently you're in the kitchen, cutting up some vegetables for dinner as the pan sizzles beside you. Minho comes up behind you, pressing his body up against yours, and wraps his hands around your waist. "Smells good baby," He cooes in your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder. "What is it?"

"You'll have to wait and see," You smirk and he rolls his eyes with a little huff. "That's what you always tell me," You shrug as Minho rolls off of you, leaning back against the counter next to you. You notice his staring gaze as you stay laser focused on mincing the vegetables to perfection.

"You're so hot when you're focused," He tilts his head as he continues to stare at you, eyes never wavering. "The way your eyes stay fixated, the slight furrow of your brows, the way your lips look so relaxed and natural," He rubs his thigh up against you as you try to focus. "C'mon baby, look at me," Minho raises his knee higher, brushing up against your inner thigh and you jump, the flow of your hands interrupted. You turn to look at him and there it is, the mischevious little grin.

"Minho," You say in a warning tone, like Minho was getting into something he wasn't supposed to.

"Mmm, yes?" He smiles, as if he was innocent.

"I'm trying to cook dinner," You sigh and he fake pouts before smirking.

"And I'm trying to get you all riled up, is it working?" He chuckles and you huff. He in fact was turning you on, way too much. You good feel the stir in your stomach, the excitement bubbling up and threatening to spill over and make you do something you'll regret. "Come on~ Dinner can wait," He takes your hand, plucking your fingers off the knife, before setting the knife down.

"You're so..." You try to come up with some kind of insult but the way he looks at you, that little grin and eyes full of promise and lust, you just can't resist. "Fine," You huff and turn off the stove and you watch as the smile spreads across his face.

"Yay!" He cheers before taking your hand, pulling you over to the dining table. He pulls out a chair. "Sit, sit," He encourages with that little grin and you know what you're in for.

"What do you have in mind?" You sit down and look up at him.

"Your favorite," He smirks and you look a little confused. What did he mean by your favorite? That could be a lot of things really. Suddenly the room filled with some of your favorite songs Minho plays during intimate hours and you thought that's what he meant by your favorite, but he started dancing. Not some kind of jig, a slow sensual dance that highlighted all of his best physical features. You found your eyes drawn to his hips. The way he moves them in a slow yet powerful thrust showcases his practice with such movement.

"Minho," You say under your breath, utterly inticed by his hypnotic and erotic dance.

"Shh, baby," he approaches you on your little throne, putting a hand to the head of the chair and the other to your lips. "Just watch, your eyes tell me everything," He trails his hands down to your thighs before grabbing your knees and parting your legs. You jump at the sudden urgency in his actions compared to his slow sensual dance. He makes quick work of your pants and panties. The music still rings in the back ground as his lips approach your aching core. He lifts your legs up onto his shoulders, making you slip down the chair a little.

Minho grins at your little gasp before bury his head between your legs, taking one long lick up your folds. A soft moan escapes your lips at the relief of his mouth on your throbbing pussy, but Minho doesn't keep it relaxing for long. He follows the pace of the music, as it gets more intense so does his methods, slurping and sucking on your folds.

"Minho!" You jump as his nose presses up against your clit as his tongue pokes in and out of your slit as far as it can. You grab a fistful of his hair as your head falls back, your chest heaving more and more with each moan. Minho brings his hands up to spread your folds a little more, pulling at the skin before sticking his tongue in deeper. You let out a little squeal as you feel his tongue rubbing up against your g-spot and his nose puts pressure against your clit. Your legs tremble with the intensity of your orgasm as the song comes to a perfect end.

Minho licks up your mess before pulling himself up to his feet, standing over you. As the next song begins he practically sits on top of you, grinding his bulge against your dripping cunt, soaking his pants in your wetness. You feel the throb of his cock, begging to be released.

"Do you want my cock baby?" He teases and you nod with a whimper.

"Yes, please," You look up at him as he grinds his hips against yours, following the music once again.

"You're gonna have to beg a little more than that angel," He chuckles and you whine at the torture of his cock being right there but not inside you.

"Please minho," You plead, tugging at his shirt like a kitten. He tilts his head as he looks down at you, seeming amused by your pleading tugs. "I-I need your cock, minho~" You whine, a little louder this time and he smirks, clearly loving this dynamic. You bring your hands down to his black jeans, kneading at the fabric separating the two of you.

"You're so cute when you beg," He chuckles before stepping back. He takes off his shirt in the slowest way possible, teasing you as every inch of fabric reveals more and more of his toned body. He then unbuckles his belt, sliding it out of the hoops before tossing it aside. His jeans then follow suit, left discarded to the side. "Get up darling," He takes your hand and pulls you up before bending you over the table. He runs a hand over the curve of your ass before leaning down, his cock pressing up against your thigh. "You're gonna take everything I'm gonna give you, right?"

"Yes," You whine softly making him chuckle lowly.

"Good girl," He pats your ass, not hard, but just as a form of praise. He rubs the head of his cock against your folds a few times before finally easing inside you. He nestles his cock nice and deep, resting there for a while as you moan softly. He begins to slowly move in and out of you, once again following the pace of the music, but each thrust is deep and hard, making the table jiggle. As you rest against the table your eyes roll back, your lip tucked between your teeth.

"Just like that," You moan, "It feels so good," Your voice is higher pitched than usual, showing your desperation and pleasure.

"Yeah? You like that?" He smirks, his voice taunting. "When I fuck deep," He punctuates his words with a deep thrust, your body jumping up the table.

"Fuck!" You bury your face into your arm. "Yes, please don't stop!" You cry out as his hips move faster. The thing about Minho's thrusts is that he doesn't just go fast and hard, he has a method to how he thrusts, almost like rolling his hips, so his cock rubs up against all the right places. You feel your legs begin to tremble again, shaking beneath you.

"You close baby?" He teases, whispering in your ear, "But we just started baby," He chuckles, his hand slithers around to your clit. "It's alright, I'll have plenty of time to tease you later tonight," He growls in your ear as he rubs your clit harder and faster. "c'mon baby, let it out," He encourages in a low voice as your head begins to spin. You feel the crash of your orgasm as you let out long and high pitched moans. "Good girl," He praises before letting out a groan, emptying inside you. "fuck, yes, take it baby," He buries himself inside you, riding out the waves of pleasure with you.

After catching your breath he pulls himself up and gently slips out of you. "There, how you feeling now?" He smiles as he watches you get up, your head spinning.

"Above the fucking clouds," you chuckle and he laughs at you.

"So what were you cooking?" He says as he walks over the counter, still naked, making you chuckle to yourself.

"I was going to surprise you with your favorite meal for dinner," you smile as you sit down on the chair. Minho puts on a little apron to cover himself before washing his hands and continuing to cook dinner for you.

"Gosh, well I guess I spoiled the surprise,"