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leclsrc · 1 year

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sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath.

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended.

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?”

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned.

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.”

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles’ family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements.

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.”

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach.

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply.

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway.

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after.

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet.

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff.

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are.

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?”

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy.

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately.

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.

#f1 #leclsrc1000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader

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thebibliosphere · 7 months

Text

Something I really appreciated about having my friends around is that they’re not chronically online people. Like they’re online in the sense that they use social media, but they use it a “normal” amount.

Anyway, they asked me a question about what it's like being 'popular' on the Internet and if I've ever dealt with any of the harassment they hear so much about and it culminated in me saying something along the lines of, "but yeah, that's like fairly normal for being online these days" and the Look they gave me was akin to what I'd imagine you'd give someone who just said, "I routinely go dumpster diving at biohazard disposal facilities because I've lost all sense of self-preservation and common sense" and um, yeah.

Still... still re-evaluating some things over here.

#therapy was fucking brutal yesterday #when I explained about my emails my therapist literally went off screen to pace #apparently when I told her I'd cut my email workload in half #I did not fully explain what that meant #so anyway #working more on that

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adyophene · 1 month

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lucifer x husk is something i never knew i needed and as a multishipper im screaming

literally. king of hell x some alcoholic furry guy

i love them i need to know how they wouldve met, fallen for each other and started dating. and how much thatd piss alastor off

Ooh I am so happy other people are enjoying this pair as much as I am! I've gotten a few asks about my headcanons for them, and I am happy to blab on and on. Fair warning. This is gunna be a long and rambling essay.

I'm gunna put it all under a readmore, just cause I want to insert the art I've done of them so far, since I've been half-heartedly trying to tell a visual story through the doodles.

Okay. On we go!

How they met;

We did see them technically meet in the show, where they shared their singular canon piece of dialogue, which was just Husk saying 'hey'. And then in the finale where we see a literal split second moment of Lucifer holding Husk's arm.

(also seeing the sweet looks huskerdust is giving each other here just makes me feel so delulu for writing this all, but crackships are silly by definition, so lets get back to the lucihusk) For me, what I imagined, is after the Hotel is finished its rebuilding, that is when Husk and Lucifer finally actually meet in a proper manner. I think Lucifer would be trying to make a good impression on all Charlie's friends at this point, endeared to all of them from their actions during the finale. Unfortunately, I think he is also the King of Bad First Impressions.

[Note. I think at this point Lucifer wouldn't even remember Husk's name quite yet. I think he would call him 'Keekee' ( by accident) or 'Dusk' (confidently incorrect) or just be like "Hey!.... Uh... You?" until Charlie or Vaggie finally corrected him. ]

Husk, on the other hand, I feel like maybe wouldn't gel with Lucifer right away. Wouldn't hate him, but also maybe not be enamored with him right away. Same as Lucifer, maybe he would have sweetened on him a bit through the hotel's rebuilding, but I think they'd start out at very neutral feelings. Maybe a vague sense of 'He's okay, but I don't know if we will really get along.'

Despite this, Lucifer is persistent, and he's going to be everyone's (except maybe Al, unless they start getting along by s2) buddy. He'd start hanging around the bar and participate in the redemption exercises.

Now, we know Lucifer struggles with depression, and I think he would be trying real hard to mask anything going on during this time. They defeated Adam! They rebuilt the Hotel! He believes in Charlie's dream, and he's more involved with her life and other people than he has been for years.

His only issue being Husk sees right through it, both because Husk is perceptive, but also because even the King of Hell can't help but have a lonely night or two at the bar where he ends up venting about his divorce and subsequent lingering loneliness.

[snapcube ref aside, )I really do think Husk would start to feel more positively toward Lucifer after Luci would drop the act somewhat. That they could bond over feeling both at their lowest of lows, while also being to admit that things seem to be getting better!

This would be about the point that I imagine Lucifer developing more romantic feelings! Husk would be a bit less prickly, and Luci would just absolutely eat up any and all positive interactions they'd have. I like to picture a lot of little shows of care at the this point, like Husk memorizing what Lucifer likes and even making up 'fun' drinks just to try and cheer the guy up. And Lucifer would fun a fun game in trying to get the grumpy cat to smile, and just, lighting up himself any time he was successful.

And that culminating into the two of them making each other laugh, with Alastor being an easy butt of the jokes, and a good way for Husk, himself, to finally get a chance to vent. I think Lucifer would be one of the only 'safe' options for Husk to do that with, in just so far as Al can't really threaten Lucifer, and Lucifer already sees Al as a bit of a manipulative bastard.

Falling for each other; At this point, Lucifer would start being a bit more caring toward Husk, though with that wonderful, oblivious flair of his. I don't think Lucifer himself would realize he'd have a crush up until he'd start feeling protective or jealous over Husk, and it would really throw him for a loop at first.

Because fake dating is one of my all-time favorite tropes, I have always had a idea for a fanfic (or comic) that I haven't gotten around to yet, based around Lilith coming back, and Lucifer panickily asking Husk to pretend to be his boyfriend, so he can appear well adjusted/completely over her. Of course the whole thing would backfire, as Lilith would see through it (as Lucifer wouldn't be as good of an actor as he'd think), and that Husk would end up kind of feeling hurt by the whole thing.

Husk, who'd go along with the plot with an eyeroll, would find himself seizing up through the whole fake date/encounter. Would find weird, sudden emotions bubbling up and absolutely hating it.

I don't think that man would think about the class difference between him and Lucifer up until someone would say something about it, maybe Lucifer himself trying to rationalize the (at this time still fake) relationship to Lilith. Now, Husk feels uneasy about the whole thing and ends up drinking heavily the whole night so he doesn't have to think about feelings. (Blitz and Stolas who? Ahaha. fuck.) Meanwhile, while the date would be fake, I think Lucifer would really rather like having Husk on his arm and feeling like he'd have a love-life again, while also not really getting why Husk's mood would be getting worse throughout the night. I think they'd still end up on good terms, but both of them would have their feelings in a jumble, and Husk would not like it. (he thinks he's lost the ability to love, after all)

I think somewhere at this point, as they are starting to develop feelings for one another, is when Lucifer finally starts really realizing how tied to Alastor Husk is, and he starts to make it everyone's problem. I do think Al and Lucifer would stay snarky at each other this whole time, but that it'd only get worse, as Al would poke back since he'd find Lu's over reactions funny.

I also think Al would be maybe the last person to realize anything romantic would be brewing between Lucifer and Husk, and he'd just think it'd be a purely platonic thing.

Beyond just bitching about Alastor, Lucifer would really be ramping up his attention towards Husk too. Fully in that 'puppylove/crush' stage, and trying his darndest to make Husk feel good and special. Husk would be resistant to it all, thinking it would just be Lucifer rebounding hard, and not wanting to get wrapped up in Morningstar family drama when he could happily (miserably) keep his head down and just keep drinking the days away.

But then Lucifer would find out about Husk's love of stage magic, and his history as a performer, and it'd be all over for the catman. It would become Luci's new pet project to rope Husk into some joyful self-expression, and after a song and dance number's worth of convincing, Husk would start to come around. I have to post all these images now cause- I drew them with the intention of mimicking a musical number! Husk starting off as a bit resistant before jumping in whole heartedly, and Lucifer overexcitedly dragging him along throughout the music number, hyping him up and just all around being smitten.

And this is where Husk would start really falling. Getting swept up in indulging his favorite, least destructive hobby, and having someone who absolutely loves it to bond with. Especially when it would be over. When they would just settle down and talk, and laugh, and bond over what they love about performing. The spectacle, the audience, the love of the craft. Its about the comradery!!!

@belladonazeppole wrote a wonderful series of fanfics based off these pictures, as well as the songs from 'The Greatest Showman' that really fit the ship! I would be remiss to not mention them here, because Bella and their fics are just wonderful!

How they started dating;

Now. Don't think just cause they both caught feelings for each other, that they'd immediately admit to it. No. I think both of them would drag their heels. I don't think Husk would admit to them at all, without some outside force effecting it. I think he'd stubbornly try to ignore the crush or drink it away, rather than let his heart become vulnerable to anymore damage.

Meanwhile, Lucifer would be struggling between his feelings for Husk and Lilith. (In the actual canon, I do think they might try to rekindle things, depending on what kind of person Lilith turns out to be, but I digress.) Part of him would be so swept up in a giddy kind of excitement, while the other would be set firmly in the camp of 'this is a bad idea, this won't work out, just look at what happened to your last relationship'. It wouldn't stop him from being outwardly more and more affectionate, but it would be weighing on him.

I do think Lucifer would end up being the one who would be thinking; "What am I doing. He'd never like me back." While Husk would be just sitting there (echoing what was said in the ask- sorry I went all wild and wrote this much about the ship dear god)- "I'm just some fucking furry alcoholic, what the fuck would the king of hell see in me??? Am I delusional? What the fuck is going on??" And I feel like this stage would go on for MONTHS and drive everyone else nuts. It would be clear to everyone (except Alastor, who again, would be just this meme

Though that wouldn't stop him from getting a little pissy about it) And then it would all come to a head during something benign, like a board game night. There would be flirting, there would be jealousy, there would be arguing, and then finally, loudly and with a lot of feeling, Lucifer would shout his way through asking Husk out on a date. A real Date. A capital 'D' date out on the town, dressed to the nines and a real good time. The board would be knocked over in the fray, game pieces raining down upon them while Husk would just stare blank faced, trying to process what just happened. An awkward half-minute would pass before he'd finally, trying to play it cool, shrug out a 'sure'.

How much it'd piss Alastor off;

In the aftermath, a radio static would just lowly grate everyone's ears as Alastor would be slowly coming to terms on how just annoying it would be to have his friend (/Unhealthy co-dependent pet friend possession??) romantically involved (ew) with the King of Hell (double ew)??? Then, either it would be something light hearted like 'he keeps trying to break them up but failing cause he hates interacting with romance' or a darker route where 'he keeps trying to manipulate them into breaking up by preying on all their worst insecurities in the relationship'.

And that, my friend, is all I have in mind so far for this delusional crackship au! There is more I could flesh out, of course, like Angel's role as a friend or potential third in the relationship, or what I imagine as Husk becoming like a stepdad to Charlie, but I've typed enough for the whole month. Hope any of that was coherent! I did not bother to edit or proof read it. Just pure stream of consciousness.

#not art #this is long #like really long #like don't open it unless you want 25 paragraphs about a crackship that like 12 people ship #royalflush #lucihusk

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izvmimi · 4 months

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cw: minors dni. smut. no pronouns or specified gendered terms for reader.

once yuuta's hand slips between your thighs in the pitch dark and your short-lived surprise gives way to warm, wet desire, you realize that all of your tension has culminated to this very moment.

the furtive glances between the two of you that lasted a bit too long between missions, particularly in the last couple of years, and the poorly suppressed distaste when you talked about your dates over quickly scheduled lunches (far too many, in his opinion) should have made this far too clear. if not that, then perhaps the fact that rika's ominous presence went from causing your skin to crawl to neutrality and perhaps - if curses may have this - eventual goodwill.

whatever the course may have been, what's important is the here and now - your back presses against tree bark, rough and likely to scratch at your thin jacket, but it's hard to pay attention to that with yuuta's body pressed against you, his teeth gently grazing your shoulder.

like a vampire, aiming for a kill in the forest, under the moonlight, wanting to consume you and suck every bit of goodness left.

his warm breath sends heat up the side of your neck, into your chest and up between your legs where his hand grips tightly at the fat of your thigh. you hiked up leg finally wraps around his torso and he kisses you. repeatedly.

now, now of all times. adrenaline is such a dirty, dirty thing.

"is testosterone just doing a number on you or-" you start to tease, your hands still posed carefully on both of his cheeks as your lips part, embarrassed by the position you find yourself in, both of you semi-bloody and wrapped up in each other. it's one way to celebrate a victory, sheathing a dripping sword away only to sheathe himself into you.

yuuta's dark blue eyes flit back to you, the gleam in the moonlight appearing practically dangerous. hiking your other leg around his waist, he hoists you up higher, and you help him, dipping your hand low to grip the hot hardened cock. he stares into your eyes as your palm runs over it, takes in the image of your lips parting, mouth wetting with want. for him.

"just take me seriously this time, okay?," he whispers. it's a plea, a desire. a demand.

you can't imagine how much more seriously he means than your thumb passing over his urethra, gliding with the leaked precum.

"only if you change my life."

your eyelids are lowered and the words come out breathily, but he smiles to himself, leaning closer into you. his lips take yours again as he presses in with fingers first, teasing your center apart. you gasp and he sucks your tongue to keep you quiet, making you tremble on his fingers first before he eventually pushes in with his cock, further and deeper, to fuck you with meaning and purpose in every thrust.

#yuuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta smut #yuuta okkotsu smut #daydreams: jjk #mimi's notes

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kadextra · 10 months

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I’m gonna be real. that was the best event so far of qsmp. I enjoyed it so much and have collected my thoughts so here’s an appreciation post! :D

Now I understand why it took the team over a month to work on this. The lead-up preparations with Cucurucho giving Jaiden’s tasks all culminating into today, the teaser images, update account tweets. The giant, amazingly designed custom dungeon with tons of hidden lore, and new developed mod additions like the live countdown timer??? I can’t imagine how much effort and time that took. They seriously outdid themselves.

And the creators all brought their A-game to this despite not knowing anything about what was happening. They all played it super well and roleplayed their characters perfectly:

Jaiden carried the whole mission. I was so impressed at how she solo monologued the entire two hour long journey and never stopped being entertaining. Foolish embraced the role of comic relief and relieved the stress. Cellbit, back to the grind, went crazy with his hardcore investigative work. Bad was the reason they all didn’t perish instantly, and kept the team alive to see the end. Richarlyson was an amazing support that brought everything together.

Like today had it all!!! the qsmp’s iconic qommunication “we won’t let you be alone,” and the comedy, scooby doo shenanigans, mortal peril, horrors, care and love, trauma bonding, family moments, theorycrafting. I loved it soooo much <3

If any qsmp people see this, super well done! <333

#qsmp #qsmp blue bird mission #jaiden animations #badboyhalo #cellbit #foolish gamers #qsmp richarlyson #text post #qsmp appreciation #qsmp the jaidens #lore post

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cringefailvox · 3 months

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Do you think Vox has or will figure out Alastor is aroace at some point? Bc it's implied that they used to be on better terms in the finale but it's not like Alastor would have told him because even he doesn't know. Had this rattling around in my brain ever since it's also apparently implied or just fanon that Alastor (maybe unknowingly idk) rejected his romantic intentions + business ones too. Or is Vox still too butthurt to put 2 and 2 together lol

okay okay multiple options are extremely and equally funny to me here. either vox meant it as a genuine business deal and alastor interpreted it as a come on, or vox intended it as a come on and alastor interpreted it as a business deal, and either way i'm sure alastor was a massive dick about it AS A RESULT of his opinion of vox already shifting from "associate/ally/friend(?)" to "this guy is a dishonest corporate sellout who compromises his artistic medium for money". bc i think they started out on the same page, but alastor is a dealmaker with a modicum of integrity—he doesn't like to punch down, and vox strikes me as the type to step on anyone and anything to give himself a leg up, a quality i think alastor would eventually come to find irritating because it makes vox just as common as any other greedy overlord. alastor's reputation and loyalty to his art is paramount, but vox is all about upgrades at the expense of quality, like how apple releases a new iphone every year that's somehow worse than the last. alastor sees him as a waste of potential. so when vox asked alastor to join his team (probably both in a business AND romantic sense, like joining the polycule is a prerequisite for joining the company), i imagine the subsequent falling out was a culmination of alastor's gradually depreciating respect for vox as a person + vox's fragile ego making him especially sensitive to rejection from a guy he really admired.

#this got away from me i just never stop thinking abt them #ty for the ask tho i love chatting w people :]#alastor #vox #radiostatic #hazbin hotel #staticradio

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verstappensrealwife · 2 months

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Off Track Desire - Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

smut, fluff.

approx. 1100 words.

warnings: SEX, p in v, oral (fem receiving), swearing.

oscar piastri masterlist - here. f1 masterlist - here.

As the anticipation mounted before the exhilarating sprint race in Qatar, you playfully bantered with your friend, Oscar Piastri, teasing that if he emerged victorious, you'd indulge in a more intimate form of celebration. Little did you anticipate that his performance would exceed al yourl expectations, but you found yourself not at all dismayed by the outcome of your playful wager.

With each rev of the engine, he poured his heart and soul into the race, his determination fueled not only by the pursuit of victory but also by the unspoken attraction between you both—a truth acknowledged by him, you, and the discerning eyes of Formula One enthusiasts worldwide.

Though he had openly expressed his desires, he opted instead to wait for the perfect opportune moment; it seemed that the chequered flag marked the perfect culmination of his ambitions.

As he soared past the finish line at breakneck speed, your jubilant cheers echoed through the air, a testament to the pride and elation swelling within you.

“Very nicely done everyone,” Oscar said in his radio, “Thank you, very much. Very Very well managed and uhh, yes, tell Y/N I still expect the gift she promised me.” He finished before the radio crackled.

With the race behind him, Oscar emerged from his car, the visor of his helmet lifted to reveal a visage glistening with sweat—a detail inconsequential in the face of your overwhelming admiration. Rushing into his embrace, you held him close, your heart brimming with pride and affection.

"I am beyond proud of you, Osc!" you exclaimed amidst the cacophony of cheering fans, your words a testament to the depth of your admiration.

A mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes as he playfully inquired, "So, am I still entitled to my reward?" Though delivered in jest, the underlying sincerity in his tone left no room for doubt.

Your cheeks flushed with a vibrant crimson hue as you stumbled over your words, "I- Yes," the embarrassment evident in your voice, eliciting a smirk from him.

"I’ll see you later then, yeah?" he remarked, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. Your response was a silent nod, your mind still reeling from the exchange. "Oh, and wear something pretty for me," he added with a suggestive tone.

As the heat of your blush persisted, you could only manage a wordless acknowledgment, your thoughts consumed by the anticipation of what lay ahead.

Later that night, he arrived at your hotel room, rapping his knuckles against the door before you welcomed him in. His eyes widened in awe as he took in the sight before him. Clad in daring red and black lace that left little to the imagination.

With a swift motion, he shut the door behind him, his hand finding the nape of your neck, pulling you into a fervent kiss. Your breath hitched as his lips claimed yours, igniting a fire within you. The room was cast in shadows, the soft glow of the bathroom light providing the only illumination, while the moon's gentle rays filtered through the curtains. The king-sized bed, draped in delicate pink sheets provided by the hotel, awaited your passionate embrace.

"God, I would've killed to see you like this a few months ago," he murmured, his urgency palpable as he guided you towards the bed, his desire undeniable.

"What's the hurry?" you teased, a playful glint in your eye. "I'm all yours."

Pressed against the wall, his hands firmly gripping your hips, you could feel his arousal pressing against you. His lips trailed along your jawline, sending shivers down your spine as he nibbled just below your ear. "Tell me what you want me to do," he whispered huskily.

"You tell me," you moaned in response.

Before you knew it, you found yourself seated on the edge of the bed, his head buried between your thighs, his expert tongue sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Gripping his hair, you guided him, relishing in his every touch and groan.

After reaching the pinnacle of ecstasy once, twice, three times, he rose to his feet, shedding his clothes with haste. "Let me know if I'm too much," he breathed, his eyes ablaze with desire.

Propped against the pillows, you welcomed him, feeling him enter you slowly, eliciting a breathy moan from both of you. Each movement was gentle at first, his kisses sweet and his whispers tender. But soon, his pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more forceful and erratic, with no real rhythm, you love the feeling. His head falls back, abs flexing, satisfied moans falling out as his hips go back and forth. “So fucking good, baby. You’re being so fucking good for me.”

His hips flexed, his words a symphony of passion as you both reached the peak together, your cries of pleasure mingling in the air. "So good," he gasped, his voice trembling with satisfaction, as you surrendered to the intoxicating bliss of the moment.

He tells you how close he is and it pushes you over the edge. Both finishing at the same time, “Fuck- Fuck-Fuck.” his voice cracks a little as he finishes inside of you.

In the serene quietude that followed their passionate union, a gentle calm settled over them, punctuated only by the rhythmic cadence of their intertwined breaths. Lost in the tender reverie of the moment, they found solace in the comforting embrace of each other's arms, their hearts beating in harmonious synchrony.

As the moon cast its soft glow upon the room, Oscar's gaze lingered upon you, his eyes alight with a newfound clarity and determination. With a soft, hesitant breath, he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch lingering against your skin.

"Y/N," he began, his voice soft and earnest, "I know we've always danced around it, but… Do you wanna maybe be my girlfriend… like officially."

A flutter of anticipation danced in your chest as you met his gaze, the question hanging in the air between you. With a tender smile, you nodded, your heart overflowing with warmth and affection.

"Yes, Oscar," you whispered, your heart brimming with joy, "I'd love to."

A flicker of relief and joy danced in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his gaze locking with yours in an unspoken promise of affection.

el fin.

still cant write smut too well. im working on it shhh

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wonderfulwonderrful · 4 months

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Sparks Fly / A New Year's Eve Fic (+18)

Summary: Toto is ready to leave shitty 2023 behind and start the new year the best way possible, and you don't want to spend another New Year's Eve all alone. It's like destiny and the universe conspired to bring you together.

This is a one-shot daddykink!Toto x reader set during New Year's Eve. I hope your 2024 is full of abundance, health, and great things for all of you!

My masterlist of Toto Wolff fics here

It's New Year's Eve, and the air is filled with celebration and booze in the luxurious nightclub where Toto Wolff is saying 2023 goodbye, culminating a year's worth of dreams, aspirations, and desires in a glittering extravaganza wild party. This year wasn't his very best, but he is determined to end it on a high note.

That's why Toto's gaze spans the sea of hot bodies attending the exclusive event. His horniness fuels his quest for a match to spend the end of the year with. His heart skips as he notices your radiant silhouette moving on the dance floor, completely alone just meters from him.

Your slender yet sinfully curvaceous figure, draped in a form-fitting black dress that leaves little to the imagination, dances sensually; Toto witnesses with delight each movement of your hips and ass.

Unable to resist your magnetic pull, he walks towards you through the crowd of bodies, his gaze never leaving you.

Toto feels drunk in lust and admiration when the two of you finally stand face-to-face. He manages to introduce himself among the loud music and vibrant atmosphere. —Toto Wolff.

Your lips curl into a smile, your eyes sparkling with mischief, feeling proud of grabbing his attention. —Y/N —you introduce yourself.

—Can I enjoy your fucking sensual dance from up close? —he asks, swallowing the lump in his throat.

You let out a giggle and, with a sexy voice, answer. —Yeah. Come here.

As you move for him on the dance floor, Toto places his hands on your waist, his fingers brushing against the delicate lace trimming your gown. You lean against his body, and Toto inhales deeply. His scent mingles with the sweet aroma of champagne lingering in the air. Your skin is smooth and warm beneath his touch.

—What brings you to me tonight? —you ask, with your voice husky and enticing.

He hesitates momentarily before answering. —I'm just looking forward to starting the year with a bang!

A smirk plays on your lips. —Is that so?

—I mean, start the year on the right foot! —he quickly corrects. —Well, the other, too, if you want to —he adventures, winking. —I had a shitty, shitty year. I'm looking forward to ending it the best way.

You arch an eyebrow; your gaze locks onto his. —Why do I sense there's more to this than meets the eye?

Toto sighs, a fleeting shadow crossing his face. —Perhaps you're right —he whispers, his eyes tracing your curves. —The past few months have been tumultuous, leaving me questioning the direction of my life.

You tilt your head slightly. —You feel yourself trapped with routine, desperately seeking some excitement to break free from the bad streak you feel at, am I correct?

Toto chuckles softly. —You've quite the intuition, don't you?

You shrug nonchalantly. —Call it a sixth sense, or perhaps, simply having a Netflix account and an F1 subscription. I know what's up —you laugh at his amused face.

—Please tell me I'm your favorite one from Drive To Survive —he jokes with you, forgetting he is famous for a moment.

—I can show you —you whisper to his ear. Then your bodies sway together, moving in perfect harmony as if guided by an unseen force. Toto feels the heat radiating from your skin, your scent filling his nostrils like the sweetest perfume, enjoying your ass rubbing against his bulge, following the music's beat.

—So, to fix that, you decided to attend this New Year's Eve lavish party? —you ask with genuine curiosity as you feel him wrapping you tightly, burying his face on your shoulder.

—Believe it or not, I was about to spend it alone, cooped up in my apartment with nothing but a bottle of wine and a stack of old movies for a company —Toto answers.

You pretended shock, your eyes widening dramatically. —Toto Wolff, the notorious playboy, spending the night holed up indoors? Now, that's something I would never have imagined! Judging by your appearances on that streaming show of yours.

Toto grins sheepishly, his eyes glinting mischievously. —Well, it seems my secret is out. But what about you, Y/N? Dancing like that, all by yourself, what a crime!

You laugh softly. —I was about to give it up, too, but my best friend dragged me along. To put it mildly, the previous New Year's Eve parties I once attended have been less than fulfilling. Countless hours spent dancing, flirting, and indulging in numerous meaningless conversations, only to find myself alone at the end of the evening. But the prospect of facing yet another lonely New Year's Eve filled me with dread, so I agreed to come here.

Toto smiles softly, his fingertips lightly brushing against your back. —It feels like destiny like the universe conspired to bring us together.

You two continue moving in time with the pulsating beats of the music, your bodies perfectly attuned to each other's movements. Your chemistry is undeniable, a tangible energy crackling between you like an invisible force. Toto's hands tightened around your hips, pulling you even closer. Your bodies press tightly together, creating friction, and desire sparks fly.

—So what do you say, Y/N? —Toto's voice is seductive.

—Take me somewhere private, Toto. I want to explore every inch of you.

With each step he takes, Toto falls deeper under your spell. The cold night air brushes against your faces as you two make your way down the crowded streets full of partygoers, drunks, and couples making out. Fireworks go up in the sky as you walk side by side, hands intertwined, lost in your own world.

You and Toto enter the opulent hotel suite, your hearts racing with anticipation. As soon as the door closes behind you, you embrace each other fervently, exchanging heated kisses as you slowly remove your clothes.

Toto runs his hands over your toned curves, savoring the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. You moan softly, arching your back as Toto's lips trace a trail down your neck and chest.

Your nipples harden instantly, straining against the thin fabric of your bra. Toto notices the change in your breathing. Your chest's rapid rise and fall matches the intensity of your growing hunger.

—Toto —you whimper, your voice hoarse with need. —Please, I need you inside me. Fill me up with your cock —you cry out, your nails digging into his back.

He doesn't waste any time. Toto quickly takes his remaining clothing, standing naked before you. His erection strained against his abdomen, throbbing with anticipation. You stare at him, your eyes full of craving.

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his shaft, stroking it slowly. Toto groans loudly, his muscles clenching as you expertly work him. —I want you so badly, Toto. I need your cock inside me. Fuck me hard, daddy.

He needs no further encouragement. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and from the floor and takes you to the king-size bed where he places you.

Toto positions himself between your legs, his erection pressing against your wet pussy. He kisses you passionately, his tongue probing your mouth as he slides his member into your awaiting wetness. You moan with satisfaction, your inner walls gripping his shaft tightly. He begins to pump in and out of you, his pace increasing with each passing second.

You moan with pleasure, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him deeper inside you, gasping. —I need to feel you slamming into me.

Toto obliges, pinning you against the mattress. Your back arching, you let out a guttural cry of pleasure as he pounds into you relentlessly.

—Oh God, yes! —you scream, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. —Don't stop, daddy. Please, keep going… harder —you plead, desperate.

Your hands try to grab him to lock him in place as he continues to pound into you. His balls slap repeatedly against your pussy, his cock plunging ever deeper. Toto's hands roam freely over your body, exploring every curve and spot.

—You like that, baby? —He growls, his voice rough and commanding. —I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk tomorrow.

You moan louder, your nails digging into the soft sheet as he slams into you again and again. Toto cups your breast with one hand, squeezing it roughly as he continues to plow into you. You scream, strained and frantic.

—You fuck it so good! —you moan out. —Pound like that, daddy.

Toto obeys, thrusting into you with increased vigor. Your pussy clamps around his cock, milking him mercilessly.

Toto's cock swells within you, pulsing with every thrust. He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pumps in and out of you.

—Oh, god. Yes! Keep fucking me, daddy. Fuck that pussy!

Toto grunts with effort. Each stroke sends waves of pleasure coursing through his veins, making him lose control. Your bodies slap together with each collision.

Toto grins wickedly, his cock swelling even larger. —You like that, don't you? You enjoy my cock so much. Are you my little whore?

You buck wildly under him, your cries of pleasure echoing throughout the room. Your juices coat his cock, making the sensation even more intense.

—YES, DADDY, I'M YOUR SLUT! I WANT TO TAKE YOU EVEN MORE!! I NEED YOU TO DESTROY ME! DESTROY MY PUSSY, DADDY, PLEASE.

Your words fuel his desire, sending him into a frenzy. With each brutal thrust, he sought to claim you completely. Nothing matters now except satisfying your deepest desires.

—Look at me —he orders you, his voice thick with lust, pulling you roughly by the neck. —Watch me make you cum.

Toto grabs your wrists tightly, pinning your arms above your head. His powerful thighs flex as he drives his cock deeper into you. Your body quivers uncontrollably. Your pussy contracts around his cock, trying to milk him for every drop of seed he possesses.

—Keep going at it, baby —Toto growls, his voice rough and commanding. —Cum for me.

Your orgasm, exploding and cuming all over him, with wave after wave of pleasure coursing through your body. Your body convulses, your pussy clamping tightly around Toto's cock as it throbs within you. You cry out his name, full of passion. He grunts loudly, his own release building rapidly.

With a couple of extremely harsh and deliciously painful powerful thrusts, making the bed shake and making you feel impaled, Toto burst inside the condom, releasing moans and grunts with heavy breathing and panting. You caress his chest and abs and squeeze his ass, patting it as he pulls out of you.

Your tongues dance together as he leans and relaxes on top of you, resting his temple on yours, playing with your hands intertwined.

—Happy New Year —you whisper to him, noticing it is past 00:00 hrs. —Did I make the end of your year a great one as you wanted it?

—Even better. Even better —Toto lets you know, kissing you slowly, licking your lips most deliciously. —Happy New Year.

#toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #toto wolff fic #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff x y/n #toto wolff fanfiction #toto wolff #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #mercedes fanfic #formula 1 fic #toto wolff imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #toto wolff smut #f1 x reader

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loganlermanstanaccount · 10 months

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Rigor Mortis (prologue)

College roommate Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 1

summary: Relationships end. People die. You move on, and Miguel does too. (roommate! Miguel O'Hara x reader, college-ish au).

warnings: no warnings, just angsty asf

a/n: this is the culmination of lots and lots of planning and me writing non-stop for a good few weeks. the next part will be much longer, and updates will be wednesdays until further notice. thank you for all your support! If you'd like to be tagged, see this post.

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys :D

Join my taglists here <3

wc: 1.1k

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rigor mortis,

You're sitting at a diner, the one on 57th. At almost 11pm, it's… quiet. The gentle bustle of a waitress behind the counter, coffee mugs and sizzling pans. To your side, a little old woman tucked into the booth. Bright red lipstick and bold eyeliner against tan skin, wrists heavy with bangles against the counter. It's animated: feather boa, green leather jacket - and you think you spy the padding of some slippers from underneath the table. She clinks and clanks, and it makes you smile in spite of yourself. Peeling walls, cramped booths. Warm. Steady. Pam's Diner, on the corner, but you've got to use the side entrance, 'cuz the front's been bolted shut since the 50s. Don't ask questions.

"Mags, honey… I just want to… can you get your mom for me?" She's squinting into her phone now, nose pressed to the screen. You can only imagine the view from there; a facetime call with a smudge of eyebrow taking up most of the little box.

It's odd, but you like to sit near the door. Some pancakes, a milkshake, or a bitter cup of coffee now that you're older: people watching, as you've always called it. Okay, maybe it's more than odd . Maybe even serial killer adjacent - people-watching, like the night stalkers in cheesy slashers. But it's fun, looking for a story in everyone that walks in.

In your hometown, you had your first date in a booth just like this one. Back pressed against once-bright cushions, tight skirt digging into your back, and at 15 you had sat and waited with wide eyes. Waited, and watched. The woman with a blue hair-tie at the counter: a new mom, definitely. She looks tired, a mystery stain on the cotton of her joggers and deep rims around her eyes. A jitter in her hands, and she's probably got a piece of shit boyfriend on the couch; wringing his hands at looking after the little one, at being a fucking dad, for once, and… oh. The bell of the front entrance rings, and another woman walks in, and catches the eye of Blue Hair Tie. A warm smile, a tight arm around her waist. You watch as she takes up the other's jittery hand in her own. Partner? Fling? You know now; it doesn't matter, not really. Hands still, the shaking slows, and they are loved.

Your date had been late, of course. But what had been your first in a line of disappointing men is long forgotten in the haze of adulthood.

"I know, sweetheart-" the older woman in the booth next to you almost shouts, making you jump. "...those are very pretty shoes… but, could you… Hand the phone over to mom, okay?“

Someone answers with cooing and soft babbling, and then there's raspy laughter from the woman near you. It rings off the tiles: sonorous and full-bodied, wraps around you like a warm hug. It makes you feel a little less lonely, for now.

As of exactly 9.42pm, you are single. A four year relationship, over in the space of less than 20 minutes. A cup of watery decaf, and it's all over before you can finish it. I'll stay at my sister's, and you move out by the end of the month. No theatrics, not a trace of tears. You had wanted to cry, to kick and scream and beg, but more than anything, you were numb. Crystalline and still with shock, at how clinical it all felt. Sitting in your favourite diner, the humdrum of the city just past the glass; it still felt… lonely. And when he left; placed money on the counter, took his copy of keys off the table, and didn't look back ; it was cold.

You remember what he had said so many nights ago, God, years back, when he was studying for undergrad, and would crack open anatomy textbooks on the little desk in your dorm. He'd trace the lines of your arm, poke the flesh as you'd giggle and recite his notes into your skin.

that… tickles! what are y-you… ohh my God-

Stay still! This is.. important…

… I swear, I'll start screaming if you-

Pallidity, cooling, stiffness-

that's it, I'm screaming… I'm gonna do it-

It's not gonna learn itself, baby. Pallor, algor…

and rigor, right?

…

I listen. Sometimes.

…rigor, livor mortis and decay. The stages of death.

I thought you wanted to be a surgeon, baby, not the grim reaper.

Very funny. It's still important to know about these things, no?

I guess? But if you're gonna be saving lives…

That's not how it works. I'm not God. I make mistakes, people die. I do everything right-

People die.

Right. Above all, I'm in the business of people. Whilst they're alive and when they're gone, what they leave behind…

…but that's not really your job, is it? And don't give me all that, it's a vocation crap-

I don't know what to tell you. It is. It's bigger than me.

…it's long and hard and killing you slowly.

…

Shit. Jamie, I didn't mean to-

Rigor mortis. Post-mortem 'stiffness' or rigidity, which occurs one to two hours after death.

I'm sorry, I wasn't th-

The summation of unraveling: a temporary stasis, which could be described as 'frozen' in time or place, often mirroring the cause of death-

Jesus, I'm not trying to fight-

..where a body becomes a dead body. Colloquially, referred to as Alius Mortem, or; another death.

The phrase stuck, acting as a cruel count for the eventual decay of your relationship. Resentment, on both ends, had burned out that flame long before the breakup. Jamie was cruel, in some ways. You were cruel in others.

"Alice! Just wanted to say hi, cupcake; missed your voice… oh yeah… mhmm… she's just like you, can talk for the trees…" With the rasp of laughter in the booth next to you, it spreads the kind of warmth that stings.

There's a spark of self awareness at the back of your throat; the bitter taste of realisation. It's not meant to feel like this, is it? The end of almost a half-decade of your life, an era, the culmination of decisions good and bad and gray that have led you up to this moment. There should be… passion. Fighting, maybe. Tears. Instead of a supernova, you find yourself floating in the empty vacuum of space: an acrid taste left in your mouth.

"Oh God, have you and the girls been eating well? Let me come over tomorrow, drop you off some stuff…I don't trust half the crap in that cupboard of yours-" There is love and light in her voice, despite groans from the tinny speakers of her phone. Your chest is hot; something leaden and heavy that sits in the crook of ribcage. Bittersweet, like rotting fruit in the cradle of a tree trunk.

Maybe it's the coffee. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Over the past few years, a thousand cuts. And now, in the yellow lights of the little diner on the corner of 57th; another death.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

@teacoffeeflavored @chuuyara@qiapia@rotten-zombi3@bonbyon @tianyhi @noelsilly @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @peachsteven @thesquidni@fatenpara @verr-uckt @kurakasabe @kamiko32 @mushy-mushroom04@izzys-hawttea@theandromedastar @wicked-futures @truthuntolddd @prettygirlpattinson @hellokittylover202 @angel-eyes05 @lacedinweb22 @starguiders @buggiecrawls @eugeab @tarjapearce @whoreloll @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @ancientbeing10 @shartythefarty@royalhearts

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #angst #eventual smut #kat_writes😼

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darling-wendy · 1 year

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they made each other fathers

This has been staring us right in the face the entire time, but it's only just registering to me that Kazuki defaulted to "Rei-papa" when he could've easily just said "Rei-niichan" or "Rei-ojisan" or "Rei-san", some other form of honorific. A four year old is aware of the concept of an uncle, he could've gone with that to begin with. It's very interesting that Kazuki instinctively reached for the one honorific that tacitly implies a relationship between him and Rei. Like, somewhere in the back of his mind he said 'Well, if I'm her pretend dad then Rei, as my partner (and it's also interesting that the first time we first see him use the term, it's the ambiguous English loan word rather than either of the two Japanese equivalents), is obviously also her pretend dad'.

And, honestly, Kazuki doing this seems to kinda low-key incept Miri into viewing Rei as her second papa lol.

She was told by her mother that she had a Papa, singular, and that she was going to meet him at the Varint Hotel. Kazuki presented himself as such, and in the specific context of rescuing her, which is something that Misaki seems to have have told her is what a Papa does.

(The expression on her face and her hand gesture and the way she says this sounds like she's repeating something a trusted adult told her rather than something she came up with herself imo)

So, case closed. But then! her papa tells her to go play with this other guy, who is apparently also her papa? He says he isn't, but the seed has been planted, and it sprouts up later.

Kazuki is berating Rei for not just telling the neighbourhood watch guy that he was her dad, and Miri takes notice. Rei once again denies being her dad, but the idea seems to have stuck for her.

Look at her hurt little face after she heard Rei outright deny being not just her father but also some other sort of family member. She's attached to Rei. She wanted to eat breakfast with him and later wants to sleep next to him. And I'm sure at least some of that is having had him introduced to her as another parent. Fortunately, it works out in the end.

(The voice Kazuki uses here kills me softly. There is genuinely no heterosexual explanation for it lmao.)

('All according to keikaku')

Don't look so smug, Kazuki. Aside from taking Miri into your shared home in the first place, you put the idea of 'Rei-papa' into her head.

So, within Rei's overall arc of changing to become a suitable parent, there's this first mini arc of him accepting identifying as her papa, and it's partially instigated by Kazuki. On Kazuki's end, he doesn't struggle with the label (despite and/or because of his past? Kazuki, you are fascinating), but he has his own unique arc around it.

Part of the reason that Kazuki is so fascinating to me is that he's very straightforward but also he masks as readily as he breathes. Rei isn't as demonstrative or expressive, but he doesn't really hide what he's thinking or how he's feeling. Rei's arc with becoming a father is pretty linear; he first denies then accepts being Miri's papa, he gets a bit involved with raising her, he learns the lesson of how he's not doing enough and needs to step up, then he gets more involved and becomes more confident, culminating in him declaring his desire to be her father in an outright permanent way and he continues growing after the main timeline wraps. His failings are mostly due to having no idea of what a parent is supposed to be like. His father wasn't his father, he was his boss. (Imagine being ~11 years old and having your father hit you in the face and tell you that he's your boss, not your father. This is immediately after he forced you to try to kill a rabid dog, arming you with nothing but a knife, and berating you for not finishing it off. Woof).

Kazuki's failings seem to come from him being too prescriptive or blindly using negative personal experiences as an anchor for what not to do. He also had a terrible childhood, but we lack specific details. He seems to have been abandoned when he was young, so young that he doesn't even remember his parents, and so lacked a real example of how a parent should behave. This undoubtedly would've come up as a stressor when Yuzuko was pregnant. I imagine that he would've gone through the beginner level stages of growth that we saw with Rei, if not exactly in the same way. We come to him at an intermediate level where he knows a lot of basics, but gets tripped up by more higher level concepts.

(Pre-school socialisation isn't about establishing dominance and young kids can have an understanding of right and wrong, Kazuki)

Over the course of the series (and especially in eps 7 and 9), we see Rei look to Kazuki for guidance, and there are also times when Kazuki asserts himself (often erroneously lol) as having the right idea of what to do in a particular situation.

Kazuki's papa arc is more about breaking down the ideas he had built in his head about what good parenting is supposed to look like and holistically feeling it out with respect to what Miri specifically--not some amorphous Child--needs. Rei kind of has the opposite problem, operating purely on vibes rather than structure lol, and that's why they balance each other so well.

Now for the reverse. By the midpoint of ep 3, Miri has been calling Kazuki 'Papa' for days now. It's just hitting me that he didn't try to gently let her down and reveal his lie after they got out of the gunfight. [Rei straight up asked her 'What about your real father?' and got a philosophical answer, so maybe that strategy wouldn't work anyway lol]. I guess he might think of it as easier to just lean into being 'Papa' until they got rid of her, but I'm gonna call it an inverse Freudian slip. Especially since it ties into the first moment I wanna highlight.

Rei is emotionally stunted but also very perceptive. He's read something in Kazuki's actions, tone of voice, body language, etc that indicates that Kazuki doesn't actually want to give Miri up. She's been a little torpedo that imploded two jobs back to back, she gets underfoot, she and makes lots of noise, she and breaks things...and yet. He knows Kazuki well and he saw, perhaps, what Kyu saw when Kazuki was having a moan about them in ep 7.

The rest of the episode plays out and ends with Rei, Miri, and Kazuki going home together for dinner, this time as a quasi family unit. They haven't made any declarations yet, they're just kind of feeling and fumbling their way along. They have some ups and downs as they settle into a dynamic. Then it all blows up in ep 10.

[I could write a whole screed about how ep 10 was a necessary--at least a highly valuable--story beat, but this post is already very long. Some other time, perhaps. ]

Misaki comes back for Miri thanks to Kyu, they are successfully convinced to give her up, and then their little unit falls apart. Another explosion comes in ep 11 with Misaki's death, and now Miri is officially orphaned. Rei, as per usual, asks Kazuki what they should do, and Kazuki reveals that he's in a deep, guilt-induced trough.

We see how Misaki's death is weighing heavily on his mind, and he's surely thinking that he got yet another woman killed due to his desire for a family. He processes her 'protect Miri' plea as needing to stay away from Miri--that that's what he has to do to prevent her from becoming the second child he has to bury. But Rei surprises him.

Kazuki's response is a bit cruel, though not entirely unfounded. He had to temporarily ghost Rei for him to realise all the work that goes into looking after Miri. And even though Kazuki left a fridge full of meals, Rei still ended up ordering pizza because he couldn't recognise them as such. He has a long way to go as a parent. But he wants to do it, and he beseeches Kazuki to make the jump with him.

Kazuki's talking back to himself just as much as he is to Rei. "It might not be too late. [for] Normal happiness" is what he said to Rei on the Ferris wheel. At that time he genuinely thought there was nothing else for them to do but give Miri back to Misaki. But that was when he, like the rest of them, thought that simply stepping back would be enough for Shigeki to be satisfied. It's different now. They both know that, but Kazuki is too raw with hurt and guilty to let himself be happy. It's that characteristic manner in which he gets in his own way. But Rei breaks through all that.

This is the moment. Rei, for the first time as far as I can recall, is shown to initiate physical contact with Kazuki in a way that's soft and not utilitarian. While he talks, he even gives Kazuki's hand a little squeeze. He is going way further than he ever has in expressing his emotions. Change has been a motif for both of them, and Rei says it's possible for them with such conviction--that they can make Miri happy--that Kazuki stops getting in his own way. He comes around in the most Kazuki way possible: transitioning their serious conversation about taking responsibility for Miri (and the implications of dealing with the organisation) into a comedic moment about Rei doing his share of the household chores and childcare.

And with that, they're over the finish line! There's still a lot for them to do in the final episode, but this is the climax of their respective papa arcs. Storming the Suwa compound, confronting Shigeki, and the 10 years later bit are denouement. The two of them approached fatherhood from completely different backgrounds and stances and levels of experience, but it was a journey they took together and one which was not possible without the other.

#kazurei #kurusuwa family #kurusu kazuki #suwa rei #unasaka miri #buddy daddies #buddy daddies meta #found family #this is my crack lol

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