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codes-and-stuffs · 8 months

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thinking so hard abt tangtho and ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!!!!!!!!!! you should write smth with them or honestly anyone you want im just biased that's like. a Reunion. whether they thought the other was dead or they were separated for a rly long time or ANYTHING at all that comes between them for a long while, you should write a scene where they meet/find each other again and its just that sense of overwhelming gratitude and /relief/

hiiiiiii aly sorry this took so long i have been a busy bee irl but i have had this fic open and mid writing for so long :D

ao3 link HERE! fic below cut:

Tango was tired. Really tired.

It’d been a few weeks since he was anywhere he felt safe to rest, and even just sitting down for a few hours let the strange monsters following him get close enough to begin their whispers again. That was the worst part, really. All those creepy whispers, sounding so close even though he knew the creatures had never gotten closer to him than a few hundred metres away.

One thing that had always struck Tango as odd had been the language that these creatures spoke. At first, it all sounded the same: ominous, terrifying and in a strange tone that he’d never heard before. He had assumed it to be equivalent to the roaring of lion - that is, something he wouldn’t be able to understand, something inherent to the nature of the beast.

But it was, indeed, a language.

It was Etho who had first pointed it out - and goodness, did Tango miss him dearly - when two ice creatures had hissed at each other a little before seeming to decide upon which would go after which of the two humans. Their body language had been too minimal for their words not to mean anything. Since then, Tango had been keeping an ear out, hoping to pick up what he could to use for their survival.

Well. His survival.

Because he hadn’t seen Etho in nearly a month, and in a world like this one, his first guess was that the other was dead. Etho wouldn’t fall so easily, of course - if anything, it was Tango who often found himself the weaker link in terms of fighting - but Tango had very little reason to believe he would see him again. He’d been running on his own for too long. And -

The whispers struck up again, incomprehensible and threatening, and Tango got back up to his feet.

He had a long way to run.

Etho had been having some very mixed luck.

For one, it was a stormy day. Rain hurled itself down upon the paved slabs of the walkways, puddles forming in large gaps along the side of the paths. Most people here had decided to stay inside, gathered together by the small fireplaces in their dorms or training in the halls, but Etho found that he couldn’t quite settle. It looked like a dangerous storm to be out in alone.

But it did mean that the grounds were clear, which was what he’d been waiting for for quite some time, and so he donned his thickest coat and picked out his sharpest knife and headed out into the cold air of the morning.

The unit he was staying at was surrounded by a large rectangle of barbed wire, the fence tall and imposing and, altogether, likely useless against most of the threats that might arrive. Still, they kept out most of the nearest forces, and at least added to the overall atmosphere. It would probably be harder to convince themselves they were fighting if this place looked like the sanctuary he’d been at long ago.

He’d been having mixed luck for a while.

He was alive, for one, which was pretty lucky on its own. Statistically, he shouldn’t be. But here he was, and he hadn’t even had to survive those hardest first few months alone, and now he even had a solid place to stay. Besides all that, he’d found one of his friends, too: Doc, who ran this entire campus. And that was good. It was good that he’d gained someone by his side.

He didn’t really feel like ruminating on the things that had gone wrong.

As he approached the single gate in the fence, he pulled his coat just a little at the edges, as if somehow that might keep out the rain any more. It was particularly heavy at the moment, slamming down from the skies and shaking the fence minutely. Etho unlocked and unlatched the door with bare hands, watching as if from outside of his body as his fingers fumbled with the lock.

The gate opened and then shut behind him, and he began to make his way down the slope before him. He didn’t want to go far; he just needed to get out of the brighter lights here, to remember what it was like to know peace. He hadn’t appreciated it enough when it was there, and now…

Now he was here. And, despite having found one of his old friends, he still felt utterly alone.

A movement on the next hill over from him caught his eye. It was likely one of the very creatures he was meant to be keeping himself safe from, but something about the lack of fences around him and the sheer power of the storm bolstered his confidence. Besides, he knew he could fight. He understood his own strength. Whatever it was that was out there looked small enough to crush pretty easily.

Slipping his knife out, Etho began to make his way up the hill, eyes still tracking where the tiny movement had come from. It was still moving, he realised, though just barely, as if whatever it was had shallow breathing or was fidgeting where it sat.

He crested the hill and ducked behind a large, crooked tree, silently praying that it wouldn’t attack him while he took shelter behind it. Now that he was closer, he could hear the panting, the quiet muttering, the -

The world froze and then skittered forward jarringly as realisation set in. Etho knew that voice. He knew that presence . Heart almost beating out of his chest, he peered around the tree, eyes wide, searching desperately so that he could confirm that his mind wasn’t betraying him.

Sat on a rock, head bowed down against the heavy rain as he painstakingly wrapped his hand with a strip of pale cloth, was Tango. He looked exhausted, judging purely by his stance, but his breaths still stayed short as if he was in the middle of running from something. Etho watched him for a moment, almost disbelievingly. He was right there. He was right there .

And then his brain caught up with his body, and he near-stumbled out from behind the tree in his haste to catch Tango’s attention.

“Tango!” he half-shouted, half-whispered, still wary of the threats that were likely lurking nearby.

Tango’s head shot up to look at him, before his mouth fell open with surprise and he lifted himself to his feet.

“Etho, is that you?” Tango said. His voice came out as a rasp, like stone against stone, but he barely seemed bothered by it. “No way - there’s no way -”

Barely even registering what he was doing, Etho stepped out across the short distance between them, arms opening just enough to catch Tango as the other took off towards him as well. He was warm and solid and real in his arms. His head was tucked securely over Etho’s shoulder, and the rain felt a thousand miles away.

“I thought you were dead,” Etho murmured into Tango’s hair, and the other laughed wetly.

“I’m not that bad at surviving, give me some credit,” he said. Arms moved across Etho’s back slowly as Tango returned his close hug, his tone still purposefully light. “I don’t know how you found me, though. Even I didn't know where I was. Or where I am now.” Tango pulled back a little, just enough to meet Etho’s eyes. “Hey, Etho, where are we?”

“We’re - uh, we’re next to where Doc’s been hiding, actually.” Etho glanced back to where the fence was barely visible against the dark horizon. It was no wonder that Tango couldn’t see it; it looked as if it was part of the sky.

“Oh, you found Doc?”

“Doc found me,” Etho said with a small grin.

He paused for a moment, hovering on the edge of whether or not he should give himself away. And then Tango tilted his head a little curiously at his hesitant expression, and Etho was suddenly reminded of the long weeks he’d had to spend without him. Maybe he could allow himself a moment of weakness - just a moment. Just for Tango.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admitted softly. “I thought I was fine to just look for everyone, bring them all together, but - I don’t know. I don’t know.”

There was a pause as Tango tried to scrutinise him, squinting through the rain. “You always give so much of yourself to everyone, Etho. You should let yourself have something.”

He had this sort of soft look in his eyes - the kind of look that made Etho feel like something loved. Something precious. Within that moment, Etho felt like the only thing he really wanted to have was this: the world for themselves, and Tango held safely in his arms.

He took Tango’s face in his palms, compelled mostly by affection and somewhat by instinct, before pulling them back sharply when he felt how cold it was.

“You’re freezing!” he admonished, unzipping his coat already so that he could throw it over Tango and try to warm him up a little. “How long have you been out in this storm?”

Tango gave him a tired smile and a nudge. “See, this is exactly what I mean. Never thinking of yourself, always others.”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Etho zipped the coat up and turned Tango around so that he could coax him over to Doc’s place. “We’re going to my room to warm you up, okay?”

“Oh, you have a room and everything!” Tango said. “Sounds like a great place, whatever it is.”

Etho huffed amusedly as they began their descent of the hill. He let the relief of having found Tango fade into a fuzzy warmth at the centre of his chest, glowing and warm in the cold night air. “Well, you say that now…”

Tango was tired. Tired beyond words - beyond even emotions, if he was being honest with himself.

Yet tonight, for the first time in weeks, he had a shelter to stay in. There were fences - terrifying and tall and functionally useless, but they were there . And somehow there was someone pressed close to him, re-wrapping his hands as he leaned against his chest and listened to his heartbeat, steady and present.

He was sure he could still hear the echoes of whispers in his ears. He still felt strange, letting himself curl up and lie comfortably. It didn’t matter so much, though, when he had Etho right here.

Shutting his eyes against the rest of the world, he bid his muscles to relax, and let himself pretend that it wasn’t the end of the world.

#APOLGIIES IF THIS SEEMS RUSHED in truth from tomorrow on i am so busy!!! so so busy!!!! so i was like i gotta finish this before then or my #ao3 draft will get voided #anyway !!!! hope u enjoyed :D love u lots aly!#codes does writing

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theworldinclines · 1 year

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THE FACT THAT THEY LOOK EXACTLY LIKE IN THE MOCK TRAILER JDJDJDJDJDJD like what if the official trailer doesnt make many changes i need it to stay the same all messy and uncensored PLS

LITERALLY THEYRE SO FINE IM QUAKING😭😭😭😭if it's a shot for shot copy of the og trailer i would be THRILLED FR😭😭but like BETTER bc of workshops etc?? u know like ugh i can't do this already ali im not well at one (1) photo imagine how bad it's gonna be fjjfjsskks

#and i started sweating on impact 😭FKSKSKAKS #DYING RN #answered #ali #ur post on my dash has rocked the foundation of my entire day i hope u know😭#mutuals #only friends #neoforce #i LOOOOOVEEEDD neo's hair in the og trailer i literally just watched it over again recently #and was like god PLEASE somehow let him have the same haircut/style 😭😭i wont rest until it airs and i see for sure😭HES SO FINE #only friends pre production

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daughteroftheunspeakable · 2 years

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omg.... IM a karlnapity mutual......... c!karl unease <3

edit: i rewrote this go read it here

#HI ALY HIIIIIIIII i hope u like it #my writing #c!karl #c!karlnapity

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rosykims · 1 year

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ok. ok. i think im finally (mostly) settled on elspeth's ending and her handling of the landsmeet in particular. illegible hysteria below

i spent like 20 hours of this game hyping up an alistair/anora alliance but i dont think i can do it in practice im too weak Lol. BUT i do like the idea of trying it anyway and it falling apart bc everything always falls apart in this universe. so yeah, alistair does do the dual in the end, despite what i said the other day (he's the one who at this point wants to be king. so why not) much to ella's horror. the detail i mentioned about loghain being the only person to defeat her in her tourney days still carries symbolic weight, because it was ELLA who trained and mentored and levelled alistair up through the blight. shes like babe if i cant beat him you shouldnt risk it !! and so him then BEATING loghain regardless is a nice lil "student surpasses the teacher" moment and also drives home that ella is a good commander and theyre both stronger than they were.

ofc this means alistair obviously goes rogue and does what he does at the end of the fight — regardless of the promises of mercy ella made to anora and their attempts at an alliance lol. which sucks and its not as neat a solution, but emotions were high and its understandable and also L + ratio + loghain sold elves into slavery. ella got her vengeance over howe earlier so shes like sigh ok anyways. SO. the alliance is a bust, but alistair is hardened anyway so its not the end of the world. he rules alone post canon with ella still as adviser and his mistress, BUT :) im thinking about him refusing to take a wife in this path, specifically because he's trying to convince ELLA to marry him and make it official. she always rejects him but its in an ahaha.... unless 👀 kinda way that encourages him to keep trying. i mean the only reason she doesnt feel like she can is bc Duty and Responsibilities and Obligations blah blah blah..... ALL of which she could still honor while being queen. so yeah. completing her story and having her reaffirm her grey warden duty + alistair's king duty, and their mutual dark ritual sacrifice, but with the open ended possibility that a happier ending IS possible at some point ! when she's ready ! maybe after she cures the taint :) who knows

#oc: elspeth #ok im feeling better about this actually. i hate feeling paralyzed by lore it happens wayyyy to often bc my brain is broken #i think the reason im not feeling the anora/alistair choice anymore is bc it requires alistair to make that sacrfice PLUS the dark ritual #like the ending was supposed to feel like it's ELSPETH bearing the brunt of the angst FOR ali and yet that route just #fucks him over way too much and ella by extension. i do like it in theory but i wish the dark ritual didnt have to be involved sigh #but whatever this ending fixes all of that ! and the ritual actually suppports this choice imo #alistair feeling less beholden to c*ncieve an h*ir bc hey idk if u forgot but i actually have a fucked up kid out there somewhere lol !#really the only loose end im :/// about is anora #bc she was important to ella :/ very important #and having that whole aspect of her story finish with 'oh alistair exiles her or puts her in prison and we all move on' just. ugh.#i WISH there had been even the slightest mention that anora knew how to fight or was interested in it at least #bc if ella could conscript her into the grey wardens THAT would be a lot of fun lol #like 'your boyfriend killed my dad and stole my throne but you tried your best but also fuck off' is suvh a good dynamic :(#idk. i'll have to think abt how i can fuck around w canon to make that ending more satisfying since that is ofc what i Do lol <3 #im just shouting into the void w this mostly but i love her so much and im having fun so.#i think ive realized thru fixing up this worldstate is that i love angst but with a healthy serving of hope on the side #ella's hope that her love for alistair can fit with her duties as commander #cillian's hope that anders can be redeemed #ashara's hope that she's not too far gone to forgive solas. and that her love can still save him despite everything #man.#ANYWAYS THANKS FOR READING IF U DID LOL

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beeprich · 3 months

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it’s like a disease I am addicted to not shutting up

#like I have to say it all the time #also ali u need to get into reddie so bad I hope u see this post #nat.txt

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xhoneygirlxx · 8 months

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WANTED U

Eddie Munson x Best Friend Reader

summary: when your date is ruined by your best friend, can you stay mad at him when he reveals a secret you've been dying to know?

warnings: fluff, slight angst, Eddie is deep in his feels, two idiots in love. Minors DNI 18+ ONLY! mentions of drinking, Eddie gets drunk. swearing. p in v, creampie (wrap it up kiddos), fingering, body worship and praise. Reader's race/ethnicity is not mentioned! she/her pronouns used. Both Eddie and Reader are in their twenties. Also not proofread, spelling errors and horrible writing!

*if I miss anything please let me know!

a/n: Hi honey bunnies! I just want to thank @ali-r3n for this really cute idea! I'm so sorry it took me forever to post and I'm sorry about the shitty writing! Smut is not my strong suit and I've been plagued with the horrible writers block, so I hope this is okay! I hope you like this and thank you for being so wonderful and patient <3

All you wanted to do was to go on one date. One singular date. For the first time since your high school prom, you were going out with someone who was interested in you. A tinder match that led to multiple conversations, that led to having drinks, to hopefully going back to his place for a well needed time in the sheets.

That was the plan for the night. Then your phone started to blow up with phone calls and texts, an apparent SOS that couldn’t wait. So you had to cancel, mid-date, telling your date that there was a family emergency. You knew walking out of there that Jordan wouldn’t text you back or ever take you up on the second date offer.

It wasn’t like you were heartbroken over it, however you were a little bummed. The whole reason you even got on the dating app was because you were trying to get over your best friend. Eddie Munson stole your heart at the age of fifteen and had yet to give it back. It was a sick cycle that you have been going through for nine years.

You were the lovesick best friend, who just couldn’t take the hint, following him around like a lost dog. Eddie had you wrapped around his finger and you didn’t care. Canceling plans just because he wanted to see you, doing whatever he asked just because, and never dating with the hopes of him finally falling for you.

Those dreams were fruitless however, because Eddie didn’t see you as anything more than a friend. All the pining and unrequited love was killing you, a slow painful death that would put medieval torture devices to shame. It’s not like you could blame the brown haired boy, it’s not like you can pick who you fall for, but that didn’t stop you from wishing it would happen.

So therefore you took the giant leap and put yourself out there, trying to ease the ache of your heart. In the end you ended up in Eddie’s apartment, helping him in his drunken state, get to bed. The emergency that Jeff blew your phone up for, was this. A night out with the guys turned into Eddie getting belligerent and refusing to leave until you came and got him.

The whole car ride there you were disappointed in yourself, the whole reason for your dumb date was to stop yourself from running to the rescue every time he called. You were annoyed and heavily frustrated with the outcome of your night. It almost felt like the universe was against you, whatever god above watching you and laughing every single time you failed to move on.

As much as you wanted to hate the grown man sitting in front of you, you simply couldn’t. His whiskey colored eyes round and glossy, nose and cheeks rosy with the heat of alcohol coursing through him, and his hair messy from the cold night wind. He was so pretty and it was hard trying to stay mad at him, especially when he had a deep dimpled smile adorning his face.

“Alright Eds, I need you to change out of your clothes.” You say sweetly, the pile of his pajama’s hanging in your hands.

Following your instructions, he tries to lift his shirt over his head, only for it to get caught on his head. “Sweets, I need help.” He sounds like a helpless child trying to tie his shoes, and you have to stifle a laugh.

Placing the change of clothes next to him on the bed, you swiftly pull the stuck fabric off of him. When his head is released, he shakes his hair out of his face so he can see you. A childlike wonder flits in his eyes as he looks at you, admiring the way you’re being so gentle.

A small thank you is whispered, you hum in response as you pull the new shirt on him. His eyes close as you gently tug his arms through the hole, soaking up the amount of attention you give to him. It feels like you’re changing a newborn, so docile and content with the way you handle him.

“Can you take your pants off yourself or do you need me to help?” Your voice breaks his sleepy demeanor, droopy eyes looking up at you.

“You gonna buy me dinner first?” Wiggling his eyebrows, he playfully smirks at you.

“Ha ha, very funny.” You deadpan, yet your heart beat picks up at his innuendo.

Surprisingly, he’s able to take his bottoms off and replace them with the pair you picked out for him. Pulling the jewelry off his wrist and fingers, you place them hastily on his bedside table. His eyes follow your every move, like a curious kitty watching their owner. Pulling back the covers on his bed, you gently lay him down and prop his head up with pillows.

“So you have your bottle of water right here,” You show him by picking it up off the table where it’s sat, “And the bottle of Tylenol is right next to it. Now if at any moment you feel like you have to throw up, the garbage can is right next to you on the floor. Okay?”

Humming to you in understanding, he closes his eyes once more. When you think he’s about to pass out, you turn on your heel to grab clothes for yourself. Not getting far, his big hand wraps around your wrist gently, bringing your attention back to him. This time his expression isn’t as content or happy. No, his eyes are glassy with unshed tears and his bottom lip jets out in a pout.

“Please don’t leave.” It’s a whispered plea, innocent and childlike.

“I’m not leaving Eds, just grabbin’ some clothes to change into.” Even with your assuring smile, he’s still frowning at you.

“Please just, don’t leave.” Tugging your arm slightly, he brings you closer to the bed.

“Eddie, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” You’re now concerned with the state of your best friend and why he felt the need to beg you to stay.

“Promise? What about Jacob?”

“Eddie, what are you talking about?” Although he closes his eyes again, you still press for answers.

“I don’t wanna lose you t’some douche. You needa be with me, sweets cause I love you s’much. Don’t wanna lose you to him.” It’s all a slurred mess, his words mumbling together as they fall out of his mouth.

“If you mean Jordan, no I’m not going to leave you for him” You giggle softly, “I left my date with him to come get you. Plus his stories about kayaking were starting to get boring.” You try to lighten the mood, but it only makes his lip wobble more.

“I shoulda made a move, I wanted to b-but I-I was scared. Gareth told me I lost my chance with you and he-he was right.” A few stray tears fall down his cheek and you lift a hand to wipe them away.

The same brown eyes you fell in love with, all those years ago, stare up at you. The heart that’s bleed for him for nine years is starting to heal, the words you so desperately wanted to hear are finally coming to light.

With your own tears glistening in your eyes, you look down at him like you always do. With the biggest heart in your eyes and brightest smile on your face. “You should stop listening to Gareth, Eds. I think you still have a shot, but we’ll talk about this later. When you’re not drunk.”

Bobbing his head the best he can, he squeezes your hand once before retracting it. With his eyes closed and steady breaths leave his parted lips, you get changed and turn off the lights. Maybe the universe wasn’t against you, maybe it was on your side the whole time and just had a funny way of showing it.

The bright sun pouring through the window, wakes you up. The sight before you is one you’ve seen before. The side profile of your best friend’s face, wild hair sprawled over the pillow that lays beneath him. You take this moment in to study his features, the slope of his nose, the way his eyelashes kiss the tops of his cheeks, and how kissable his lips look.

Not much later is he stirring, stretching his limbs out after his wild night out. Cracking one of his eyes open, he winces slightly before running his hands down his face. Blinking once or twice, he finally lets himself wake up, staring straight at the ceiling. You wonder if he remembers what he said or if you should bring it up. Instead you choose to play it cool, or at least try to.

“Good morning drunky! How’d you sleep?” Reaching a finger out, you poke his side.

“Drunky,” he snorts,” I actually slept well, thanks to my wonderful nurse.” He takes a peak over at you, a smug smile already pushing his cheeks up high.

You try to ignore the butterflies in your tummy when you hear his voice, thick and husky with sleep. The giddy feeling rushing through you is written all over your face, covered up by a bad attempt of biting back a smile.

“Well, I’m glad you don’t feel so shitty.” You say, stretching your body to distract yourself from his burning gaze.

“What time is it anyway?” His question comes out in a yawn, loud and exaggerated. Propping up on your elbow, you lean over him to get a look at your alarm clock.

“A little past ten.” Eddie huffs, muttering something about it being far too early. “I know it’s too early for you but that just means we can go to Jerry’s and get waffles to soak up whatever's left in your system.” You coo at him mockingly, fake pouting as you look at him.

“Ya know, I don’t enjoy your fake pity.” Eddie rolls his eyes at you, a frown pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Oh I’m sorry, Eds. Want some ketchup with those cries?” Eddie’s frown deepens like a bratty child, and you eat up every second of it. “Oh, I know! I’ll call a wambulance.” You throw your head back, laughing at your own joke.

With your attention off of him, he sees the perfect opportunity to laugh. At lightning speed, he grips your hands, flipping you over on your back. With the weight of his thighs bracketing you and his hand gripping your wrists together, you’re defenseless.

With a wild glint in his eyes, Eddie wastes no time in attacking you with a finger to your side. Relentlessly, Eddie tickles you to the point there are tears in your eyes from how hard you're laughing, and your pleas for him to stop are swallowed by the oxygen that’s being stolen from your lungs.

“It’s not so funny when it’s your turn, huh?” Smirking down at you, his attack doesn’t relent.

Thrashing around the best you can, you try everything to get him off but with the way his thighs squeeze your legs together makes it hard to do so.

“Okay, Okay! I’m sorry, Eddie! Please!” The last word comes out as the softest moan, so soft that you would miss it if you weren’t paying attention. However, Eddie was and his fingers stopped digging into your sides immediately.

The sound of your heavy breathing is the only thing to be heard. Eddie stares down at you, eyes unblinking and cheeks dusted pink. The usually brown eyes are now dark, the dark pupil over taking the iris. You stare right back at him, chest rising and falling dramatically and lips parted slightly letting the air from your lungs flow out easily.

It feels like the world has stopped, time frozen still for eternity. The mid-morning light painting the two of you in a portrait, cementing the moment forever. Two heart beats synching up together, beating against the bones of your rib cages.

“Fuck it.”

Eddie rushes in to smash his lips against yours. Years of waiting and wondering if this moment would ever happen, now finally laying to rest. The taste of him has been the missing part of your life this whole time and you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

It’s sweet and slow, his tongue slipping inside your mouth softly. Morning breath be damned, the two of you make out for what seems like hours on end. Parting from each other for much needed air, a small giggle leaves your mouth.

“What?” Eddie smiles, his face as dopey and gooey as you feel on the inside.

“I just wanted this for so long.” You admit, making his smile pull wider.

Leaning back down to you, he peppers kisses all over your face. The snickering that’s leaving your mouth is slowly turned into a whimper when his lips find their way to your neck. A gasp pulls from your chest the minute he finds that spot, eliciting him to suck on it. Hissing when it becomes too much, Eddie is quick to soothe the sting with his tongue.

Pulling his face away from the crevice of your neck, his eyes find yours as his hand glides to find the hem of your shirt. Tugging on it and raising an eyebrow in question, you nod overenthusiastically.

Ripping the oversized shirt over your face, he takes his time to memorize all the details of your skin. The heat of his stare becomes a bit too much, worry overtaking your brain causing you to bite down on your lip.

“I just want you to know that I’ve waited since freshman year to see these bad boys.” Attention still drawn on your bare chest.

“Well, do they live up to the hype?” You question, tone not as confident as you think.

Eddie’s head whips up to you, mouth agape and you swear you can see drool pooling from his lips. “Sweets, you have no idea.”

Diving in, he kisses the doughy flesh of your breasts, going back and forth between the two. Like a magnet to a fridge, his lips find the hardened bud and latches on. Switching between sucking and flicking his tongue, you squirm underneath him trying to find some sort of friction for the ache in between your legs.

“You have no idea how many times I jerked off to the thoughts of this.” Eddie mutters as he moves his attention to the opposite nipple.

Between his admission and the feeling of his warm mouth on your sensitive skin, you moan loudly. The feeling of more wetness pool in your panties alerts you, the overwhelming feeling of need buzzing through you. A small whine comes from you and it catches Eddie’s attention.

Pulling away from your breast and peering up at you, he cocks his head to the side. “What’s wrong, baby? Want some cheese for that whine?”

When his canine teeth shine through his devilish smirk, you whimper. You hate that he’s using your game from earlier against you, teasing you like he doesn’t know what you want.

“What is it, sweets? Tell me what you want.” Fake pity drips from his question and it only eggs you on more.

Eddie’s got you so worked up that you can’t even speak. Lifting your hips to show him what you need, you frown harder when he laughs at you.

“Oh, princess,” He coos, running his thumb along your lower lip, “Be the good girl I know you are, and ask. Can you do that f’me?” Nodding your head, he encourages you with an assuring smile.

“C-can you touch me, please?” Your voice sounds so small and you’d honestly cringe if it weren’t for the fact that you know you’re dripping out of the fabric of your panties onto his bed.

Sighing heavily, Eddie gives your bottom lip a small tug with his thumb, letting the bottom row of your teeth show before it bounces back up into place.

“I would tease you more but you asked so nicely.” Shuffling down your body, he loops his fingers through the sides and guides the thin material down your legs.

Pushing his way through your thighs, Eddie runs the tip of his middle finger up the slit of your sex. His finger grazes lightly over your bundle of nerves, causing you to jolt from the feeling.

“You’re really fucking wet.” Eddie says breathlessly as he parts your glistening lips apart with his fingertips.

Not waiting for your response, Eddie circles his finger around your entrance before plunging it in slowly. The stretch from his finger makes you arch slightly, a muffled moan falling from your mouth. Using the pad of his thumb, he swirls your clit in alternating circles and figure eights.

“More, Eds. Fuck, please!” You beg and who is Eddie to deny you. Pushing another finger inside, he curls them just right and starts going faster.

“Fuck you’re so greedy, baby. Isn’t that right, you’re s’greedy for me, huh?” With his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks a pretty burgundy shade, he looks just as fucked out as you.

Writhing underneath him, you babble nonsense as his fingers hit that spot you always struggle to. “Yes! M’so greedy - Shit!”

“You gonna let me taste you? Gonna let me eat this pretty cunt?” You don’t even get a chance to answer, your body already doing it for you by clenching around his fingers. “Oh she likes that, huh? You like imagining me in between these pretty thighs, baby?”

“Think ‘bout it all the time.” You moan, hips rocking against his hand as you try to chase your high.

“Yeah, sweets? Think about me when you play with this pretty pussy?”

That’s all it takes for you to come undone, gushing around his fingers with a muted scream. Your back arches off the bed, eyes rolled into the back of your head, as the feeling of your orgasm washes over you.

Eddie helps you ride through it, continuing his motions until your tense muscles relax into a jelly like state. When you come back down from your high, you whimper at the loss of his fingers. Moving your eyes to him, you watch as he sticks his middle and forefinger in his mouth, moaning when the taste of you hits his taste buds.

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna have to eat you out.” Eddie grins at you and you roll your eyes playfully back at him.

“That sounds absolutely wonderful, but” You begin to say and his face drops with the fear of rejection, “I’m going to need you to fuck me in the next thirty seconds.” You smirk and his jaw drops.

After fifteen seconds of pure shock, Eddie shakes his head and tries to play it cool.

“Yeah totally, let me just-” His sentence is cut off when he begins to struggle out of his own clothes.

Once he’s stark naked and hovering over you, you laugh giddily up at him. Putting his forehead to you, he studies your eyes for any sort of regret or doubt.

“Eds, I promise you I want this.” You reassure him, making sure to prove the point with a loving kiss.

With his confidence boosted, Eddie snakes his hand down to guide himself into you. When the tip breaches your entrance, the both of you gasp at the feeling.

Pushing in slowly, he brings his lips back to yours, swallowing your moans. Once he's all the way in, Eddie gives you a minute to adjust before he starts moving.

Nodding your head to let him know you're good, he pulls almost all the way out before ramming back into you, knocking the wind from your lungs.

"Fuuck, sweets. S'fuckin' tight." His voice trembles as he pounds into you.

"You're so big, I can feel you s'deep." You slur, drunk on the way his cock stretches you, hitting that sweet spot with every drag of his hips.

Eddie resituates himself, pushing your knees up to your chest, before bringing his chest back down to yours. This way you can feel him even deeper, which you didn't even think was possible.

You're on fire, belly burning bright with fire. Eddie's everywhere, he's all you can see, hear, smell, touch, think, he's invaded every single one of your senses and you can't get enough.

His eyebrows are furrowed, eyes closed with the pure bliss of being inside of you. It's so intimate yet so dirty and it's driving you insane.

Opening his eyes, he looks down at you like you've hung the stars that shine in the sky.

"I wanted this for so long, sweets. I wanted you, so Fuck-" He hangs his head, speeding up the movements of his hips. A roaring sob comes out of your mouth, the fire in you burning hotter with every drag of his thick cock.

"I'm so in love with you, sweets. Been yours since I was sixteen." Finally he confesses, letting the sacred secret out, only this time he's drunk off of you.

"I love you too! Fuck-I love you so fucking much."

"Tell me you're mine. Please, tell me." He begs and you comply, growing closer and closer to the edge.

"M'yours, been yours since I was fifteen." You confess and it feels like the weight of the world has lifted off of you.

With one last thrust, you come undone with a loud cry. Eddie doesn't let up his movements, now only focusing on his own release.

The way his hips stutter, you know that he won't last too much longer.

"I want you to cum in me, Eds. I wanna feel s'bad." You coax and that's all it takes for the metalhead to come with a stuttering grunt.

Lazily thrusting into you, he finally stops when he becomes overstimulated. The room is once again calm, the now afternoon sun blinds you as it seeps into the room. Heavy breathing and content hums fill the room, while the scent of sex lingers in the air.

Shyly removing himself from your chest, Eddie looks at you sheepishly. "Now what?"

If you didn't know Eddie you'd probably think he's being rude, but you know that he really is just overthinking everything that just happened. In his mind he thinks you're probably regretting everything, even though you told him you felt the same way.

Using your hand to pull some of the hair that sticks to his cheeks away, you smile affectionately at him.

"Well, I was thinking we could still go to Jerry's for breakfast," Eddie still looks at you like he's waiting for the ball to drop, "Then I thought you could keep your promise and eat your girlfriend out. That is, if you're not too full."

"Really?" He looks like a puppy who just heard its favorite word, excited with it's tail wagging back and forth.

Snickering up at him, you nod your head rapidly. Pulling out of you quickly, Eddie runs out of the room and you can hear the chaos of clattering from behind the door.

"Eddie, what are you doing?" More giggles fall from your lips as he races back in with a wet wash rag in his hand.

"Gotta clean you up before we go out to eat, baby. That way I can recreate our masterpiece later." He says wiggling his eyebrows.

Yeah this was the dork you fell in love with and who you were going to love for the rest of your life.

Thank you all for reading! I'm sorry it's not the best!

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x you #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x female reader

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orphudice · 2 years

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so the chapter three post execution got released anf things happened that i feel like talking about.......

#heres my thoughts on these fangan people that nobody will understand 😁😁 ok here we go um #stuck between hating and loving kairi. i get her motive but id rather be petty snd say i was right to not trust her #also her motive was lackluster imo compared to tatsuos? in tatsuo case it was either kill or be killed but kairi just. Killed Akihiro 4 No R #eason #also i want to hug chiyo...poor bby everyone she loves is DYING istg #im also very upset about finns death.i want him to come alive again.who will be my australian guy spider blorbo now.........#we never figured out what happened to the other archie too. also now archie the second is alone and suffering and nobody in the cast likes #spiders so :((((( i want finn back #I STILL HATE RYOKO I HOPE SHE BURNS #mf just??got off???scott free???even tho she killed finn????#like i get thats the rules but im still maf abt it #at least kei had a reason and motive behind planning harus death ok there was personality. ryoko just killed a guy bc she was BORED #also very sad abt hidemi dying......she is beloved by chiyo........bring her back.............i love u hidemi............#OH and that scebe????where yuna cries and runs off bc she realizes how awful everyone was to her???MY HEART #i thiught her and kairi were supposed to be girlfriends like mei and arashi BUT NO they just.hate eachother nkw apparently #that scene between kairi and yuna was cute tho i like that they got some closure yk #(you dont know but yk)#and then there aas the chiyo shimura scene were shimura found out akihiro (HIS BOYFRIEND) was dead and chiyo found out shimura was still ali #ve and not dead #that. Oh My God. My Emotions. My Heart.#the next chapter!!!is chapter four!!!and im scared!!!!!!#last chapter 4 in this franchise fashion bitch got manipulated by her ex into killing my beloved beautiful pretty amazing awesome spectac #ular haru hana so um.I am scared #anywayd thats it kudos to u if u read all this and care

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allpromarlo · 2 years

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ahya the draft is in a WEEK?

#i hope the god the blazers don't trade the pick last minute #i mean it doesn't look like they will since there's been no noise around a trade and they've already hosted like 500 predraft workouts #IF cronin is not stupid enough to trade a top 10 pick for some bum like jerami grant i really hope we take jalen duren #he's the most nba ready of all the top prospects and we also need a center sooooo #i'm sorry nurk my brotha but u ain't doin it no more #isvinjam se gospodine ali nisi više tako dobro #the window for ayton is pretty much closed because assets what assets #and we don't really have any other options SO #just take duren and move on with it #don't try any stupid shit #sigh i can't wait till june 23rd to see joe cronin excel his trade masterclass of throwing valuable players away for tank purposes #THIS IS NOT HOW IT WORKS #DAME IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE HIS MVP SEASON NEXT YEAR DON'T FUCK THIS UP FOR US #nba #portland trail blazers #nba draft 2022 #jalen duren #*i hope TO god #fuckin typos man

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5iceroy · 8 months

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lance & 15 (crying)... i'm a simple guy

"So, that's it? You fuck off back to New York and I stay here?"

lance stroll + 15 [crying]

honestly shocking no one has done the quintessential problematic-age-gap CMBYN-esque au with lance yet.. I Would Like To See It!

character asks prompts [still open!]

#i hope u like him wewentcarracing 😧 fighting for my life this first time drawing lance... trying to capture his cow-eyed allure...#his crying yuck face...#i am a lowly student at the feet of the lance scholar #also idk hebrew i tried my best w his tattoo pls dont come for me yall LMAO #ls18 #f1 fanart #ali + asks #ali + art #lance stroll

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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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readychilledwine · 7 months

Note

Hello it's me again. I hope all is well with you. I was wondering if u could write something about reader and any of the bat boys (maybe all three but not shorts) where the teenage daughter is dating or something? You can write the way u want

*Cracks knuckles* time for girl dad Cassian 😍😍😍😍

Daddy's Girl

Summary - With his daughter freshly turning 50, Cassian now faces the hardships of losing his babygirl to adulthood and the horrors of dating.

Warnings- very protective Cassian along with Uncle Az and Rhys having to do their thing, usual batboy dramatics. **edit to additional warnings** adults discussing different methods of sex education and dads doing the being more protective of their daughters than their sons thing**

A/N - I based Adriana's age off what I thought I remembered Alys saying about fae young in the first book (her nephew's were 50 and just looked like adult) pleaze correct me if I'm wrong, though

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

You glared as Cassian sighed again. Flipping the page in your book as he shifted and stared at you. "Just tell me where she is." You looked up at him over the edge of your book before shutting it slowly and laying it on the coffee table.

"I've told you." You answer him cooly, watching as that smirk grew on his face.

Cassian shook his head. "You told me what she was doing, that you had allowed her to leave with a friend," he said the word like he was holding back a vomit, "but not where she was." You two had played this game frequently. The one where he'd do his best to play Azriel and drag answers from you. It wasn't until familiar scarred hands found your jaw and Rhysand appeared next to Cassian that you realized this was serious.

"Where is my niece?" Azriel uttered the words in an eerily calm voice as he forced you to look at him.

You checked your shields, swallowing thickly. Had you known when Adriana was born 50 years ago she would be the only female among the litter of children, you would have immediately ran for hills.

Rhys had 4 sons with Feyre. All of whom were incredibly protective of their female cousin. Azriel shared 7 kids with Gywn. All male. All older than your daughter. You and Cassian shared 3 children. Two twin sons, both cunning and smart, and your youngest, sweet Adriana.

"She's in Velaris." Azriel scoffed at the answer and you checked your shields again as the first scratch came.

"Semantics." Rhysand purred. "Where in Velaris?"

"And with whom?" Cassian immediately followed, his body language much more relaxed despite the panic radiating down the bond.

Azriel had not dropped your chin. Keeping your eyes and face locked on his. "Y/n, you know how this ends. You can tell us freely or I can pry it from you."

You spat back quickly. "Only if Gywn is joining." The shock made Azriel's hand fall from your face and allowed you to put space between the three of them and you. "She's a grown female. If she wants to go on a date, that is perfectly fine."

Cassian's eyes were wide immediately. "You didn't say it was a date before, sweetheart."

"Because I knew you would react like this." You paused, crossing your arms against your chest before looking at Rhysand. "When Nyx went on his first date, you told him how to charm her into his bed." Rhys nodded in agreement and smiled fondly.

You then turned to Azriel. "When Erza wanted to court a female for the first time, not just date her, but truly court her, you took him to not one, not two, but 7 brothels, one in each court, ensuring he had learned how to please a female from sex workers." Azriel didn't disagree, the corners of his lips twitching up as his eyes sparkled.

You finally turned to Cassian, a finger raised. "And you. You, dear husband. The one who planted legends of the sexual escapades of you and your two brother, into our sons minds, shall I bring up the incident where we walked in on our twin sons and that fem-"

Cassian stood, covering your mouth quickly with his eyes wide. "This is different. This is my daughter. My illyrian daughter who has wings. My daughter who chose arts and philanthropy over training. My girl-"

"Our girl," Rhys corrected softly. "Addy is the only girl we were blessed with. We don't mind that she's on a date. We just want to know who and where." He stared at you, eyes searching and pleading for an answer. "Please, y/n, it wasn't really that long ago when she used to say she was going to marry myself or Azriel because we would never hurt her. What if he does hurt her? And we weren't there." Rhysand's jaw tightened, his eyes squeezing shut as if to erase an image he did not want to create. "Who is she with? Please. She's just."

"She's our world," Azriel finished. His voice was also tight. Eyes peering up at the ceiling. "She is a gentle, kind, beautiful girl. I just do not ever want to see her hurt."

Cassian whispered, "I will not be able to live with myself if something happens to her, y/n." Your eyes were watering as you stared at Cassian. "Sweetheart, please. We weren't ready for this. I was not ready for her to date yet. Especially without me meeting who she was going out with."

"You already know him," you answered softly. "Micha Vanserra and Adriana are at the bakery we go to every Saturday on the Sindra. They're going to attend a candlelit concert in the heart of the Rainbow tonight. They are meeting another couple there." You watched as Rhys relaxed slightly and Azriel's wings unfurled.

"Eris and Nesta's son?" Azriel sat down and shrugged. "She's safe. Nesta and Eris worked very hard to ensure he grew up respecting and admiring females and women. He is with Eris at every visit to shelters for females. Good kid."

Rhys nodded in agreement. "Nyx is going to the same concert with a female tonight. I'm assuming that is who they are meeting. If he does, by chance, do anything to her, Nyx will probably just kill him. He likes the male but hasn't forgiven Eris for the comment about y/n when she was pregnant." You rolled your eyes, having forgiven Eris for calling you a "delectable pumpkin ripe for taking" trying to get under your husband's skin many years ago.

Cassian stared at you. "You let her leave with Micha Vanserra?" You nodded. "He's not good enough." Cassian immediately turned to head out of the door only to be stopped by shadows and tendrils of darkness.

Azriel had pulled out cards and had summoned whiskey. Rhys spoke, leaning back into the couch further as he poured 3 glasses. "Cassian, we have an alliance with Autumn. Micha is a good male. A very good one. And well trained in combat. Along with that, he is the heir of the Autumn Court. What were you hoping for? A God?"

Cassian's hand on his hidden dagger twitched, and his shoulders fell in defeat. "She's my baby," he repeated softly.

You moved to him, a hand running up and down between his shoulder blades. "And it's time for her to fly, Cass. Stopping her from dating will push her away and create secrets. We promised all of our kids we would never put them in a situation where secrets felt needed, remember?" He nodded, wings falling even more. "Come drink with your brothers and play cards. How long has it been since you three had a poker night? How long has it been since we had a child free night?"

"Years," Cassian grumbled. "Since Nyx was born." You nodded, kissing his back. "Maybe a few rounds." He moved to them, conceding and sitting in the circle as Rhys cheered in victory, and Azriel smiled and dealt cards. "If She's late, though, I'm hunting him down."

"Oh yeah," Azriel agreed. "Rhys and I already decided that." Azriel paused, studying his cards, "Now what exactly did my nephews do?" You watched as Cassian's eyes wrinkled slightly as he smiled. Rhys threw you a wink, and you blew him a kiss as you walked away, your husband already deep into the story about your sons.

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel acotar #eris vanserra #azriel #rhys acotar #cassian x reader #cassian acotar #cassian fic #girldad!cassian

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