#and focus on this damn novel

[dejwrld]

sometimes i remember i interviewed the producer who produced one of city girls most popular songs, and the fact that I'm also in contract with new york times as a freelance journalist...then my current big girl job doesn't even deal with journalism. next year, i am definitely going to step out of my comfort zone and begin building my media presence for the black nerds, the black book lovers, the black music lovers, and the black girls with a lil issues lmfaoo.

[sunlit-mess]

taking off my anxiety over a license exam ☠️

[cetoddle]

i not only don’t understand people who will read endless amounts of fanfic with crazy high word counts but refuse to pick up a single actual fucking book but i also kind of hate them

[distopea]

"Gabriele, what kind of books do you read? You seem like a history buff kind of, like you would only read classic novels and stories based in reality."

@royaletiquette

"Actually, I'm more interested in the narrative of the story rather than being appealed by the timeline. Good supernatural fiction can be better than classical books, and history might be written boringly the same way." He paused, gently gripped his cup of coffee. 

"My favorite book, for instance, is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. I won't say because the author was Italian, but the story and the narrative are so entertaining that I couldn't stop before the morning came. I won't spoil the end, but there's a large place for both faith and science and I loved it." Another pause, before he continued. "Crime and Punishment is about a murder story written from the perspective of the murderer, and I really appreciated the intensity of this reading even if nothing is historically accurate in this one." He sipped a bit more on his hot beverage. 

He patted his chin. "To be honest, I don't really like crime novels, if I have to pick a sort. It often echoes with my work, and whenever I see how the investigation suffers from those narrative short cuts with no good explanations, I'm truly disappointed and frustrated by my book and I'd rather not use my leisure time to be even more pissed off." 

[chisungie]

.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── PAY NO MIND ♥︎

...or rafe bothering your reading time.

♥︎ pairing .ᐟ mean!rafe x stepsis!reader

♥︎ summary .ᐟ you’re trying to read, but your stepbrother has another idea as to how you should be spending your time.

♥︎ warnings / tags .ᐟ smut, MDNI! unprotected piv, slight degradation, stepcest. wc: 1.3k

♥︎ author's note .ᐟ never let a man bother you while reading!

STEPSIS MASTERLIST ♥︎ 3K MASTERLIST ♥︎ RAFE MASTERLIST

you were lying on your stomach on the living room couch, your feet up in the air and swinging as you kept reading one of the romance novels you'd bought earlier that day, sabrina carpenter's juno playing in your headphones. you were so immersed in the book, right in the middle of a scene that was turning spicy that you hadn't noticed the figure looming in the doorway.

rafe stood there, his head cocked to the side as he leaned on the doorway, a smug grin on his face, watching you rub your knee-socked feet together. you were wearing an oversized hoodie that had ridden up to show the shorts that clung to the curve of your ass.

he pushed himself away from the doorway and started walking towards you in short strides; rafe could hear the song that you were listening to as it leaked through your headphones. he let out a low chuckle once he finally reached the couch; he thought you were so adorable when you were utterly oblivious about the fact that he was standing there.

when his calloused finger met the back of your thigh, you let out a startled gasp, your eyes widening as you turned his way. rafe simply grinned down at you, his brows raised in feigned confusion. you pressed your hand to your chest and took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment before looking at him. "what are you doing, rafe?" you sighed, putting your bookmark at the spot you were at and taking your headphones off, putting them aside.

"just keep reading, pretty girl." rafe chuckled softly as his hand got closer to your inner thigh. "you look so cute when you read, your brows all furrowed 'n your tongue sticking out..." he cooed, his fingers drawing small patterns on your soft skin, creating goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

"i can't read when you're touching m-"

"keep reading, cutie." rafe said sternly, and when you looked back at him, his smile had disappeared, his mouth now in a straight line, even if his fingers kept drawing patterns on your thigh and his voice was still smooth and sweet, "or i'm gonna stop touching you."

you took in a deep breath as you opened your book once again to the page you'd left off on, and even though you tried to keep reading, your concentration was now entirely on the tiny sparks you felt in your lower abdomen the closer rafe got to the hem of your shorts. his fingers trailed over your ass, snapping the waistband of your shorts.

he tugged down your panties along with your shorts, delivering a sharp smack to your ass, the surprise along with the slight sting causing you to let out a gasp. you could hear the clink of his belt as rafe unbuckled it, peeking at him out of the corner of your eye.

"eyes on your book." rafe tsked and shook his head. you let out an exasperated sigh, turning back to the book and trying to focus on it. you felt his finger run a trail up your slit. "damn, you're so wet." he let out a rumble of a laughter, causing a shiver to run up your spine. rafe settled his body over yours, and you could feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, making you hold your breath in anticipation.

and then you felt him.

he teased your entrance with the head of his throbbing cock, making sure to smear your obvious arousal all over your hole teasingly, you let out a slight whine, so desperate from some friction that you were trying to wiggle your hips in a way that made the bastard laugh.

"so fucking desperate…" rafe mumbled against the back of your neck, kissing the sensitive skin. "y’gotta part your legs a bit more…" the boy guided his hand to the back of your thigh, gently prying it away from the other one, and you could feel the smile gracing his lips against your skin.

rafe gripped the base of his cock, watching satisfiedly as you clenched around nothing. letting out a tsk, he started pushing his cock into you, letting a groan when he felt your cunt envelope the head of his cock, a small whine leaving your lips at the stretch of him pushing in deeper.

you couldn't help but close your eyes, listening to rafe's ragged breathing as one of your hands gripped the pillow tightly, only for rafe to pull out of you completely, a needy whine leaving your lips, "rafeee..."

"read." he said in a low, rough tone, making it clear that it wasn't a question, but an order.. you frowned, peeking through your eyelids, rafe thrusting his entire cock into you, making you let out a squeal, feeling his head greet your cervix, "s'good... keep reading, baby..."

rafe kept thrusting in and out of you, the tears that started to gather in your eyes making the pages of the book so blurry you were barely able to read a few words per minute, your grip on the pillow tightening.

"feel s'good around me..." rafe murmured into your ear, suckling on your earlobe, "think that's enough reading." he chuckled darkly into your ear, taking your book and throwing it onto the floor; and if you didn't feel so good, you'd admonish him, but your mind was flooded with nothing but rafe; the way he felt, the way he tasted, the way he pulled out of you, flipping you over onto your back on the couch with ease.

rafe moved your legs to rest on his shoulders, giving him more access as he continued pounding into you, the room filled with grunts and the plap! plap! plap! of his cock diving in and out of your wet heat.

arching your back off the couch, you brought one of your hands to your chest, rolling one of your nipples around with your index finger and thumb, thrusting your hips into his.

"nghh, rafe..." you mumbled as you felt yourself getting closer, the boy letting out a chuckle on top of you as he sped up his thrusts, holding onto one of your thighs with his hand, digging into them.

"yeah?" he tsked, "what's the matter, huh? can't take it?" his mocking tone made you whine, "gonna come 'n my cock like a desperate slut?"

you nodded your head, closing your eyes, "y-yeah..." you mumbled, rafe letting out a breathy laugh on top of you, "alright, come for me, pretty girl. make a little mess of yourself on my cock, yeah?"

and when you felt all of the pressure inside of you leave and your walls started clenching around rafe, he let out a grunt, still continuing to thrust, his cock throbbing inside of you as the tip of it pressed repeated kisses against the spongy spot inside of you.

"'s tight..." rafe grunted, and once you stopped fluttering around him, rafe took his cock out of you, continuing to stroke himself, throwing his head back. pretty groans left his lips when spurts of cum left the pink tip of his cock, the boy aiming so it landed onto your pussy. you looked down, feeling as some of it leaking down your slit.

rafe gathered his cum off your slit with the tip of his cock, a shit-eating grin on his face as he pushed it back inside of you, a gasp leaving your lips.

"can't let it go to waste, can we, baby?"

[luna-azzurra]

Stop obsessing over how many chapters you can finish this month. Stop panicking about how long your novel will take to write.

Focus on today. Just today. Can you write 200 words? 500? One solid paragraph? Cool. Do that. Then do it again tomorrow.

You don’t need to finish the damn book in one sitting. You just need to show up. One day, one page, one stubborn sentence at a time.

That’s how books are built.

That’s how writers are made.

[vamplvs]

notes: avengers tower era of marvel fandom is so BACK!! anyways, left that movie feeling crazy, so here's this :) i wrote it in one single sitting immediately after getting home so be gentle with me

bob watched you as you wiped down the bar top. it was methodical—a spray of some kind of cleaning solution, a scrub from the cloth, and onto the next section until you were satisfied.

the night before, alexei had held what he called a "bonding night" for the team (with his tracksuit on, and all). you had even offered to mix the drinks! in reality, it was walker and yelena threatening each other, bucky rolling his eyes over his whiskey, and ava disappearing the moment the fighting had begun.

bob was... well, he was trying. he wasn't part of the team, really. he was just there, quiet and present, waiting for his turn in the immensely confusing card game alexei insisted on teaching them. the night ended with many spilled drinks over the bar top, and you and bob staying behind.

well, alexei too, but he was busy mourning the deck of cards that was now soaked in tequila.

you laughed with him about all kinds of things. you asked him about his past, about how void worked, about what the memory loss was like. it was refreshing talking to someone unafraid of him—whether that be of his powers or of hurting him.

yelena was so careful around him, and alexei was certainly still haunted by the girl bob had apparently vanished (he still didn't remember it, but when alexei recalled it to him, he nearly threw up). the team treated him like glass or a loose canon, but with you things were different.

so now, he watched you clean up—something he offered to do, but you wouldn't let him. you had said something about needing to get out your anger, so he just left you to it and watched quietly from his perch on the couch at the opposite end of the room.

he tried not to stare—he wasn't trying to creep on you. the thought alone made him wince. he just... he thought you looked good. the way your arm worked against the counter, the focus in your eye and the twitch of your mouth when a spot was particularly tough-

"just talk to them," bucky said, quietly enough that you wouldn't hear, from his armchair in the corner of the living room with a lovingly worn copy of the great gatsby in his hands.

bob flushed, "huh?"

"it won't kill you," bucky was still focused on the novel in his hands, "matter of fact, it might be in your best interest."

before bob had the chance to ask what bucky meant, you called bucky over to help dispose of the trash. grumbling, he walked over, mumbling something about "this damn metal arm" under his breath.

you wandered off with bucky, laughing about something or another, and bob was left to his own devices.

left to think about your laugh and the ways your eyes crinkled. left to think about the intensity you looked at him with. left to think about your hands on that damn counter and on his arm and-

maybe bucky was right.

[adieutristana]

Hey :3

could you please write arcane women with a chronically ill user? Especially a FAINTING CONDITION, I have one and I would love to see how would they react and take care!!

of course! thank you for the request <3

disclaimer that i do not have any experience with this kind of condition. i did some research and did my best to portray them accurately, but as always, i’m open to feedback.

summary; headcanons of arcane women and fem!reader with a fainting condition.

characters included; jinx, vi, mel, sevika, caitlyn

tags/warnings; hurt/comfort, fluff, chronically ill!reader, mentions of fainting (duh), medical talk

men dni.

jinx;

✧.* the first time it happened, jinx was in absolute shock. one second you were upright, talking to her about your latest endeavors. the next second, you looked a bit out if it, like your vision was starting to blur and you were becoming disconnected from reality. the next second, your body was going limp, and jinx was scrambling to catch you.

✧.* it'd be an understatement to say that she was panicking. she's shaking you, yelling at you, trying to manipulate you into a sitting position so she can try and figure out what's wrong. she got so desperate that she ended up pouring some cold water over your face, and that was what brought you back to consciousness.

✧.* she's bombarding you with questions as soon as she sees your eyes begin to blink open.

✧.* "what happened, toots?!" she'd ask, or, "you went all... blank, then nothing. what's that about?"

✧.* she can come off as a bit blunt with her questions, but she doesn't mean anything by it. jinx is just a girl with little to no filter- she genuinely is concerned.

✧.* you take a few moments to come back to your senses, all the while jinx is sat next to you with a hand gripping your knee, tight. it's both for you and herself, for jinx to reassure herself that you're here, you're alive, and you're (hopefully) okay.

✧.* once you're in a sound state, you explain to jinx that you have a fainting condition. you'd meant to tell her earlier, but it kept slipping your mind, until you'd actually fainted. you reassure her that it's nothing life-threatening, nothing that'll put you in danger (in most situations).

✧.* jinx still worries, of course she does. she worries about you when you're just going to the convenience store to grab water bottles, so her anxiety when you tell her about your condition is off the charts. regardless, she tries to hone it in and trust your word. you've lived with it for years, and you know your own health better than she does.

✧.* after the first conversation, jinx doesn't bring it up often. of course she'll talk about your condition if you're the one to mention it, but she doesn't want you to feel like she's treating you any differently.

✧.* tries to distract you with colorful smoke bombs, affection, and jokes after you regain consciousness most of the time. peppering your face in purposely wet and rushed kisses in an attempt to see you smile. she knows it'll take you some time to come to, but she wants you to be in good spirits when you do! jinx hates a lot of things, but none quite as much as seeing you unhappy or in distress.

✧.* but she keeps both her hideout and her bags stashed with things that'll help in case of another fainting spell. if there's one thing that jinx is, it's observant. she knows every one of your habits, your little quirks. she could write a damn novel full of things about you that you haven't even noticed about yourself.

✧.* and if she notices those telltale signs- your eyes beginning to cloud, starting to space out, losing your balance, she's on it. water is a given, she'll also usher you to sit or lie down so that you can focus on your breathing. if it's bad enough, jinx will try to guide you through some breathing exercises, even though she doesn't have a clue what she's doing. she's trying her best :(

✧.* "you're lookin' all... far away again. sit down, toots, breathe." she'd say, her face getting impossibly close to yours, thick brows furrowed.

✧.* does as much research as possible! there's not much that frustrates jinx than not being able to understand something. these things are like a puzzle to her in a way. she wants to be able to analyze, understand, and help. she knows there's really nothing she can do to prevent fainting spells, as much as she wishes she could. regardless, helping you through them becomes one of her most important self-appointed duties.

✧.* if she sees you standing for a bit too long, your girlfriend would make sure to ask you to take a little break. she doesn't want you to start getting lightheaded and have another spell when it might be preventable

✧.* jinx would also make sure that you're not close to any hard surfaces or corners if she notices you right on the brink of fainting. the last thing that she needs is you to hit your head on the corner of a table.

✧.* "hey- hey! get away from there," a jumbled mess of words, before wrapping her arms around your waist, slowly pulling you away from near a hard counter and supporting your fall.

✧.* she becomes pretty good pretty quick! it just gave her a scare at first is all :(

vi;

✧.* it was one of the first things you'd told vi when you first began dating- that you have a fainting condition. you faint from time to time, there's signs, and you can't control it. it happens, and it's bound to worry her, but you're okay.

✧.* she'd hear you and listen to you, vi always does. but i don't think the magnitude of your words would really sink in until the first time she witnessed a fainting spell of yours, and she was in shock.

✧.* she was utterly panicked. holding you across her lap, checking your pulse at both your wrist and neck, shaking you, trying to talk to you, anything.

✧.* it seems fruitless, and vi can feel tears beginning to prick at the corners of her eyes. she didn't realize the sheer depth of what you'd said until now, and the girl is internally beating herself up for it. you told her you had a fainting condition, of course you'd faint! how could she have not been prepared?

✧.* but eventually, you do start to regain consciousness. she immediately holds you close to her chest, whispering quiet and rushed 'ohthankjanna's and 'you're okay, aren't you? please tell me you're okay.'

✧.* it takes a moment for you to return back to consciousness, weary eyes looking up at vi. you can only slowly nod. it's not much of an answer, but it's satisfactory for vi- letting her know that you hear her and you're alright.

✧.* "i'm so sorry i wasn't prepared, you told me and i still-" "vi, love, stop. it's fine, i'm fine."

✧.* she makes sure that she's prepared for next time. she doesn't want to make you feel as if you're delicate, like you can't take care of yourself. vi knows you're more than capable, but still, she's your girlfriend and she wants to look out for you.

✧.* she asks you to describe everything to her- how you know it’s getting bad, what works to help you both before and after the fact. it’s vi trying to understand exactly what you need, rather than simply assuming.

✧.* after those conversations, your girlfriend does grow to recognize the signs and symptoms you have rather quickly. the moment she sees you start to look a little out of it, she’s pulling you away from anything you could fall onto, coaxing you to lay down or sit down with your head between your knees.

✧.* “hey, hey. sit down, okay? i’ve got ya, cupcake,” she’d whisper, her hand rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back. she’d press light kisses to your temple, plump lips a reminder of her presence and affections.

✧.* there’s always a few water bottles in her bag just in case though, and some snacks (your favorites, too) whenever she feels you may need them.

✧.* while vi did freak out after the first fainting spell you had, she learns to manage them soon after. now that you’ve talked to her and she knows what to expect, she can rest assured that you’re alright and you’ll come to with a bit of time and support.

✧.* once you do regain consciousness, she doesn’t make a big deal of it. VERY affectionate, though. she’s just so happy that you’re doing alright, she can’t help it… chaste kisses to your lips and tight embraces when she notices your light grumbles and your eyes fluttering open.

✧.* if you were having a conversation before fainting, she’d wait out the episode, then continue the discussion like nothing had happened. while vi absolutely worries, she doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable or feel like she’s only focusing on what happened. unless you want to talk about it of course!

✧.* “you’re okay, right?” “mhm… just a little hiccup,” you’d murmur. “right. where were we?”

mel;

✧.* mel has seen people faint several times in her life and career, but i’d imagine you’re the first person she’s met with a fainting condition.

✧.* mel is a stellar listener, though. once you inform her of your condition, your symptoms, how it affects your daily life and how you navigate it, she’s taken everything to heart. mel may not fully understand, but she wants to try the best that she can.

✧.* asks a lot of questions. your girlfriend isn’t trying to interrogate you or pry any information from you, instead just trying to grasp your condition better. trying to prepare for the inevitable fainting spells you have and know exactly how to handle them. questions like ‘how do you know one is upon you?,’ or ‘what do you think helps best, when it’s said and done?’

✧.* so the first time that she’d witnessed an episode, mel knew exactly what to do. she saw the undeniable signs; the far-off look, the light sheen of sweat, the way you were ever so slightly off-balance. she sprung into action and guided you by your shoulders to lay down, legs above your chest and encouraged you to simply breathe through it.

✧.* “you’re sweating, love. and you look like you’re having trouble focusing,” she’d say- a statement, rather than a question. mel would take you by your shoulders and guide you to one of the lush couches in her home, ushering you to lay down. “come on, breathe. in, out… like that, yes.”

✧.* though she gets some close calls and is able to help sometimes, mel knows that she can’t always prevent a fainting spell. but she’s always there to break your fall, hold you across your lap, brush stray strands of hair from your face and run soft thumbs across your cheeks until you come back to.

✧.* so incredibly sweet and attentive once you come back to your senses. mel is peppering gentle kisses across your cheeks, forehead, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your lips. a light sheen from her lip gloss remains on your skin. she’ll take your hands in hers, whispering sweet nothings into your ear while your fingers intertwine with her own.

✧.* “you scared me there, darling,” she’d tease, soft lips brushing against your temple. “but that’s alright. you’re okay now, aren’t you?”

✧.* doesn’t dwell on it, though. mel doesn’t want this to be the focus of your day if you don’t want it to be, so she’ll give you your kisses and cuddles before letting go and continuing on with whatever you were doing, unless you ask her to keep giving you that affection. in which case she is more than happy to oblige!

✧.* she does have connections with doctors just in case she feels you may need one. it rarely gets to that point, but having those emergency contacts puts mel’s mind at ease. if you were to take a little too long to wake up, she didn’t react quickly enough and couldn’t break your fall, she’d know exactly who to go to.

✧.* mel has all of the essentials packed at all times. water, snacks, even a device to track your blood pressure when necessary. she’s stocked constantly, you’ll never want or need for anything with mel.

✧.* “that looked rough,” she’d say, crouching next to your form and holding out a bottle of spring water. “drink some of this, okay? even if you feel alright, it’ll make me feel better.”

sevika;

✧.* you swore that you’d meant to tell her, you were just waiting for an opportunity. a minute of peace in her chaotic days, maybe a tranquil moment after all the rough jobs and rushed fights.

✧.* but the ‘right time’ never came, sevika is a busy woman after all. by the time you have a moment to yourselves, sevika is washing up in preparation for bed, her eyelids already drooping. you know you need to tell her about your condition at some point, but you don't want to spring it on your girlfriend while she's this tired.

✧.* so when you're out at the casino, the woman playing a heated game of blackjack with you and a few of her old friends and you suddenly slump in your seat, sevika has no idea what's hit her. immediately she drops her cards, rushing to your side of the table to shake you, talk to you, desperately try to get you back to her.

✧.* "shit- dove, what happened?" she's saying. her voice is rushed and panicked, much unlike her usual gruff demeanor. "come on, please wake up..."

✧.* she stays by your side the entire time, simply waiting for you to wake up. her friends can wait, the game can wait, and she doesn't pay any mind to the lingering stares of other patrons. all that sevika can think about in this moment is you, and your well-being. she's never seen this from you before. she's panicked internally, but she's good at putting on a brave face for you.

✧.* the second your eyelids begin to flutter open, sevika is all over you. she was panicked, and most of all she was scared. as irrational as it may be, part of her was afraid that she was losing you- even though she was able to take note of the subtle rise and fall of your chest, and the fact your pulse was still steady.

✧.* once you're back to feeling yourself, fully, sevika would pull you out of the casino and onto the street for more 'privacy' (not much of that in zaun). she’s immediately going down a list of questions- if you’re okay, what happened, what caused it, if this is a recurring issue, and if you knew this would happen.

✧.* you explained to her, your gaze downcast and voice tinged with a hint of guilt. “i’m sorry, sev. i meant to tell you, just… the time wasn’t ever right.” she let out a heavy sigh, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. though she’s a bit shaken up by what just happened, sevika can’t bring herself to be mad at you. she understands where you’re coming from.

✧.* "there is no 'right time,'" she said, hand on your shoulder. her thumb rubbing slow circles against the fabric of your shirt. "you can tell me these things, especially when they involve you fainting." her tone is firm, yet there's no anger or malice behind it.

✧.* from that point on, you've been more open and willing to express things without the fear of timing or anything similar. you discuss your symptoms with her, the way your condition affects your daily life, how you work around it, the like. she listens and makes mental notes of everything you say, even trying to read between the lines at some points. sevika is that devoted and that concerned for your well-being. she wants to make sure she's prepared for whatever comes and she's able to be a good girlfriend through it :(

✧.* her home is STACKED with cases of water bottles, any medications that might help, and your favorite snacks. she's already made a substantial effort to make her once uninviting place more comfortable for you, but now she goes the extra mile- and you didn't even ask her to.

✧.* after a while, sevika comes to expect fainting spells and knows when they're coming on. she'll stay close to you, trying to talk to you and ground you in the moment- having you sit down, try to look at her, try to focus. but she knows that eventually you'll likely faint, and that's alright. as long as you're in a safe environment and she's able to look out for you, your girlfriend's mind is at ease.

✧.* “dove, you’re about to-” she’ll move to hold your shoulders, gently guiding you to a place away from any hard surfaces. “sit here, alright? i’ll get you some water.”

caitlyn;

✧.* it was one of the first conversations you’d had with caitlyn when you begun dating. now that you’re spending more time with the woman, you know it’s best to inform her before she finds out by you actually fainting.

✧.* caitlyn doesn’t immediately understand your condition, she’s never met somebody with a condition like yours before. however, she absolutely does want to understand and as soon as you’re finished talking, she takes a trip to one of piltover’s libraries to do some reading.

✧.* she reads about your condition, its symptoms, and how fainting spells can be treated. the signs that one is approaching. caitlyn would also read a few medical papers for good measure, just to see what professionals recommend. this is of the upmost importance to her.

✧.* the first time caitlyn was witness, you were thankfully in the comfort of her own home. helping her cook dinner, reaching up to the cupboards for some spices before you felt lightheadedness set in. caitlyn is perceptive- she noticed almost immediately.

✧.* she wrapped an arm loosely around your waist, trying to support the inevitable fall as she pressed soft kisses to your cheeks. "hey, i'm with you," she whispered. she didn't want to necessarily coddle you, but she wanted to remind you that she's there, first and foremost.

✧.* caitlyn feels you slump against her. she's keeping that same stoic face she's so known and feared for, but underneath the surface, she's terrified. terrified that you're not really okay, even though you've assured her this happens regularly and you're alright every time. terrified that she's doing something wrong, or even making things worse.

✧.* it takes a few moments, some gentle brushes of her hand against your arm in a motion meant more to reassure caitlyn, but you come back to.

✧.* "there you are, love," she murmurs, her hold on you tightening the slightest bit. "that was... scary."

✧.* "i'm alright, cait," you whisper, a weak smile on your face in an effort to reassure her. "i'm sure it's scary for you, but i'm okay. i promise."

✧.* caitlyn takes your word for it, you know yourself best. but even so, she can't help the nagging fears in the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tries to get rid of them. she's got water- expensive water stocked up, snacks, over-the-counter medical equipment, the like, all in her home for you.

✧.* her worries subside with time, but they never completely go away. they likely never will. she's your girlfriend, after all :( but she grows accustomed to fainting spells and almost-fainting spells as part of life. she's observant and intuitive, and cait is able to spring into action the moment she notices something is wrong.

✧.* "alright, that's enough," she'd say, her voice gentle yet firm. guiding you from the table you're cleaning. she sees the way you're starting to become a bit wobbly on your feet, and how your gaze isn't as focused. "i'll take it from here. lie down, love, i'll get you something to eat. alright?"

✧.* caitlyn is observant, but she doesn't ask for you to give her more than you're willing. verbally, she won't pry, she won't check in too often (unless she sees you looking unwell), she won't ask too many questions.

[romanoffsbish]

Insatiable

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!R

As you prepare for your college reunion, and life evolves around you, your wife realizes she’s ready for more. | WC: 1978

18+ | Minors DNI

Smut: Natasha has a penis | Oral / Fingering (R) | Overstimulation | 🤏 Penetration (R) | Breeding

You weren't exactly sure how you got here, or so you feigned—because one second you are on the phone, telling your bestie about your plans for the reunion today with Wanda, the other piece of your trio. Then the next you're pressed up against a door until things eventually escalated to the bed. Certainly, you weren't complaining but you did hear Darcy's muffled disgust followed by the earned dial tone, shortly after a moan.

———

Now though, after an hour, you were starting to feel an aching where pleasure once reigned. "Tasha please," you mewled but she just couldn't stop, "shh," her tone was hushed yet intensely raspy as she begged, "just one more for me detka, please." You moaned, discomfort quieted down for now, your spent body melting into the mattress as it succumbed to the pleasure; again.

Natasha couldn't help it, her eyes were transfixed on your cunt as she just continued to plow her fingers into you, the finest rings of white continued to form on her skin, passing her knuckles and thickening every time she pulled out to slam back in and curl up. Each time without fail you'd gasp, then whine rather incoherently—your pussy took over speaking for you as it gushed and her tongue communicated right back, all you could vaguely hear now was your juices splashing about since her lips had left the curve of your jaw to devour you.

It amazed Natasha just how much you always gave, she looked forward to making love to you every few days just so she could bury herself in your warm core. It wasn't scheduled or anything, just a perfect routine that always led to communal pleasure and comfort. It'd be daily but she liked to give you a break from time to time, even though she still spent it wrapped up in you because she couldn't imagine anywhere better to be.

Ever since retirement you'd become her only focus, she read novels from time to time—like whenever you were out with Wanda and Darcy, which in turn inspired many long nights as you usually walked in wearing a new outfit meant to catch her attention, with a sway to your hips that left her pants tight and her mind wild.

Outside of that though, she had no hobbies, her hero training replaced with nights of endless passion. You were astonished that your vagina still worked; it wept for her the same way your heart yearned for her care.

Natasha was a perfect lover, in all ways, but it wasn't always the case. It took years of patience to receive her unwavering love like this. You fought so hard for her too, making it through hell and back in this life just to find her, then it took forever to break down her walls. Because, up until you she had never regarded anyone romantically; everything was carnal for the redhead.

Now, there was a much deeper connection—a roaring fire lit within you by being her one and only lover. It never wavered; the passion, even on the calm nights where you two were just cuddling, the unique, for you intimacy, it just always got you to a point of neediness..

Like last night, when Natasha stretched behind you and you'd felt the soft outline of her bulge against your backside, it made you wet but then she curled around you so sweetly you'd fall for it, she yawned against your cheek before teasingly questioning your disengaged focus, "how are you liking the movie, moya 'lyubov?"

Knowing full and damn well you were more than likely desperate for her touch, she kept her grip on you firm but it was begrudgingly innocent enough. Which was distracting beyond words as you tried to remember any stupid scene you could critique before huffing, "I hate the Bond series, Tasha." Your wife snuggled closer and kissed you tenderly before changing the film, softening you into the perfect, pliable mess you now were.

Natasha was already clued in when you woke up today, you exited the room in a plush grey robe which usually insinuated you were working on your hygiene routine, shaving away your unwanted hair, leaving behind a soft mound for both of your comfort. You had grabbed a banana then winked at your wife as you walked by and she knew that was an invitation to come ruin you.

Whenever she heard the water being turned off is when she knew you would be close to ready for her, so she set her dishes in the sink and briefly waited for the sign. Soon enough the pipes in the wall swooshed and the redhead ran up the stairs, in a grey sports bra and boxers that had an embarrassing wet patch at the top.

Just as you exited you found yourself between strong arms, with warm lips repeatedly being pressed into the crook of your jaw and neck as her hands gripped your hips roughly. A sweet whimper left your lips as she nipped and sucked on your pulse and the redhead chuckled softly, endeared by your usual neediness.

Then a phone fell from your nervous hands right by her feet and she momentarily froze, then you moaned and she was back, the phone loudly disconnected. It was a blur of sinful pleasure; you were desperate.

Natasha pulled away rather abruptly, biting back a laugh with her smirk as you glared at her. "You've already RSVP'd detka, shouldn't we be leaving now?" It took you a long moment to understand what she was even referring to seeing as how the only thing really thinking for you was your dripping, needy pussy.

You were supposed to go to a reunion luncheon today, that's what you were telling Darcy, who was already with the redhead, because Wanda knew better than to expect you there. To greet the class that brought you into both of their lives when you could stay in solitude with your lover. Plus, she is only even going because she is spearheading a scholarship for young women in stem with her boat loads of Tony Stark's guilt money.

If not for her required presence to pass the first check on in a show, she'd be back at home with her wife, Monica, and their kids—Toby, a blue eyed siamese kitten, and Evelyn, their three month old daughter.

It was crazy to think about, how different life is after a decade of being in one another's lives. Natasha never imagined her circumstances would be this sweet and she thanks the witches ambition for it. She'd went to the college campus one day to visit the Sokovian, who decided to get an education alongside her hero gig. It was an end of the world situation, you were with your part time dorm mate at the time and so the Russian brought you too—muttering crap about your safety.

Four months on the lam later, and you were her girl. Tony apologized and got your education fees paid off for all your prior years and the rest to come for being the reason you nearly lost your future, but now you know you were just being rerouted to the right spot.

"Come back to me sweetheart," she cooed, her heart melting as she somehow caught your love drunk gaze. It was like she was lost in the memories with you. The chance to fall in love all over again was enticing but then she remembered her stubbornness and settled into the moment with you. "What's your color?"

"Yellow." It was an instant answer, but you shrugged because you were unsure if you were truly done yet. Natasha knew that what you needed here was a break, so she made the choice to ignore her throbbing cock.

The redhead hummed softly, then kissed your lips just the same, a smile instantly disrupting the gesture as she felt your delicate hands cup her cheeks to firmly hold her in place. There was no rush to the moment though, you two simply kissed, as if you weren't the same women who just missed a college reunion to fuck.

Natasha had plans for tonight though, while everyone there reminisced on their past few years she had you pinned to the mattress with the future on her mind. For years she turned your pleas down for a variety of reasons, but now, after seeing you with Wanda's baby she realized that there's no more time for her fears. You looked so at peace, with the infant you soothed in your arms and she could see your life to be so clearly.

The kiss that spoke your love for one another came to an end when she felt your grip on her face going limp. Natasha chose then to gently slip her fingers out of you. A soft whimper left you at the loss, soothed only into silence as the redhead lovingly kissed your neck.

Once she pulled back from your body, to kneel above you, her eyes were enamored by the way your essence coated her fingers and slowly trailed down the grooves of her palm. She licked her skin clean, sinful noises leaving her as she shamelessly slurped and moaned. She peered down to see your eyes shut, so she left the room. You were much too tired to protest the loss of your wife's comforting embrace, because the delicious void of sleep began to creep into your once clear vision.

Natasha returned to the room a while later, boxers tight with need but heart full as she found you snoring softly. You looked so pretty, curled around her pillow as if it had actually pained you to be apart from her. A singular tear trailed down her cheek at the feeling of your love that surrounded her in this quiet moment.

A sudden urge to fill you, to give you what you wanted, took over her body as she rushed forward. Still, her approach to you was tender, a thumb traced over the apple of your cheek before descending to your lips, where she gently tapped until you naturally pouted. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, met with the smile of your beautiful wife, you instantly smiled back at her.

"Welcome back," she teased, bringing a bottle of water to your lips before you could sass her right back. Then you were being fed various fruits from the tip of a fork, there was no conversation flowing, the both of you enjoying the comfort of the silence. You were oblivious to your lovers giddy look as you enjoyed a watermelon chunk, unaware she was ready to break it. Then you heard the sound of the fork scraping against ceramic, you flinched back to reality in time to hear her loud and clear, "I am finally ready to fuck a baby into you."

"Natasha no," you warned without the bark, she could see you were asking her not to joke, and her face lit up with resolute amusement. "Fuck," you gulped, her body now hovered yours once again, and you knew you were a goner when she wolfishly grinned down at you. "Detka," her hands wrapped around your ankles and you propped your body up on your elbows to watch.

"Color?" There was no hesitation from you, her eyes told you that she meant it, she was ready, "green."

"Oh fuck," you cried when the tip of her thick cock slid through your glistening slit, unrestricted for the first time, her thumbs dug into the dimples in your thighs as she felt your warmth envelop her. "Dermo." You knew once her mouth met yours—moans leaving her in carnal waves as her hips repeatedly met yours with brutal force, that you were screwed beyond a prayer.

Or, to be more on the nose, you were about to be...

[renskaji]

silver tongue

hayato sou x reader, wc: 2.3k, req? no.

Few things were as entertaining as watching Sakura squirm at the sight of the slightest bit of romance. 

He’ll blush, and pout, and completely lose his tough-guy demeanor at the barest hint of affection around him. It’s so easy to rile him up, too, that sometimes even fake flirting will get him antsy. 

A fact that Suo used and abused, much to your pain and suffering. 

If you were being honest, it was more amusing than you liked to admit. Watching how Sakura would flush and stammar and shout that you were in public, damn it all, when Suo would fix the collar of your shirt or tuck a strand of hair behind your ear like the lead straight out of a romance novel. 

But over time, it turns out the joke was on you, because you started to get affected by all Suo’s teasing. 

At first, it was mindless. Meeting Suo’s bright smile with one of your own, wrapping your arm around his when walking in the street, always choosing the spot beside him. Simple, easy stuff that somehow got Sakura flustered despite the fact that it was all completely innocent. 

Now you’re starting to think that maybe he just saw what you had originally been blind to. Your own overwhelming feelings for your friend. 

“There you are, sweetheart,” 

“Come on! I’m eating here!” 

“Sakura,” You grin, subconsciously sliding over in the booth to make room for Suo beside you. Plans had been made to meet at Café Pothos for breakfast before school, and you and Sakura had been the first to arrive. Then came Nirei, and now Suo has made his appearance with his typical charm. “You’re never going to make it in life if you can be brought to your knees by flirting.”

Except, you’re not much better than him, but that’s neither here nor there.

“You wanna take this outside?”

“Now, Sakura,” Suo hums, smiling like always. He takes his seat beside you, and you have to make a conscious effort to not look at him like he’s the sun and you’re in severe need of his rays. “Is that any way to talk to someone as beautiful as—”

“Shut up!”

You’re giggling into your breakfast in seconds. It’s funny, watching Sakura stutter over his false threats, but you’re also trying to hide your own rosy cheeks. You’re finding it harder and harder to convince yourself that Suo’s words are just teasing. 

Sometimes, you can convince yourself that he’s being serious. 

“Ruinin’ my breakfast, and shit.” Sakura grumbles through a mouthful of food that definitely doesn’t seem to be ruined to him. You roll your eyes with a grin, delving into your own food to try and force your mind to focus on something other than the heat of the body sitting next to you. 

It helps that Nirei steers the conversation into safer directions, always playing the middleman between Suo and Sakura’s teasing and bickering. You’re quieter than usual, but you don’t think it’s that noticeable, until you remember just who exactly you’re with. 

“Everything alright?” Suo’s voice is low, meant only for your ears. It helps that Nirei is excitedly showing Sakura something in his top secret journal to keep them both distracted, but you’re fighting a blush when you glance to your left and find Suo too close for being just friendly. 

And Sakura isn’t even paying attention to the teasing for it to have any effect. 

“I’m good,” You lie, because your heart is racketing up to a pulse that’s most definitely not good and you think Suo probably read just how not alright you were before he even asked. It’s a pain, truly, to have someone as observant as him in your life and try to hide something as massive as your feelings from him. 

You force a smile, hoping that it’ll convince him, and you think you might be safe for one more day when he meets your expression with a smile of his own. 

But then you remember who exactly you’re talking about, and that you could never hope to decipher what he’s thinking behind his smiles. 

“We’ll catch up with you two later,” Suo tells Sakura and Nirei as he stands. You’re watching him in confusion, an expression that’s only mirrored on Nirei and Sakura’s faces. It turns into a flush as Suo adjusts his stance to face you, having not followed him out of the booth, and he extends his hand for you to take and join him. 

You do so, mostly because you can’t find any words to decline. Sakura has no trouble, and your exit from the café is to the sound of his grumbles and complaints. Suo sets his hand on the small of your back to guide you carefully through the semi-crowded restaurant, but you know it’s only in an effort to tease Sakura one final time before departing. 

Except, he doesn’t drop his hand once the two of you step outside. 

You’re confused. There’s no one around for him to perform for, no one to tease but you. Your stomach twists at the thought, pout forming on your lips as you consider the possibility of Suo being affectionate to tease you. 

Maybe you owe Sakura an apology. It’s not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, and you kind of wish you were ever able to tell Suo no. But his tongue is too sharp and his smiles too sweet, and you find yourself agreeing to his every whim. 

“Where are we going?” You ask instead, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the hoodie you threw on over top of your uniform. You risk a glance to Suo out of the corner of your eye to find him smiling softly as always, his own attention fixed on something you couldn’t pinpoint ahead of you both. 

“Nowhere in particular.” He says, as if that answered your question. You think that if he wasn’t ushering you along with a hand on your back, you might’ve dug in your heels and refused to move. But his palm is warm against you and you hadn’t realized until then that you were chilled. Or maybe it was all in your head, and you were coming up with any reason to keep Suo close. “You seemed uncomfortable at the café, so we left.”

Like it was as simple as that.

“It wasn’t because of the café,” You confess before you really understand what you’re saying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, a tad dramatic, as Suo stops walking and turns to face you. You hadn’t meant to say it outloud, but there’s no going back.

“So something is wrong in that pretty little head of yours,” He states evenly. His expression only shifts minutely, but you notice the change in an instant. His easy going smile has disappeared, and in its place is what you recognize to be a concerned frown, though to someone who doesn’t know him as well as you do  he might just look unaffected. 

A gentle hand reaches up to remove your hand from over your own mouth. Except, he doesn’t let it go, and instead brushes his thumb over the inside of your wrist and holds it delicately. 

“There’s no need to hide things from me, you know.” His voice is smooth, gentle, and you gather all your resolve to build a defense against his sweet tone and even sweeter gaze. It’s barely enough to keep your confession at bay, but your blush seeps through the cracks of your self-made walls. 

“Mhm,” You hum, though you’re not strong enough to keep from looking away from him. Your stare darting to the side is no doubt a dead giveaway that you’re lying to his face, so you suck in a breath and decide to give him one truth to keep another hidden. “It’s just… do you always have to use me to tease Sakura? It was fun at first, but now I think it’s kind of annoying.”

It’s not a lie, per say. You do think it’s annoying, but not because it’s you Suo is using to get under Sakura’s skin. Mainly, you’re annoyed at yourself for getting attached to someone who wasn’t even taking anything seriously. 

“What are you talking about?”

You freeze up at the way Suo’s expression twitches with an edge of confusion, like he’s really not sure about what you mean. It makes your own brows knit together in a display of the unsure feeling slowly oozing through your bones. 

“Huh?” You manage to squeak out. He’s still holding your wrist, you realize in a moment of weakness, when you feel him squeeze just tight enough to draw your attention to his touch on you. And it’s not performative, the way he’s holding you, thumb once more brushing gently across your skin. It makes your face heat up, how softly he’s caressing you.  

“What do you mean, I’m using you to tease Sakura?” He repeats your words, and his usual carefree attitude is completely gone. It’s one sign of many that you’ve misread the situation, and your face flushes brighter as you bite your tongue to keep the first thought that tumbles through your mind from falling past your lips. 

“You, uh, you know…” You trail off, sighing when it becomes clear he’s waiting for you to explain further. You’re certain that knows what he’s been doing, but you can’t understand why he’d act like he doesn’t. You square your shoulders and lift your chin, trying to seem braver than you are by facing him head on. “The flirting, Suo. You don’t mean it, and it’s just a game to get a reaction out of Sakura.”

“I see.” Suo hums. You watch as his smile slowly finds its way back to his face, though you’re not sure what to make of it. For the nth time, you wish that Suo was easier to read. Except, you don’t really, because then he wouldn’t be Suo. “You’ll be happy to know that’s not what I was doing.”

You’re certain that you didn’t understand him correctly. He’s still smiling, still holding your wrist, and you feel your eyes narrow in suspicion. Suo finds it amusing, somehow, and his smile widens enough to make room for his soft laugh that tumbles through his lips. 

“You don’t seem convinced.” He grabs your other hand in one fluid motion, but you don’t dare tear your gaze away from him to track the movement. Instead, you’re left to guess based on feeling alone what it looks like as he threads your fingers together and pulls you half a step closer. With how confused you are, you tumble towards him easily. “I’ll admit, at first I was eager to see just how easily Sakura would fluster at the smallest sign of affection. But I quickly realized it was you whose blush I’d rather see.” 

So you were right, after all. It was just an excuse for Suo to tease you. You try to tug your hands from his, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he pulls you another half-step closer, hands trapped between the two of you and his smirk entirely too close to your own face for any semblance of comfort. 

“But can you blame me when you’re just so adorable?” His words are like honey and you’re certain you flush from your ears down to your toes. It’s embarrassing, honestly, how you so easily forgot that you were supposed to be annoyed by his flirting. 

“You’re too smooth. A silver tongue.” You complain on a sigh. He’s still holding your hands, so all you can do is drop your chin forward until you’re resting your forehead against his collarbone. He chuckles at your conflicting words and actions, and you feel the vibrations. 

“Thank you,” He counters. Finally, he drops one of your hands, only to lift your chin so that you’re forced to look at him. It’s intimidating, honestly, but you’re struck by the determination in his expression that’s rooting you to your spot. “I’m going to kiss you now, and it’s because I want to, and I know you want me to.”

“Nothing to do with Sakura?” You’re asking the question before you really think about it, the words leaving you in a breathy whisper that has Suo’s smile widening just slightly. 

“Not a thing.” 

And then his lips are on yours in a kiss so gentle you feel it buzzing all the way to your toes. He’s still holding your chin, controlling the pressure of the kiss, but you’re more than willing to let him lead. You’d still be stuttering over your words and refusing to believe that he’s flirting for any reason other than his own amusement if he hadn’t led the way in every step of the conversation. 

Suo kisses the way he lives his life—completely in control of every measured decision. It knocks the breath from your lungs, and you’re panting by the time you finally part. He’s still smiling, but something in the lines of his face seems more settled. 

“Sorry for assuming,” You murmur, voice gentle enough to spur Suo on to bump your forehead with his. You use the proximity to steal another kiss, because you can, because you’re still in disbelief that you can do so. 

“No need to apologize.” 

You’re thinking that he’s leaning in to kiss you again, so you close your eyes and tilt your chin forwards. Except, his movements freeze with the sound of a scream. 

“H-hey! It’s bad enough you ruined my breakfast, but now I can’t even walk to school!”

Sakura. You jump apart from Suo, though he’s quick to keep you close by with a hand wrapped smoothly around your waist. You’re still blushing, still grinning, as Sakura tracks the movement and somehow manages to go even more red. 

Suddenly, you find Skaura’s inability to cope with affection far more amusing than you ever had before.

[halfway-happyyy]

frank looking out for s/o who works at a diner, even though frank can't blame how pretty she looks in that cute waitress outfit and lace aprin but whenever a guy tries to be a creep around her, he saves her but not cause a scene cuz he doesn't want s/o to lose her job but as soon as that guy gets out of that diner, frank as his own way to tarch this guy a lesson.

I kind of love the idea of this, so allow me to run with it a bit.

warnings: mentions of blood, frank tunes a guy UP

frank had stumbled upon the diner by total fluke one morning. the rain that had begun as a drizzle when he first left his apartment had morphed into a full-on downpour, and the mere thought of a fresh cup of hot coffee was too enticing to pass up. so, soaked to the bone and in dire need of a caffeine boost, he stepped into the unassuming hideout.

he hadn't expected the place to be as soothing as it was, but for some inexplicable reason, he felt entirely at home tucked away in the cracked leather booth in the far corner. the mouth-watering scent of frying butter and freshly ground coffee beans permeated the entire establishment and helped to cement the notion that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

small black and white tiles decorated the floor, and a myriad of vinyl records from the 50s and 60s took up space up on the wood-paneled walls. it reminded him of the spot in jersey that his old man used to take him to after his baseball games; the unexpected familiarity of it all causing a lump of emotion to swell in the hollow of his throat.

"goodness, you look cold..." her voice startled him from his reverie as she reached for his cup. "this'll do wonders for you, fresh from about five minutes ago."

frank swallowed hard and nodded his head. "thank you, ma'am."

she turned to leave, but hesitated. "I can take your coat for you, if you want... sling it over a vent in the back?"

frank was surprised at how much her offer touched him. eventually, he shook his head.

"ah, i'll be alright. thank you, though."

she seemed unconvinced but offered him a small smile regardless.

"alright, well you're welcome to stay as long as you need. i'll be sure to come around again before your cup runs empty."

"thank you, ma'am."

while he tried in vain to focus on the novel he was halfway through reading, he couldn't help but be a bit enamored with her. she moved around the place with a grace that only came from doing the same job for a long time; greeting everyone with a genuine zeal. while it was out of the realm of normality for him entirely, he could not help but be charmed by her. and true to her word, she never once let his cup run low.

when she brought him the bill, she subtly set a small to-go box beside it.

"I couldn't help noticing that you didn't order anything to eat, and in the interest of wanting to keep my customers happy, and returning, I insist that you take a slice of honey crisp apple pie home with you."

at a loss for what to say, frank simply nodded. "yes ma'am. thank you."

"I do hope to see you again, soon."

he couldn't think of a single thing that might hinder him from returning, so he simply cleared his throat and said, "I'll be back."

He made a habit out of spending most mornings in his booth. He could blame it on being annoyingly routine-driven, but deep down, he knew it was more than that. There was something about her that kept him coming back. He'd spent most of his life (after maria and the kids) denying himself of any semblance of goodness, so he figured he would let himself off the hook a bit with her.

"good morning, frank."

that damn voice - like warm honey.

"mornin', ma'am."

her frown was unmistakable as she reached for his mug.

"you've been coming here for months, frank, we must be on a first-name basis now, don't you think?"

he wasn't exactly sure how to explain to her that it was simply a respect thing. he had seen so many customers refer to her with disrespectful pet names that the idea of being lumped into the same category as them made his skin crawl.

he eventually murmured her name, liking the way it rolled off his tongue and smiled softly. "you look really nice today, by the way."

her cheeks turned a rosy hue, which made his smile even wider, and did a once-over of the lace apron that covered the ankle-length dress she wore underneath. "I wear the same thing every day, frank."

He nodded. "You look nice every day."

with a breathless sigh, she shook her head and murmured - "you silver-tongued devil, you."

"hey sweet cheeks!" a patron smacked the table twice and beckoned her toward him. "need a little help over here."

she glanced at frank with wide eyes and then left to tend to the men a couple tables over.

frank had been gripping the coffee mug so tightly, his knuckles grew white.

"tell me, sweetie, is this a standard diner uniform you got on, or do they make you wear a sexier one on account of that sweet, sweet ass you got behind ya?"

the men with him erupted in a cacophony of obnoxious laughter, and it was all he could do, not to wander over there and knock their blocks off on the spot.

she kept it professional and polite the entire time, and when she went back to refill frank's cup, she noticed the expression on his face immediately.

"it's okay," she urged. "I get it all of the time."

frank's lips twisted into a scowl. "it's not even remotely okay. it's disgusting."

"yeah, well, unfortunately for us women, they don't really make men like you anymore, frank." she glanced at the watch on the underside of her wrist and sighed. "I'm done in about an hour anyway - please don't make a scene."

frank took a deep breath and tried to savor the rich taste of the coffee on his tongue. tried to focus on anything other than ringing all of those - pathetic excuses for men's - bells. "I won't, of course." silence settled between them before he quirked a brow in mild amusment and mumbled, "I look like the kinda guy who would make a scene?"

"honestly, yes." she laughed.

he wasn't sure where the need to protect her had come from. he hardly knew her. but it was there, and he was growing tired of ignoring it.

he didn't offer to walk her to her subway stop this time, instead telling her that he wanted to stay a little longer to finish his book. she seemed dubious, but she didn't question him about it, only asking him if she would see him tomorrow morning.

he nodded once before confirming that he would be there.

"bye, frank."

he lifted a hand in a wave. "take care of yourself, kid."

it slipped out before he could catch it. he wasn't sure of her exact age, but he figured she was younger than him by a good stretch. in any regard - she didn't seem to mind the nickname at all. he might have even spotted the ghost of a smile on her face as she turned to leave.

frank waited patiently for the men to finish their meals, and when they rose to leave after paying their bills, he did too. there were three of them; all of which - he noted with satisfaction - could be overpowered all too easily. it took the one who was beaking off at her a good ten minutes to realize they were being followed, and he turned to frank, chest puffed and ready to rumble.

"there a reason you're following us?"

frank had backed them into a dead-end alley.

he hooked a thumb over his shoulder and spoke in a low, measured way.

"you owe that lady back there an apology for the way you spoke to her."

the men exploded in a fit of laughter that itched just beneath the surface of his skin, and caused his fists to flex at his sides.

"I don't owe that piece of ass a goddamn thing, asshole."

frank was on him in seconds, wailing on every part of the man's body he could get his fists on. he had expected the friends to join in - frank would have taken them as well, but when he glanced back, they were gone.

the roar that erupted from him was inherently primal - unfamiliar even to his own ears, and he knew then that he was reaching a precipice, of which there could be no return once crossed.

"you had enough yet? huh? you done?"

the man could barely form words - blood gushed from a myriad of cuts in his face, and he was missing a couple of teeth. frank ripped himself away from the sack of flesh in front of him, before wiping away the sweat from his brow.

"learn some fucking manners, man. try thinking twice before you ever speak to a girl like that again." he spit on the man for good measure and stalked off.

true to his word, he was back in his booth the very next morning.

"rough night?" she simpered, as she leaned over to fill his cup.

frank flexed his impossibly sore knuckles and shrugged. "I've had worse."

she slipped into the seat before him, and reached over to run a cool fingertip over the swollen curves of his knuckles. he fought the urge to shiver into the pleasant sensation.

"are you alright, frank?"

he cleared his throat. "yeah, I'm fine."

she gave him a last, longing gaze before getting up to continue her rounds. he caught her just as she was about to head to next table.

now or never, frankie-boy.

"will you have dinner with me?"

she seemed surprised, but in the place of that surprise, a wry smile tugged at the edges of her lips.

"are you asking me on a date, Mr. Castle?"

frank nodded. "yes ma'am, I am."

"well alright then," she beamed, and frank felt the warmth from her smile like a ray of sunshine on his face. "I'd love to grab dinner with you."

[2-dsimp]

the way im insane for danny i need him to dominate me AND dominated him so bad . is he a degen.... does he like praise or degradation or both ;3 GOOD GOOGLY MOOGLY THE IDEA OF..... danny in puppy ears w a collar or us in them for him ☹️☹️☹️ im frothing at the mouth

Nsfw MDNI gn reader! Slight mention of pet play, degradation

Yandere Otaku! Who asked you to give him some time to catch up on his light novels that just came out. And being the precious gem you were, you opted to wait head nestled into his lap. Like a needy thing waiting for its owner to give them attention.

Danny could barely focus without peeking down at you fondly from time to time. His hands were gently patting at your head while he was reading through his manga books.

Everything was fine until you decided to be a fucking tease. He bit his lip, barely restraining his hips from humping into your open mouth which hovered teasingly over his bluge.

He’s not one for disciplining you, usually he’d spoil you rotten, worship the ground you walked upon, act like a damn fool for you.

But Gods did he want to grab you by that furry eared head band force you to choke on his dick.

Not unprovoked of course! Danny’s been waiting on the new manga series he grew obsessed with to drop for weeks. Today was the day he finally got his hands on a hard copy.

And he couldn’t have you acting like a desperate slut, preventing him from being fully immersed.

Not when he needed to find out what happened in the next chapter of “I transmigrated into a worm, maxed out my charisma stats to level 99, now everyone’s in love with me???”

Fuck, he had no choice but to correct you, and make you reflect on your actions for being such a bad girl. Distracting him from one of his sole luxuries in life.

Damnit he told you to give him some time. You knew how much he was looking forward to this and you just had to ruin it (in questionably the best way possible)

“You just couldn’t wait huh? You think you can do whatever you want just because I’ve spoiled you rotten? Oh, I’mma give you something alright…” With a sigh he tugged upon the leash connected to the collar he placed upon your neck.

Making you jerk your head upwards to match his heated sleep deprived gaze of fondness and slight annoyance. “A nice hard bone lodged in your throat all damn night. Yeah, You’re going to sit there and be my little cockwarmer while I read.”

With you situated between his legs wearing a damned collar with his name on it along with signature puppy ears. The sight drove him absolutely wild with need. Till he couldn’t take it anymore. Unzipping his fly his shaft popped out smearing pre against your plump lips. “Open wide baby, and savor your treat like a good bitch.”

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Nine

WC: 5.9k

CW: None

Notes: Long time no seeeeee. Send thoughts to my anons plz it’s my fav part of the day… might even motivate me to get ch 10 out sooner

The hum of the plane engine had become background noise an hour ago, steady and hypnotic, like the rhythm of breath. Paige had her legs folded beneath her on the cream leather seat, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a half-empty bottle of water rolling gently near her ankle every time the jet shifted altitude. She didn’t bother to catch it. Just watched it drift like it had somewhere better to be.

The cabin was dim except for the soft blue glow of the windows and the yellow-white reading light Azzi had on across from her, illuminating the pages of whatever novel she was pretending to focus on. Her socked feet were propped up on the seat in front of her, posture lazy in the way only someone completely at home in this kind of space could manage.

Azzi’s jet was nice. Quiet. Private. Which made it all the more jarring when Paige’s phone buzzed in her lap with three back-to-back notifications. First from ESPN. Then The Race. Then a push alert from her own F1 app.

Her stomach dropped a little when she read the headline.

“BREAKING: Red Bull’s Top Driver to Retire at End of Season.”

She blinked, tapped into the article without thinking, skimming the lines about “tenure” and “graceful exit” and “opening the door for a new generation.” The typical send-off language. But that wasn’t what her brain stuck on.

It stuck on the last sentence of the third paragraph.

“…likely to spark immediate interest from top-tier drivers currently in contract negotiations.”

“Azzi,” Paige said, too casually.

Azzi didn’t look up from her book. “Hm?”

“You see the Red Bull thing?”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up now, sharp and curious. “What thing?”

Paige angled her phone screen toward her. “He’s retiring.”

That got Azzi’s attention. She leaned forward, taking the phone from Paige’s hand and squinting down at the headline like maybe she hadn’t read it right the first time. She exhaled low through her nose. “Damn.”

“Right?”

“Didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I.”

Paige took her phone back, but before she could lock it again, a new email appeared — top of the inbox, urgent flag marked red.

Subject: Meeting Inquiry: Red Bull Racing

Her mouth went dry.

She clicked into it.

Hi Paige,

Hope you’re well. We’d like to schedule a brief conversation this week, if possible, no pressure, of course, but we’re evaluating options and would love to hear your thoughts.

Best,

Helmut Marko.

Driver Development, Red Bull Racing

She stared at it a little longer than necessary. Not because she didn’t know what it meant, but because some part of her — the part that had started all of this at nineteen, when she didn’t know better — still couldn’t believe this was her life.

Azzi was watching her now. The quiet kind of watching. The “I know something just changed” kind.

Paige closed her phone slowly and didn’t look up. “I just got an email.”

“From who?”

“…Red Bull.”

Azzi sat still for a beat.

And then: “Do they want a meeting?”

Paige nodded.

There was a silence between them now, not awkward exactly, but heavy. The kind that made your ears ring just a little.

Azzi set her book down on the armrest. “Do you want to go to Red Bull?”

The question was simple. Too simple. It hit Paige harder than she expected.

She looked at her lap, hands twisting the hem of her hoodie, heart knocking a little too fast against her ribs. She wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. She hadn’t even decided anything yet. But some part of her deep down (the unguarded part, the one she only seemed to access around Azzi) wanted to let her in anyway.

“I don’t know,” Paige said.

She meant it.

Azzi waited.

“They’d probably offer more money,” Paige added after a second. “And they’re Red Bull. The car’s always fast. Always evolving. They’re ruthless about it.”

Azzi’s voice was quiet. “But?”

Paige hesitated. “I’m used to the Ferrari car. The handling. The engineers. Luka. You. I know how to win in this car.”

Azzi didn’t smile. She didn’t tease or joke or pretend it wasn’t a big deal. She just nodded once, like she’d already played out this entire conversation in her head and was waiting for Paige to catch up.

Paige exhaled. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m glad you did.”

That surprised her.

Azzi leaned her head back against the seat, gaze shifting to the ceiling like she was talking more to herself now. “I’d rather know than guess.”

Paige didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice enough.

The plane continued east across the Atlantic, clouds scattered below them like pieces of some forgotten quilt. The air up here felt cleaner. Lighter. But no altitude in the world could stop Paige’s stomach from twisting into the shape of a question mark.

She stared out the window for a long time.

She was headed to New York first. Then Minnesota. Then probably Italy again, or Japan, or wherever the hell the next GP was. Her life, as always, was measured in terminals and tire compounds.

But somewhere between the breaking news and the unread email and Azzi’s eyes on her, Paige realized she was standing on the edge of something. Something big. Something she hadn’t planned for.

And maybe the part that scared her most was how badly she wanted to take Azzi with her, wherever she went.

–

The landing was smooth, quieter than Paige expected for a private jet touching down at JFK. She blinked against the sunlight as it streamed through the windows, golden and warm despite the haze of city smog. Azzi was already halfway through her phone the second the wheels hit the runway, thumb scrolling through emails like they’d never left Europe. Her focus, as always, moved faster than the plane.

The car waiting for them outside was black and sleek and forgettable in that New York way that screamed wealth through silence. Paige climbed in after Azzi and let her head fall back against the leather, eyes half-lidded as the skyline began to unfold in front of them. Azzi’s driver knew where to go without being told — straight to the penthouse.

Azzi’s place was exactly what Paige remembered and also somehow not at all. High ceilings. Cold marble. A wall of windows framing the city like a movie still. Everything smelled faintly like vanilla and something expensive Paige couldn’t name.

She dropped her bag by the couch and stretched her arms up toward the ceiling with a groan. “I’m starving.”

Azzi glanced up from where she was unlacing her shoes. “Me too. Let’s go eat.”

Paige blinked at her. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Azzi said. Then she paused, surveyed Paige’s wrinkled hoodie and sweatpants. “But, like, get real clothes on.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “These are real clothes.”

Azzi smirked, already heading for her closet. “Not dinner-in-Manhattan clothes.”

Paige made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh but followed her toward the guest room anyway. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from their rooms. Paige was in dark slacks and a crisp navy button-up. Her hair was tied back in a low bun, collar open just enough to pass as effortless.

Azzi grinned when she saw her. “Wow. You’re actually wearing something real tonight?”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You went full outfit. I’m just balancing it out.”

“Sure you are.”

The restaurant was a few blocks from the penthouse, upscale but quiet, one of those places you only knew if you knew. Inside, the lights were low and warm, the air perfumed citrus something. A waiter led them to a booth in the corner, just private enough to feel separate from the rest of the world.

The menus were handed out and barely touched. Azzi knew what she wanted before she sat down.

As the drinks arrived, sparkling water for Paige and some fruity mocktail for Azzi, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t about racing. Or sponsors. Or media days. It was light and slow, looping through stories they hadn’t had time to tell all season. Paige noticed it in the small things — the way Azzi tilted toward her slightly when she spoke, the way their knees brushed under the table, the way neither of them checked their phones unless they were mid-laugh or reaching for their drinks.

Halfway through the main course, Paige caught a flash of something near the window, the glint of a camera lens in the hands of a man sitting alone at a neighboring table.

She didn’t make a show of it. Just leaned in slightly and murmured, “Don’t look now, but camera guy, two tables down.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just reached for her fork and smiled like Paige had said something funny. “Got it.”

For a few minutes, they talked around it. Then the food arrived: steak for Paige, some complicated pasta dish for Azzi that smelled like heaven.

“This is so good,” Azzi said around a mouthful. “I’m never eating airport food again.”

“Liar,” Paige said.

“Okay, fine. But I’m dreaming of this next time we’re stuck in Belgium.”

They were laughing again by the time the waiter came back. “Any dessert for the table?” he asked, poised with his little notepad.

Azzi lit up instantly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Paige gave her a look. “You’re still hungry?”

“I have a sweet tooth,” Azzi said, unapologetic.

“I’m good,” Paige said to the waiter, who nodded and turned to Azzi expectantly.

Azzi tilted her head, mock-betrayed. “Wow. So you’re calling me fat.”

“What?” Paige blinked. “No—”

“I just said I want dessert and you said I’m good, which is code for I don’t need dessert, which is code for some people do, which is code for—”

“Oh my god, Azzi.” Paige ran a hand down her face, laughing now. “You’re impossible.”

Azzi grinned, victorious. “I’ll have the chocolate thing. And she’ll have one too.”

The waiter nodded, utterly unfazed, and disappeared.

Paige gave her a look. “I said I didn’t want dessert.”

“You said it. But you didn’t mean it.”

Paige shook her head, but when the plate arrived, she picked up her spoon without another word. The chocolate was warm and rich and exactly what she hadn’t realized she wanted.

Azzi leaned her chin on her hand and watched her take the first bite.

“Told you.”

And Paige, in spite of everything, couldn’t stop smiling.

–

Back at Azzi’s apartment, the lights were low, and the sounds of the city were muffled through thick glass. Paige dropped her jacket by the couch again and toed off her shoes with a quiet sigh, already feeling the warm hush of late-night softness settle over the penthouse. Azzi disappeared into the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening and closing with the easy rhythm of someone at home. Paige didn’t follow right away. She just stood there for a second, absorbing it. The quiet. The casualness. The fact that she could walk in like this and not ask permission.

Azzi came back with two waters and handed one over wordlessly. Paige took it with a small smile, brushing her fingers against Azzi’s for a moment longer than necessary.

“Hey,” Azzi said, leaning against the counter. “When’s your flight to Minnesota?”

Paige twisted the cap off the bottle. “Whenever I want.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Right. Millionaire life.”

Paige shrugged, sipping her water. “Perks.”

Azzi held her gaze for a beat. “So… is that you saying you don’t have to leave tonight?”

Paige blinked, then smiled faintly. “Is that you asking me to stay the night?”

“Yes,” Azzi said, without missing a beat.

Paige’s smile curved wider. “Then okay.”

Azzi’s shoulders loosened, just a little. She nodded toward the hallway. “Fair warning though. My parents are coming over tomorrow.”

Paige stilled. Just a second. Barely noticeable. But something tightened behind her ribs.

“Oh. Nice,” she said, setting the bottle down.

Azzi didn’t catch it — or if she did, she let it slide. She was already halfway to the couch, flopping down with a sigh, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. “They want to see me before we head out to Azerbaijan. I figured we’d do brunch or something.”

“Cool,” Paige said, easing down beside her. “Sounds chill.”

It did not sound chill.

Azzi’s parents. Tomorrow morning. Paige let her head tip back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling. She shouldn’t care. They weren’t dating. They hadn’t talked about it like that. There was no label, no pressure, no anything. But still.

She felt it again — that quiet, rising panic in her chest. Not the kind she felt before a race. Not adrenaline. This was different. Deeper. Harder to explain.

The idea of meeting Azzi’s parents didn’t scare her because she thought they’d dislike her.

It scared her because somewhere in the back of her mind, Paige was starting to realize she wanted them to like her.

And that was… not a casual thought.

They’d been orbiting this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else thing for months now. Neither of them naming it. Both of them pretending that the in-between space was enough. And maybe it was — for Azzi. She was so effortlessly open, so fine with just being seen, being known. She didn’t flinch when her friends asked if she and Paige were something. She didn’t hesitate when she put her hand on Paige’s back in public, or wore her hoodie that no one knows is her hoodie because it’s just a Ferrari team sweatshirt.

And Paige wasn’t like that.

Not with anyone but her dad and Drew. They knew. But no one else. Not really. Not the media, not her extended family, not even most of her friends back in Minnesota. She hadn’t meant for it to be a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and then it kept not coming up, and then it got harder to bring up at all.

But now she was here, about to stay the night again, and tomorrow she’d sit across from Azzi’s parents and pretend this was nothing. Or maybe not pretend. Maybe just exist in the weird space between pretending and hoping.

Azzi turned to look at her, her eyes soft in the lamplight.

“You okay?”

Paige nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Azzi leaned her head gently against Paige’s shoulder. Paige didn’t move.

She just sat there, suddenly feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing into her ribs. Wanting to say something, anything, and knowing she wouldn’t. Not tonight.

So instead, she leaned her cheek against Azzi’s hair and closed her eyes.

And let herself stay.

–

Brunch was at a small corner spot that smelled like lavender and espresso and fresh bread. It was the kind of place Azzi didn’t even need to look up directions to, she just knew it by heart, like half of New York. Paige followed her through the glass doors, head slightly ducked, even though it didn’t matter anymore. They’d already been seen. Photographed. Edited into slow-motion montages over TikTok sounds. She could hide her face, but a lot of damage had been done a long time ago.

Inside, the place buzzed with quiet conversation and the sound of cutlery tapping plates. Paige spotted Azzi’s parents right away. Katie and Tim Fudd were at a corner table, both standing halfway as Azzi approached, arms open, smiles already on.

Paige braced herself.

She’d never said it out loud — not to Azzi, not even to her dad who she texted this morning — but some part of her had expected this to go poorly. Not dramatic, just… off. The stiff politeness of people trying not to say what they really thought. The overcorrection of guarded approval. The silent evaluation of her outfit or her championship standings or her carefully ambiguous Instagram captions.

Instead, Tim gave her a warm nod and said, “Nice to see you again, Paige,” like they’d had brunch last week instead of never. And Katie pulled her into a brief, not-overbearing hug before they all sat down.

And then it was just… easy.

Not fake-easy, not tension-smoothed easy. Just real.

They ordered quickly. Pancakes for Azzi, a veggie omelet for Katie, black coffee for Tim, and whatever sounded least like food for Paige, which turned out to be eggs and toast. Then the conversation started, and to Paige’s surprise, it didn’t revolve around racing. Not at first.

Katie asked about Minnesota, about Paige’s dad, about what it was like to grow up with “so much snow and so little coffee.” Tim wanted to know what books she’d been reading lately, and Paige fumbled, caught off-guard, before muttering something about having started some novel and then abandoning it halfway through a flight to Monaco. That got a laugh out of Tim. Not a mocking one, just understanding. Then somehow they were all talking about bad travel reads and books people lied about finishing.

It was bizarre. In a good way.

Then the talk drifted back to F1. Not in the press conference kind of way, but more curious. Tim asked if Ferrari felt different this year. Katie asked Azzi if the pink helmet had been a branding move or just because she liked it. Paige waited for the tension to return, for the questions to circle back to contracts or media coverage or what it was like to be twenty-two and under a microscope.

But it didn’t. They just… talked.

And Paige found herself liking them.

Katie had Azzi’s calm, watchful energy. The kind that made you feel seen even if she hadn’t said a word. And Tim was like a low-stakes ESPN commentator, the kind of person who probably had opinions on your golf swing but would keep them to himself unless you asked. They loved Azzi. That was obvious. But it wasn’t overbearing. It was a quiet kind of pride, the kind that didn’t need to be stated.

And Paige… Paige didn’t feel tested.

She felt included.

At one point, while Azzi was busy explaining tire degradation to a very amused Tim, Katie leaned slightly toward Paige and said, “You’re different in person. More relaxed.”

Paige blinked. “Uh. Good different?”

Katie smiled, sipping her tea. “Very.”

There was no follow-up. No pointed glances or motherly warnings. Just that.

Later, Paige excused herself to the bathroom, more out of needing a breath than anything else. She leaned on the marble sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked tired, maybe. Or just unguarded.

Azzi had made it look easy. Paige wasn’t sure if that was a skill or just who she was. But somehow this had gone… well. Better than well.

When she came back out, Azzi had stolen a bite of everyone’s food and was grinning unapologetically while Katie fake-scolded her. Paige slid back into her seat and caught Azzi’s eye.

And Azzi — completely relaxed, pancake syrup on the side of her mouth — leaned in close enough that only Paige could hear.

“They like you,” she said softly, like it was just a neutral truth.

Paige picked up her toast and replied without thinking, “I think I like them too.”

And when she looked up again, Azzi was already smiling.

–

Paige hadn’t intended to go to Montana.

Not really. Not officially. The flight was booked late at night on a whim, sometime after Azzi had fallen asleep beside her in the apartment and Paige had watched the skyline for hours, wide awake and heavy with something she couldn’t name. The car met her at JFK just before sunrise, no public post, no press to catch it. She arrived under low clouds and quieter thoughts, and she didn’t text her mom until the wheels hit the tarmac.

Paige: u home?

Amy called two minutes later. Paige answered before the first ring ended.

She hadn’t seen her mom since the off-season. Since before testing. Before Ferrari. Before Azzi. Before everything got loud again like last time. Like F3. The driveway looked the same. It was cracked in the same corner it always had been, gravel spitting up under the tires of the rental SUV. The mountains hovered in the distance like they’d been waiting.

Amy opened the front door the moment Paige’s feet hit the porch. And Paige, despite being twenty-two years old and leading the F1 world championship, dropped her bags and just let herself be hugged.

It didn’t fix anything. But it helped.

They made tea and sat at the kitchen island like nothing had changed. Like Paige hadn’t just flown across the country on a Tuesday with nothing but a carry-on and a handful of feelings she didn’t understand.

“So,” Amy said eventually, one eyebrow raised, “you wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

Paige gave her a lopsided smile. “You’d guess right.”

Amy took a sip from her mug. “Try me anyway.”

And Paige did.

It came out slower than she meant, with a lot of pauses and not a lot of eye contact. But Amy didn’t rush her, didn’t fill the silences. Paige talked about Ferrari. About Monza. About what it felt like to lose by less than a second to someone you might actually be in love with and not even know it. She talked about the Red Bull thing—how they wanted a meeting, how her name was suddenly in headlines again like she didn’t still have a season to finish.

And then she talked about Azzi.

Not like gossip. Not even like a crush. Just… truthfully.

“She’s the best driver I’ve ever raced,” Paige said quietly. “And also the best person I’ve ever been around. And that’s… complicated.”

Amy didn’t speak, just pressed her hand lightly against Paige’s back. Paige kept going.

“She’s so comfortable. With herself. With people. She doesn’t even think about it, and I… I’m still hiding everything from half the world. I’m hiding what I have with her, I guess.” A pause. “And that’s not her fault.”

Amy just nodded.

Then Paige mentioned the concussion. The one from July. The one she brushed off because the team cleared her after a week and she didn’t want to miss Silverstone. She told Amy about the headaches that still came sometimes, about the way light sometimes made her flinch in the garage, about how her balance felt slightly off on stairs when she was tired.

Amy’s silence was different then. Sharper.

“Paige Madison.”

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, sheepish.

“That was two months ago.”

“I know.”

“You don’t wait two months to say something like that.”

“I didn’t wait,” Paige argued half-heartedly. “I just… didn’t bring it up.”

Amy gave her a look, one Paige remembered from middle school when she forgot to ice her knees. Then she stood behind her and placed both hands gently on Paige’s neck.

Paige didn’t protest.

Amy’s thumbs worked over the knots at the base of her skull, exactly like she used to when Paige was twelve and spent too long karting after dark. There was something about it. About being home, about being touched with that kind of care that made something in her eyes sting. But she blinked it away.

“I didn’t want to sit alone at my house.” she said softly.

Amy didn’t stop massaging. “I know. That’s why you came here.”

“Yeah.”

“You staying long?”

Paige shrugged. “Just a couple days. Then I’m back to New York. Or Maranello. Or wherever.”

Amy pressed into her shoulder blade, then eased up. “You ever think about slowing down?”

“All the time.”

“And?”

“I don’t know how.”

Amy kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to know. But maybe try.”

Paige let herself close her eyes. Just for a minute.

It didn’t solve anything. Not the Azzi situation. Not the Red Bull meeting. Not the press or the performance pressure or the concussion symptoms she should’ve told her team about weeks ago. But sitting there, with her mother’s hands on her shoulders and the smell of home in her hair, it felt like something was okay. Even if just for now.

–

Baku.

There was something about the city circuit in Azerbaijan that Paige liked more than she meant to. It wasn’t just the long straights or the tricky, blind corners. It was the way the city felt alive around her when she was strapped in. Like she was flying through a place still moving, still breathing, the world flashing by in colored lights and old stone.

The castle walls came up faster than she remembered. That tight left-right-left flick through the medieval section always made her nervous her first year in Formula One. Now, it just made her grin.

“Okay, that’s green in Sector Two,” Luka’s voice crackled in her ear, all calm efficiency. “Car’s responding well.”

“Feels good,” she replied, flicking her wrist lightly on exit. “Bit of understeer if I push into that uphill right, but otherwise nice.”

Another pause on the line. “Copy. Tyre temps?”

“Stable. Tell Fred I’m better at managing now.”

“You say that every weekend,” Luka deadpanned.

Paige smirked. “Yeah, but this time it’s true.”

Luka’s laugh was a little more real this time, brief in her ears. “We’ll see in twenty laps.”

Practice was going smooth. No heavy traffic, no weird bumps, and the Ferrari was humming through the corners like it wanted to run. They’d done a good job on the setup this week, she could tell already. Braking felt crisp. Rear traction was right there. No wobble.

Azzi was already on track ahead of her, a few laps into her first run of the evening. Paige glanced down the straight and caught a flash of her teammate’s car disappearing around the turn. Same red livery as hers, low under the lights, moving like it was skating on rails.

She didn’t mean to say anything. It just kind of came out.

“Where’s Azzi on the delta?”

And it was the way she said it.

The tone. The way her voice dipped around the name , softer, quieter, like she was asking about someone she knew from before all this. Luka didn’t answer right away, and Paige knew she’d just told on herself in the dumbest possible way.

“Oh,” Luka finally said, casual and unbothered in that dangerous way. “Now you care where Azzi’s running?”

Paige huffed, fake annoyed but not exactly denying anything. “I always care.”

“Mmhmm. She’s P4 right now. Two-tenths behind you.”

“Okay.” She clicked a paddle shift with unnecessary force. “Copy.”

“McLaren’s ahead of both of you. Gotta keep it tight.”

“Yeah, I saw. They’re on a tear.”

She adjusted her line on the next corner, just to shave off a tenth, maybe two. It worked. The Ferrari responded like it had something to prove, the kind of balance she hadn’t felt since Monza. Still, the McLarens looked quick — maybe too quick for comfort. Paige didn’t mind, not really. It made things interesting.

And besides, she was leading the world championship.

And Ferrari was running away with the constructors’.

She didn’t need to dominate every weekend. She just needed to finish higher than Azzi.

And that was becoming harder.

“She’s closing in,” Luka said a few laps later, a mild warning in his tone.

Paige didn’t answer. Just opened the throttle on exit and pushed.

–

Dr. Liao’s office was always cold, no matter what country they were racing in. Paige knew better than to complain when the doctor liked it that way. “Keeps the brain alert,” she always said, which didn’t make a ton of sense to Paige, but she wasn’t the one with two medical degrees and a license to ground drivers.

So she just sat still on the edge of the padded exam table, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, waiting for the light to turn green on the retinal scan.

“Still a little photophobic?” Dr. Liao asked gently, tapping something into her tablet without looking up.

“Less than I was,” Paige said. “More when I’m tired. Or if I forget my tinted visor.”

“You haven’t forgotten it, though.”

“No,” Paige smirked. “Scared of you.”

Dr. Liao smiled. “Good. I like that you’re scared of me.”

They moved through the rest of the checkup, reflexes, balance, peripheral tests. It was routine by now. Paige knew the drill and the doctor knew her, enough to know when something small was off. This time, there wasn’t. Paige passed clean.

“You rested well during the break?” Dr. Liao asked, her tone lighter now.

Paige shrugged, stretching her neck as the doctor wrote a final note. “Montana for a bit. With my mom.”

Dr. Liao raised a brow, but not unkindly. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paige said. “Just… wanted to see her.”

“How was it?”

“Nice. Cold. My mom gave me a lecture.”

“As she should,” Dr. Liao replied, smiling. “You’re good to go. Try not to hit anything hard.”

“Only curbs.”

“That’s a lie.”

Paige laughed.

–

The meeting room smelled faintly of engine grease and lemon cleaner. Azzi’s engineer, Mateo, always brought a bottle of something citrus-scented and sprayed the corners like a dad preparing for houseguests. Luka was already seated, coffee in hand, and Azzi had her legs kicked up on the chair next to hers, scrolling through data on her iPad.

Fred was running point on the strategy discussion. Calm, clipped French-English, all business. The McLarens had shown top-line speed in practice — more than expected — but both cars had struggled with degradation. Tire wear was going to matter, and the engineers knew it.

“It’s a long-game race,” Mateo said. “We don’t win this in the first fifteen laps.”

Luka nodded. “We can take them. They’ll push early, try to break you. Let them. Make them overheat.”

Paige watched Azzi glance at her then, just once, like they were both already thinking the same thing. They’d done this dance before. Managed races better than anyone else on the grid. The Ferrari wasn’t just fast now. It was smart. Smooth. Balanced.

Paige felt it in her ribs already. They could win this.

The meeting wrapped and most of the engineers filtered out. Some off to brief the mechanics, others to check real-time sims. Azzi lingered, eyes still scanning her tablet. Paige had her AirPods in, low but clear. A beat-heavy R&B track hummed gently in her ears.

Azzi looked up. “What do you listen to before meetings?”

Paige blinked, pulling out one bud. “Music.”

Azzi deadpanned. “No kidding.”

Paige smirked. “Mostly R&B. Sometimes gospel.”

Azzi gave her a look — a curious one, not mocking. “Gospel?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “When I’m stressed. Or if the flights are bad. Just… helps.”

Azzi nodded slowly, like she was adding it to some invisible file in her head.

“You in the gym a lot?” she asked after a beat.

Paige tilted her head, amused by the sudden pivot. “Between seasons, yeah. Like…five, six days a week. During the season? Less. I try to get a lift in when we’re not traveling but…”

“But you’re always traveling.”

“Exactly.”

Azzi nodded. “You can tell, though.”

Paige blinked. “Tell what?”

“That you lift,” Azzi said plainly. “Your arms.”

Paige looked at her, unsure if that was meant to be neutral or not, and Azzi didn’t elaborate. Just turned her attention back to her screen like she hadn’t just said something that made Paige hyper-aware of how close they were standing.

It hung there a second, unsaid, before Azzi stood and brushed her hoodie sleeves down.

“I’ll see you at briefing.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, still holding the AirPod in her hand. “See you.”

–

This might be the worst (or best) decision of Paige’s life.

It was late, but not late enough for the world to sleep. The streets below were still awake with the hum of Baku’s nightlife, headlights catching on wet cobblestones and music spilling from narrow windows. The hotel hallway was quieter, carpeted and still, muffled enough that Paige could hear the small knock of her own heartbeat in her ears as she lifted her hand and knocked gently on the door.

She didn’t wait long.

The door swung open and there was Azzi, barefoot in black sweatshorts and a threadbare Georgetown hoodie, curls pulled back and eyes soft like she’d been half expecting this.

“Hey, P,” she said, voice low.

Paige stepped inside without a word, just nodded, lips pressed tight together in a way she knew would betray her nerves. Azzi let the door fall shut behind them and leaned her back against it, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The hotel room smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and whatever tea Azzi had brewed earlier. The scent was warm, lived-in, hers.

Paige didn’t sit down. She stood there like she had to say it on her feet.

“I don’t know what we are,” she said finally, quietly. “I think I want to. Know, I mean.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Paige swallowed. “I didn’t come here for anything casual. Not tonight. Not anymore.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched, not into a smile, but something close. “You don’t have to say it P. I know.”

“Well… I did,” Paige said. “Because I’ve been… holding back. From you. And I think you’ve known it. And I think you let me.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I didn’t want you to have to tell anyone anything you weren’t ready to say out loud. Especially not about being gay.”

Paige looked down, thumb brushing the inside of her palm. “I told my mom… About us, I mean.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“She might’ve… nudged me.”

Now Azzi did laugh, soft and warm and familiar. “I figured.”

There was a pause, the kind that only made sense when two people had lived in the same small tension for months. Azzi pushed off the door finally, walked closer — not fast, not slow — and stopped in front of Paige, close enough that Paige could smell her shampoo. Close enough that her fingers itched to touch her.

“You came to me,” Azzi said, searching her face. “I waited for that. I’m proud of you for that..”

“I know.”

“I want to be with you,” Azzi said simply. “Not for anyone else. Not for the media. Just for me and you.”

“I want that too,” Paige said, and her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “Even if I’m still… you know..”

“I know that too.”

They stood there, barely apart, the city still humming outside but far, far away from this room.

“It’s better to be private anyway,” Azzi said. “Cleaner. Easier. And we don’t have to care what anyone else thinks. I just want… you.”

Paige let her breath go — shaky, but full. She took one step forward and Azzi didn’t move, just let her. Their foreheads touched, then Azzi’s hand slid to Paige’s wrist.

Then her gaze dipped.

“Alright,” Azzi said with a little smirk. “Now I wanna see those biceps without the sweatshirt in the way.”

Paige let out a laugh, shaky but real.

“You’ve been thinking about my arms?”

Azzi didn’t blink. “They haunt me.”

Paige grinned, finally, and reached down to peel off the hoodie. Her t-shirt underneath clung to her skin. Warm from nerves and night and maybe from how hard her heart was still pounding.

Azzi’s eyes lingered.

Paige flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m sincere,” Azzi said. “And sincere people deserve front row seats.”

“Is that so?”

Azzi’s fingers curled into the hem of Paige’s shirt. “You’re the one who came over at midnight babe.”

Paige exhaled. “Yeah. I did.”

And she didn’t regret it.

Not even for a second.

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Jinwoo x Artist! Fem! Reader: Drabbles ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 035 ✦ ┆・

[ Self-Deprecation, Cheesy Hs Love, mentions of bullying, Kyunnie making a fic for herself, Fluff Ending ]

╰┈➤ ❝ [ Admiration ] ¡! ❞

After the past years of schoolyears, you swore to never again make friends or even try anything to get attention on yourself. The plan for the remaining years is to just disappear like a ghost.

Not again, you wont open your heart, you will never let anyone in.

You wont go through another betrayal, you wont get picked on again, you wont ever let anyone hurt your heart anymore.

But ah, the way your heart stopped when you saw a tall guy with dashing ebony locks, his lazy grey eyes, a sharp angled jawline as if carved out by god's hands and a physique so perfect he might as well drop off of highschool and become an idol.

He felt your gaze from the other side of the classroom and his grey eyes would sweep towards yours— Instinctively making you avert your gaze from him.

Your heart is racing, it's suffocating, it doesn't feel pleasant.

It doesn't feel pleasant.

It does not.

So like a little a coward, you purposely started avoiding Jinwoo. You never try to meet his gaze, nor have you ever tried to be next to you.

The feeling in your heart is just so unpleasant. You don't know why, but Jinwoo's presence is making your heart race.

You thought it was just anxiety really, but secretly you studied Jinwoo's face when he wasn't looking.

Look down on the paper on your desk,

And start sketching.

You really don't know why you're doing this, perhaps it is to figure out just why he makes your heart race so much, to figure out why he just seems so... Different in a way.

Is it the way he talks? The way he carries himself? The way he seems just so... Unique?

What is it really? What makes him so different?

How can he make your heart squeeze itself like it felt like you're dying? How can he make you so fidgety even just bypassing by him?

You memorized the way his hair behaves, the way his clothes move along with him, the way his alluring grey eyes seemed to have a language of their own.

A language that makes you feel so lightheaded.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo had always known your little gaze on him, and he grew curious about it. You're always hovering somewhere near him, but not too near. When he comes close even by just 20 steps— You scramble and run away like a kitten.

Cute.

Just like he was in your eyes, you were in his.

Not romantically, at least, not yet.

He heard small rumours about you here and there, how you were bullied in the previous years. Jinwoo couldn't get the details, and though he can in a heartbeat— He chose not to pry into your private life.

You weren't attempting to stalk him on that level, so he wont neither.

He'll let you hang around him, you're a harmless little kitten who doesn't meow after all.

It's no big deal.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

"You ready, hyung?" His teammate says as they all prepare on the trakcs for their daily training.

"Of course" Jinwoo hums.

Truthfully, he's bored, deathly bored.

When everyone thinks he is running like a damn road runner; he feels as if he is going on a walk.

Not even a jog.

A damn walk.

But he has to.

He passes by you and like a cliche, romance novel— The wind blows towards your hair and your strands toussle while your eyes are just focused on the journal in front of you.

Charming.

It was absolutely charming, you looked like you didn't belong here.

Jinwoo though in that split second that you should be in front of a canvas instead, inside of an atelier wearing an apron with a palette on your hand.

He momentarily looses his focus before hearing his teammates running behind him and he snaps back to it.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Page after Page after Page.

All of the pages are just full of him, only him.

Only Jinwoo.

It was only until you counted fifty pages of just Jinwoo that you realize that you in fact, are in love with him.

But why though?

Of all the cute guys and older oppas in the school— You're specifically attracted to Jinwoo?

There's just something... Magical about him. You've always love the prettier and mystical things, you love to live in a dream.

Perhaps its a coping mechanism you developed after all the bullying and mocking you went through in your previous years.

Reality is a sad, sad place.

It's dark and gloomy, the only pretty place sin this twisted hell are the flowers growing in the cracks.

The thought of having feelings for Jinwoo honestly brought a shiver down your spine. After all, you swore to never open your heart and let someone in.

But somehow, that tiny, tiny little box in your heart had Jinwoo containing it.

It's alright.

It'll past. It's just another little crush. Another infatuation.

This is normal, you're a teenaged girl.

But god, days turned into weeks.

And each time you would fall for him more and more.

It's torture, you don't know how to voice out your feelings. You don't know how to keep this overwhelming endearment under lock and key.

Isn't this supposed to be just a little crush?

If so, how come your control over yourself is slipping? Is this even infatuation at this point?

If its not infatuation, then what is it?

With a pen and paper in hand, you started jotting down stuff.

Mind as well make a little love letter.

Cheesy? Of course.

But it's going to be anonymous so surely it's fine.

Maybe if you do this, your feelings will be gone if you see him throw the letter away.

Crumple.

Crumple.

Crumple.

The sound of crumpled papers filled your room for the whole night.

You have to make the perfect love letter

You need to make the perfect love letter.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

You were going to sneak up into the classroom in wee early hours of school. Jinwoo is an early bird in school, soyou had to be even earlier.

As you shuffled around in your feet, you instinctively hid behind the bushes.

You can hear Jinwoo's voice.

And another girl's voice.

You swear its him, you were eavesdropping but the words werent registering.

The only thing you are realizing is that Jinwoo has... A gentler tone. His voice isnt bored. Not lazy, just... A little soft.

You had always been very focused on voices, you managed to pick up on even the slight shift on tones because it was your way to dtermine if people are fooling you or mocking you passive-agressively.

The more you listened, the more you felt hopeless.

It was then you realized Jinwoo must have some thing with another girl.

And you honestly... Felt awful, you felt terrible.

Because how dare you make a love letter to someone else's man?

How dare you like someone's man?

How dare you?

No wonder you are all alone, no wonder you are betrayed by your friends, no wonder you were bullied.

You're a fucking freak.

Jinwoo's affections will never be yours, it will never be bestowed upon your pitiful soul.

You're ugly, you're a worthless, piece of shit that is unloved.

So knock it off already, bastard.

So carefully you crawl away, making sure not to step on any leaves or make any rustle as you scurry away.

You then throw the carefully made envelop on the bin and go up the classroom.

while your lonely, sad letter in the bin— Faded into black shadows.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

"I'll pick you up after you club," Jinwoo said, ruffling his sister's head who whined in response.

"No, I will go out with my friends after for a crepe!" Jinah whines, stomping. "Oppa, knock it off!"

"Does mom know?" He inquires, amused at his sister's stubborness.

"Yeah, and so does dad!" Jinah beams. "Let me go, yeah?"

"Fine," Jinwoo rolls his eyes. "Don't come home after dark, if you do, call me"

Jinah would only pout, but nods her head as her brother shooed her away.

Jinwoo would watch his sister go to the nearby middle school, smiling softly as Jinah sees her friends and runs to her friends.

"My king," Beru's tiny little head appears beside him, "My liege's muse has thrown a letter"

"Hm?" He perks up in curiousity, holding his hand up to receive the discarded letter. "Huh. How cute."

Jinwoo hummed, turning the envelope over to admire the intricately designed envelope that was a scrapbook paper folded so expertly.

He then opens the thing carefully, to which Jinwoo felt like he was opening a letter from hundreds of years ago because it had a wax seal on it.

Instantly, a refreshing scent would waft through his nose.

It was your scent.

Not that you sprayed the paper with cologne, it's just that Jinwoo has a bloodhound nose and can pick up your scent anywhere.

Carefully, he unfolds the paper that was written in classic cursive.

My dear, sweet star I wonder which dream you have come from How so do you capture my heart with no effort? I can never know, I would never find out My heart aches for you, It is painful and unpleasant But also not so painful You're like a delicate twinkling thing on my dark night sky So close and yet so far You are of another world from Of another reality But how is it that my heart yearns for yours? Your grey eyes akin to a benevolent god's gaze, I find myself lost in them, And in those grey eyes I beg to be drowned in, The abyss I will willingly throw myself into May I love you? May I be allowed to hold these feelings for you? My dear beloved star, May I be selfish just this once and keep you in the small box in my heart? In this world full of madness and woe, Your gentle, sweet and pleasant presence gives me mercy Perhaps you are an angel Or a fleeting snowflake passing by O dear, beloved star Linger in my gaze a little while longer Live in my life for just a bit more Let me love you for quite a bit more

Underneath the poem was a sketch of Jinwoo, a delicately made one. The hunter's face was red to the very tip of his ears. He has never once received a love letter, okay maybe he did when he was in the future but not at this age and with this much effort. It even had a little artwork of him and it made Jinwoo bashful like he is an actual teenage boy.

"God..." Jinwoo groans, scratching the back of his nape as he felt... So fluffy. "You're so cute it's driving me mad"

He continues to sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It's obvious you're going to continue avoiding him for quite a while. Between you and him, he was the man.

And what is a man to do?

He does the pursuing.

With a deep sigh and a rosy hue on his cheeks as looks up at the sky;

"Your star? Sure." He smiles as the wind blows in his direction. "If I'm your star, you'll be my goddess."

꒰ A/N: I'm so sorry for being selfish I just cant help myself xDDD!!! I havent written in so long so this is very clumsy and terrible srry guys hahahah!!! But man,,,, I lovee my woowoo so much<33 ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[gainercontent]

The Popcorn Effect

Dean adjusted the cuffs of his crisp, navy-blue button-up for the third time that evening. His hands were steady—he was a lawyer, after all—but the slight pulse of nerves in his fingertips betrayed him. It wasn’t the movie. It wasn’t even Valentine’s Day. It was the fact that he was here, waiting outside a neon-lit theater, about to go on his first date with a man.  

With Arthur.  

Arthur, who was everything Dean wasn’t—towering, broad-shouldered, and exuding the kind of easy confidence that made heads turn. Arthur, with his smirking lips and that damn leather jacket that somehow made him look like he belonged in both a romance novel and a street fight.  

And Arthur, who, much to Dean’s bewilderment, was obsessed with Tarot cards and crystals. The last time they got coffee, Arthur had pulled a deck out of his back pocket, laid down a few cards, and told Dean that his future held “a shift in perspective.”  

“Yeah, it’s called trying not to get disbarred,” Dean had muttered.  

But he was here.  

Dean looked up just in time to see Arthur crossing the street toward him, boots heavy against the pavement, his expression half-amused.  

“You look nervous,” Arthur said, stopping right in front of him.  

“I’m a lawyer,” Dean replied smoothly, straightening. “I don’t do nervous.”  

Arthur just tilted his head, grinning. “Right.”  

Without missing a beat, Arthur reached down and took Dean’s hand, threading their fingers together with an effortless kind of certainty. Dean glanced around, feeling the warmth of Arthur’s palm, aware of how easily the action flipped something in his chest—exhilaration, maybe. Panic, definitely.  

Arthur didn’t seem to care about any of that. “Come on, counselor. I already got us tickets.”  

Dean let himself be pulled forward, taking a breath. It was fine. It was just a movie. It wasn’t like they were getting married.  

As they walked toward the entrance, Dean glanced up at the glowing marquee: **Alamo Drafthouse.** He’d never been here before, but Arthur had insisted on it. Something about “real food” and “people who actually shut up during the movie.”  

“You’ll like it,” Arthur said as if reading his mind.  

Inside, the theater was dimly lit, the scent of buttered popcorn thick in the air. A retro aesthetic covered the walls—old film posters, vintage projectors, a bar lined with craft beer taps. Dean had to admit, it was kind of cool.  

Arthur led them to their seats—back row, of course.  

“I can already tell you’re the type of guy who gets mad about plot holes,” Arthur murmured as they sat down.  

“I just appreciate logical storytelling,” Dean said. “Something I assume you don’t require from a deck of Tarot cards.”  

Arthur chuckled. “Mock all you want, but I could do a reading for you right now.”  

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t pull his hand away when Arthur rested it on his knee.  

The previews started. The lights dimmed further.  

Dean tried to focus on the screen, but his mind kept drifting—not to the movie, but to the weight of Arthur’s presence beside him, the press of their shoulders, the realization that he was comfortable like this. That he wanted to be here.  

Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe there *was* a shift in perspective happening after all.  

And maybe, just maybe, Dean didn’t mind.  

*****

The moment they sat down, Arthur stretched his long legs out like he owned the place. Dean, still adjusting to the dim lighting and plush seats, barely had time to glance at the menu before Arthur waved over a server.  

“We’ll do the bottomless popcorn and two large sodas,” Arthur said smoothly, not even looking at Dean for input.  

Dean turned toward him, eyebrows lifting. “Excuse me?”  

Arthur smirked. “You seem like a guy who’d pretend he doesn’t want popcorn, then steal half of mine. This is just efficient.”  

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but the server was already jotting it down and heading off. He sighed, crossing his arms. “What if I wanted something else?”  

Arthur turned his head slowly, giving him a lazy, amused look. “Did you?”  

Dean hesitated.  

Arthur grinned. “That’s what I thought.”  

Before Dean could throw out some witty comeback, Arthur casually reached over and pressed the glowing red button on the side of Dean’s seat.  

With a low mechanical hum, the recliner shot backward. Dean’s knees jerked up, his feet flying into the air as he sank deep into the seat. His stomach did a weird little flip, caught between surprise and the bizarre comfort of the position.  

Arthur chuckled beside him. “Relax, counselor.”  

Dean pushed himself up slightly, attempting to regain some of his composure. “Arthur, what the hell—”  

“Shh.” Arthur didn’t even look at him, eyes fixed on the screen. “I love the previews.”  

Dean huffed, shifting in the recliner. “Are you serious?”  

Arthur just gave a slow nod, reaching for the armrest between them. He casually flipped up the divider, eliminating the barrier between their seats like it was nothing. Now there was no space between them at all.  

Dean blinked. He should have expected that.  

The first preview played, a dramatic action sequence with explosions and intense music. Arthur, completely engrossed, reached for the popcorn the moment it arrived, tossing a handful into his mouth without a care in the world.  

Dean exhaled, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”  

Arthur glanced at him, grinning mid-chew. “You’ll thank me later.”  

Dean doubted it. But as the next preview rolled, and he found himself settling further into the recliner—feet still up, body weirdly at ease.

Dean wasn’t going to eat the popcorn.  

At least, that’s what he told himself as he reclined in his seat, arms crossed, determined to prove Arthur wrong. But as the previews rolled on, the buttery, salty aroma curled around him, teasing his senses. Arthur, of course, was eating without a care in the world, shoveling handfuls of the golden kernels into his mouth like it was his last meal.  

Dean tried to ignore it. He really did.  

But then Arthur tilted the bowl slightly toward him, as if issuing a silent challenge.  

Dean sighed. One handful wouldn’t hurt.  

The first bite was warm, crisp, and perfectly seasoned. The saltiness paired with the rich, melted butter in a way that made his taste buds light up. He chewed slowly, savoring it, then instinctively reached for his soda to wash it down. The ice-cold fizz of cola hit just right, cutting through the buttery taste and leaving him refreshed.  

Okay. Maybe another handful.  

Before he knew it, he had settled into a steady rhythm—popcorn, soda, popcorn, soda. His fingers found the bowl without thought, each handful just as satisfying as the last. Arthur said nothing, but Dean could feel the smirk radiating off of him.  

Whatever. He wasn’t going to give Arthur the satisfaction of commenting on it.  

But as Dean ate, something strange was happening. Subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. A soft pressure against his belt, the fabric of his shirt shifting slightly over his stomach.  

With each bite, he was growing softer. His lean frame, usually defined and sharp, was slowly rounding out. His stomach, once flat beneath his button-up, began to press gently against the fabric, the buttons pulling just a bit tighter. His thighs, always slim, were gradually thickening, settling more heavily against the recliner’s plush cushion.  

The popcorn was *doing* something to him.  

But Dean didn’t notice. The act of eating was too easy, too enjoyable. The warmth of the theater, the comfort of the reclined seat, the smooth rhythm of popcorn and soda—it was all lulling him into a relaxed, mindless state.  

His jaw worked steadily, bite after bite, as his body quietly softened. His arms, once toned, now had a slight heaviness to them. His jawline, usually sharp, began to smooth ever so slightly, a new fullness appearing in his cheeks.  

His stomach, growing steadily, formed the faintest curve over his waistband. Nothing dramatic, but enough that his belt, once comfortable, now pressed more firmly into his skin. He shifted slightly, unaware of the way his posture had changed—his body settling deeper into the chair, spreading just a little more than before.  

By the time the first round of bottomless popcorn was gone, he leaned back with a satisfied sigh, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly. He felt *full,* but in a comforting, indulgent way. His clothes felt just a bit different—his shirt not quite as loose, his pants hugging him in ways they hadn’t when he first sat down.  

Arthur finally turned to him, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “Enjoying yourself?”  

Dean scoffed, wiping a stray kernel from his lap. His movements were a little slower, a little heavier. “It’s *fine*.”  

Arthur’s smirk deepened, but he said nothing.  

The server arrived just then, seamlessly refilling their popcorn bowl. Dean barely reacted—just reached for another handful without thinking, the cycle continuing as his body adjusted to its softening, thickening reality.  

Arthur chuckled under his breath, but this time, Dean was too preoccupied to care.  

*****

Dean had always been an effortlessly slim guy. Years of high-stress work and too many skipped meals had kept him trim, his suits always fitting perfectly without much effort. But something was… off.  

As he reached for another handful of popcorn, sinking deeper into the recliner, he couldn’t shake the strange sensation creeping over him. It wasn’t discomfort, exactly—just a subtle awareness that his body felt *different.*  

Buttery kernels melted on his tongue, the warm saltiness mingling perfectly with the ice-cold fizz of his soda. He took another sip, draining nearly half the massive cup in one go, sighing in satisfaction as the carbonation tingled through his chest. Then, without thinking, he grabbed another handful of popcorn.  

Arthur sat beside him, calm and knowing, as Dean absentmindedly continued his indulgence. The changes were happening more rapidly now, creeping over his frame with each bite.  

His stomach, once lean and taut, was rounding out unmistakably. The slight pressure against his waistband had turned into a steady, growing tightness. The fabric of his shirt stretched over his middle, no longer hanging loosely the way it had when he first sat down. The lowest button on his shirt was straining now, the fabric pulling just slightly when he leaned forward to grab more popcorn.  

His belt, once a comfortable accessory, was pressing into his waist, no longer just snug but actively digging into his growing softness. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the reality was unavoidable—his body was *filling out.*  

His thighs had thickened considerably, pressing more firmly against the plush seat. Where before there had been space between them, now they met at the midpoint, a soft warmth spreading between his legs. His slacks, tailored to his once-slim frame, were starting to feel restrictive, the fabric hugging his growing quads and squeezing slightly at his hips.  

Dean shifted again, rolling his shoulders, but that only made him aware of the changes there, too. His chest—once flat and firm—had softened, rounding subtly beneath his shirt. The fabric clung in ways it never had before, a faint tightness along his upper torso that he might have mistaken for an odd laundry shrinkage if he weren’t so deep in popcorn-induced bliss.  

Even his face wasn’t spared. His sharp jawline had begun to soften at the edges, his cheeks carrying a bit more fullness. His collar pressed lightly against his neck, not tight but noticeably snugger than before.  

And yet, Dean still hadn’t pieced it together.  

He *felt* something was different, sure, but his brain wasn’t making the connection. All he knew was that he felt… heavier. Not weighed down, exactly, but *settled* in a way he hadn’t before. His movements had a slight sluggishness to them, his limbs resting more heavily against the recliner.  

He exhaled, shifting once again, frowning slightly as his belt dug into him a little more than before.  

Arthur, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, finally spoke. “Something wrong, counselor?”  

Dean hesitated. “…No.” He stretched subtly, rolling his shoulders again, adjusting the way he sat. His stomach pressed against his shirt, the fabric pulling ever so slightly as he inhaled.  

Arthur smirked. “You sure? You look a little… stuffed.”  

Dean huffed. “I’m fine,” he said, more to convince himself than Arthur. “Just… I don’t know. I feel a little weird.”  

Arthur hummed in amusement, swirling his soda cup. “Weird how?”  

Dean paused. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. There was an undeniable heaviness in his body, a fullness beyond just the popcorn in his stomach. His clothes felt different. His posture had changed. But it was subtle—just subtle enough to be dismissed as nothing more than post-movie-theater bloat.  

“…Forget it,” Dean muttered, brushing it off.  

Arthur just chuckled, eyes flicking toward the bowl of popcorn still in Dean’s lap. “You gonna finish that?”  

Dean didn’t answer immediately. His belly was pressing snugly against his shirt now, the pressure noticeable—but at the same time, the buttery aroma was still so inviting, the mix of salt and soda still so addictive.  

He exhaled, reaching for another handful.  

Arthur leaned back with a satisfied smirk, watching as Dean absentmindedly continued eating, his body still subtly expanding, still softening, still changing.  

Dean sighed, shifting in his seat as the movie faded into intermission. His stomach felt uncomfortably full, pressing tightly against his waistband. He hadn’t meant to eat so much, but something about the popcorn had been impossible to resist—one handful after another, until the bottomless bowl had been refilled *twice.*  

Now, though, he really needed to get up.  

He planted his hands on the armrests and tried to push himself forward, but something felt… off. His body didn’t move as easily as he expected. His stomach pressed heavily into his lap, his thighs spreading wide enough that they now filled the seat entirely. When had the recliner gotten so *deep*?  

Frowning, he tried again, shifting his weight forward, but his midsection resisted—his belt dug sharply into his waist, his slacks pulling uncomfortably tight. He grunted softly, his face heating with embarrassment.  

Arthur turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “You stuck?”  

Dean scowled. “I *got* it.”  

But before he could try again, Arthur casually reached over and pressed the button on Dean’s seat.  

The recliner hummed to life, slowly moving upright. But as it did, something *else* happened—something Dean wasn’t prepared for.  

As the seat lifted, his body was forced forward, pressing against the constraints of his clothes. His stomach, already pressed tightly against his waistband, was suddenly *squeezed* as he was pushed upright. The belt bit into his middle, his slacks stretching to their absolute limit.  

Then—  

*Pop.*  

A small but unmistakable *snap* sounded beneath his shirt.  

Dean froze.  

Arthur, expression unreadable, casually sipped his soda.  

Dean swallowed hard, refusing to look down. He *knew* what had happened. His pants—once tailored perfectly to his slim frame—had finally given up, the button popping off under the pressure of his thickened waistline.  

He pretended not to notice.  

Clearing his throat, he *carefully* pushed himself upright, feeling the resistance in his body, the added weight that made the motion far less effortless than it should have been. His thighs pressed firmly together, his hips shifting in a way that felt *foreign.* His shirt pulled snugly over his stomach, the lower hem straining to stay tucked into his pants.  

“Where you headed?” Arthur asked, voice tinged with amusement.  

Dean straightened, ignoring the way his belt, now unbuckled from the missing button, barely kept his pants in place. “Bathroom,” he muttered, forcing a casual tone.  

Arthur smirked but said nothing.  

As Dean stepped into the dimly lit theater aisle, he immediately realized something else—walking *felt* different. His steps were heavier, his balance slightly off. His thighs brushed with every movement, the new fullness shifting with him. His stomach had a subtle bounce he wasn’t used to, the unfamiliar weight pressing forward as he moved.  

His slacks, once comfortable, were now snug around his hips and rear, the waistband sitting precariously low thanks to the missing button. He had to *adjust* them as he walked, subtly tugging them up, horrified at the way they clung to his body.  

By the time he reached the restroom, his pulse was racing.  

He stepped inside, bracing himself, then turned to the mirror.  

His stomach dropped.  

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t quite his own. Or rather—it *was,* but softer, fuller, and undeniably heavier.  

His face was the first thing he noticed. His sharp jawline had softened considerably, the angles blunted by a slight roundness to his cheeks. His collar sat higher against his neck, no longer loose but snug against flesh that hadn’t been there before. His lips parted slightly, breath hitching as he took in the rest of himself.  

His once-trim waist had thickened *significantly.* His stomach pressed visibly against his shirt, the fabric stretched tightly over the newly developed curve. Without the button to hold his pants together, his belt was doing most of the work, but even that was starting to strain. The lower hem of his shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing just a sliver of soft skin beneath.  

His chest had changed, too. It wasn’t just muscle anymore—there was a roundness to it, a noticeable softness beneath the fitted fabric of his button-up. His shoulders still carried some of their usual sharpness, but his arms had thickened, his sleeves clinging a bit too snugly around them.  

And then there were his thighs.  

Dean exhaled sharply, shifting his stance. His legs had always been long and lean, but now they were *thick.* His quads pushed against the fabric of his slacks, the material visibly creased from how tightly they hugged his legs. His hips had widened slightly, his posture subtly changed by the added mass. His belt, sitting lower than before, was the only thing stopping his pants from slipping further down.  

Dean stared at himself, breathing heavy.  

*What the hell is happening?*  

He lifted a hand to his stomach, pressing hesitantly against the softness. It *yielded* under his touch, his fingers sinking slightly before meeting resistance. He could *feel* the difference, the unfamiliar weight sitting on his frame.  

He swallowed hard.  

This wasn’t just bloating. This wasn’t just a bad angle.  

He had *gained weight.* And not just a little.  

Dean sucked in a breath, trying to straighten his posture, trying to pull his shirt down further. But no matter how he adjusted, the reality remained—his body had changed.  

And he had no idea how, or *why.*  

Dean stood frozen in front of the bathroom mirror, his pulse hammering in his ears. His reflection—softer, rounder, *heavier*—stared back at him, undeniable proof that something unnatural was happening. His once-trim body had filled out with unfamiliar weight, his midsection pressing snugly against his shirt, his belt barely holding his slacks in place after his pants button had popped.  

And yet, beneath the shock and disbelief, something *else* was gnawing at him.  

A deep, insistent *hunger.*  

At first, he thought it was just the unease settling in his gut, the nerves twisting in response to his inexplicable transformation. But no—this was different. This hunger wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the kind that built gradually or could be ignored. It was *immediate* and *demanding*, an empty, aching void in his stomach that hadn’t been there minutes ago.  

His belly rumbled loudly, the sound deep and unnatural, almost echoing in the tiled restroom.  

Dean’s breath hitched. He pressed a hand to his midsection, feeling the soft new curve of his stomach through the fabric. How could he *still* be hungry? He had eaten more popcorn than he cared to admit, washing it down with gulps of soda, filling himself beyond what should have been comfortable. And yet, this hunger was like nothing he’d ever experienced—deep, primal, consuming.  

His throat went dry. He needed to get out of here.  

Swallowing hard, he straightened his shirt as best he could—not that it helped much. The fabric was still stretched too tight over his torso, his stomach still pushing against the waistband of his slacks. He couldn’t even suck it in properly; the fullness was *real.* Every step he took felt different, the added weight shifting with him in a way that made his movements feel subtly off-balance.  

The walk back to the theater was agonizing.  

His thighs, thick and unfamiliar, brushed with every step. His pants clung too snugly to his hips, forcing him to adjust them every few feet. Even his chest felt heavier, a slight bounce beneath his shirt that he *refused* to acknowledge. The hunger clawed at him the entire time, growing stronger the closer he got to his seat, as if something was *pulling* him back.  

By the time he stepped back into the dim glow of the theater, his stomach was outright *growling.*  

And that was when he saw it.  

A fresh, untouched bowl of steaming, buttery popcorn sat in front of Arthur.  

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, dread coiling in his gut.  

Arthur turned his head slightly, his expression calm, almost amused. “Took you long enough.”  

Dean didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the popcorn—golden, glistening, perfectly warm, as if it had just been delivered.  

“…Did you order more?” His voice came out weaker than he wanted.  

Arthur shrugged, sipping his soda. “You could say that.”  

Dean’s mouth went dry. He tore his gaze from the bowl and glanced down at Arthur’s seat. His armrest—the one with the *call button*—was glowing faintly, indicating it had been pressed multiple times.  

*He’s been ordering refills this whole time.*  

Arthur tilted his head, his smirk barely contained. “Something wrong?”  

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. His thoughts were a jumbled mess.  

His body had changed—there was no denying that. His shirt was tight, his belt barely holding on, and his pants fit like they were two sizes too small. His stomach *should* have been full to bursting. And yet, standing there, staring at that fresh bowl of popcorn, all he could feel was *hunger.*  

His belly gave another deep, greedy growl.  

Arthur’s eyes flicked toward the sound, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he simply gestured toward the recliner beside him. “You gonna sit down, or what?”  

Dean hesitated. Every rational part of him screamed to stop—to *think*—to question *why* this was happening. But the hunger… the hunger was unbearable.  

Almost against his will, he stepped forward and sank back into his seat.  

The recliner adjusted under his weight, creaking softly in a way it hadn’t earlier. His stomach pressed against his lap more noticeably now, his thighs spreading wider than before. His belt dug into his middle, a constant reminder of how much his body had changed.  

Arthur nudged the popcorn bowl closer.  

Dean stared at it, heart pounding. He *shouldn’t.* He *couldn’t.*  

But his hand was already reaching for it.  

Arthur sipped his soda, watching with quiet amusement. “Enjoy,” he murmured.  

Dean popped a handful into his mouth, and the moment the buttery kernels hit his tongue, his fate was sealed.  

The hunger *demanded* to be fed.  

And Dean, helpless against it, obeyed.  

Dean barely registered Arthur’s movement until it was too late.  

A soft *click* sounded beside him, and suddenly, his seat whirred to life. The recliner tilted back, his body sinking deeper into the plush cushions.  

But this time—*this time*—the feeling was completely different.  

As the chair eased back, the added weight pressing down on his body became *impossible* to ignore. His newly grown stomach—soft, heavy, undeniably full—pushed outward, settling heavily onto his lap. The pressure of it was startling. It wasn’t just a small bit of fullness anymore; it was a real, noticeable weight, resting on him, pressing against his frame.  

His belt strained even more, his slacks digging painfully into his sides. His shirt stretched taut across his midsection, rising ever so slightly, barely able to contain him. He felt *pinned* beneath himself, his body settling into place with an unfamiliar heft.  

Dean sucked in a sharp breath.  

Arthur, unfazed, smirked. “Comfy?”  

Dean *wasn’t*—not exactly. But the worst part? The hunger *still* hadn’t gone away.  

His stomach, now undeniably round and soft, gave another quiet *growl*, the sound muffled but persistent.  

It made no *sense.*  

He had already eaten *so much.* His body told him he was full—his tight clothes, his heavy limbs, the way his belly pushed against everything—but at the same time, the hunger gnawed at him, deep and relentless.  

And the popcorn was still there.  

Arthur nudged the bowl closer again, watching him expectantly.  

Dean hesitated for half a second—just long enough to acknowledge that he *should* stop, that he *should* question what was happening to him.  

But then his hand moved, almost without thought.  

Another handful. Another bite.  

The moment the buttery kernels touched his tongue, everything else faded.  

He chewed slowly at first, savoring the warmth, the saltiness, the way the butter coated his lips. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he let the flavors melt into his senses. The recliner cradled him, the plush seat molding around his expanded form.  

He should have felt uncomfortable—stuffed, overfed, *trapped* by his own growing body—but instead, all he could focus on was the addictive cycle. *Popcorn. Soda. More popcorn. More soda.*  

Each bite sent another subtle shift through him, another layer of softness settling into place. His stomach pushed a little heavier against his lap. His thighs spread a little wider against the seat. His belt, strained past its limit, felt like it could give way at any second.  

But Dean didn’t stop.  

The more he ate, the less he could think about how different his body felt.  

Arthur, calm as ever, simply sipped his soda, watching as Dean continued—bite after bite, sip after sip, sinking further into the chair, growing softer, fuller, *heavier* with every moment.  

By the time Dean absentmindedly reached the bottom of the bowl, he had gained another twenty pounds.  

Unknown to Dean, he was now about a full *fifty* pounds heavier than when the night had started.  

And still, the hunger remained.  

*****

Dean barely noticed when Arthur reached for the call button again.  

He was too lost in the haze of warmth and fullness, too caught up in the steady rhythm of eating, drinking, *growing*. His recliner cradled him in its embrace, his expanded frame sinking deeper into the plush cushioning. He felt *heavy*, his body pressing down in ways that still startled him—but somehow, he didn’t *hate* it.  

And then—  

*Ding.*  

Arthur had ordered another refill.  

Dean swallowed hard, his stomach stretching taut against his now *achingly* tight shirt. The buttons at the center strained dangerously, fabric pulled to its absolute limit over the fullness of his belly.  

He should have stopped by now. He *knew* he should have. But when the server quietly placed another *steaming*, golden bowl of popcorn in front of them, the scent alone made his stomach growl, eager and demanding.  

Arthur chuckled, low and deep, and Dean felt a warm hand settle over his shoulder.  

“You’ve really got an appetite, huh?” Arthur murmured.  

Dean’s breath hitched.  

Arthur’s arm draped over him, pulling him in close. It was effortless, as if Dean belonged tucked against his side. The warmth of Arthur’s body, the solid strength of his frame, sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. He should have been embarrassed—should have been *mortified* by how much he had gained in just a few hours—but the way Arthur touched him, firm yet possessive, made shame feel like an afterthought.  

Dean opened his mouth to respond, to say *something*, but Arthur beat him to it.  

“Eat,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “I’ll keep you comfortable.”  

Dean *should* have protested.  

But he didn’t.  

Instead, he grabbed another handful of popcorn.  

And the moment he started eating again, the changes resumed—faster, more intense than before.  

The added weight settled into him *immediately*. His stomach swelled, pressing heavier onto his lap, pushing against the fabric of his shirt with undeniable force. His thighs thickened further, spreading against the seat, pressing into Arthur’s with soft, yielding warmth. His arms, once toned and lean, filled out with plushness, his sleeves tightening around the softening flesh.  

And then—  

*Pop.*  

The first button gave way.  

Dean stiffened, his breath catching as the strain on his shirt finally reached its breaking point.  

*Pop.*  

A second one.  

The fabric pulled even tighter, barely containing him—  

*Pop. Pop. Pop.*  

The rest of his buttons *burst open*, one after another, his belly spilling free into the open air. The sudden release made him exhale sharply, warmth flooding his cheeks. His stomach *was huge*, round and undeniably full, pushing outwards with soft, growing heft.  

Arthur’s grip tightened around him.  

“There he is,” Arthur murmured, his voice dark with approval.  

Dean shuddered.  

Arthur’s hand slid lower, tracing over his side, his touch deliberate and lingering. Dean inhaled sharply, feeling the way his newly softened body reacted to the contact. His skin was sensitive, warm, *alive* beneath Arthur’s fingers.  

“I think you’re enjoying this,” Arthur whispered, lips brushing just near Dean’s ear.  

Dean *was*.  

The weight, the warmth, the way Arthur was touching him—*it felt good*.  

Better than good.  

Dean’s breathing grew heavier, his pulse hammering as Arthur pressed closer, his strong fingers tracing the new softness of Dean’s belly, lingering at the edges before slipping beneath the fabric.  

Dean gasped.  

Arthur chuckled, clearly enjoying how *responsive* he was.  

“You feel amazing,” Arthur murmured.  

Dean bit his lip. He knew he should be *shocked* by what was happening to his body, by how much he had changed. But Arthur’s touch, his warmth, his *presence* made it impossible to care.  

For the first time all night, Dean let himself relax.  

Let himself *sink* into the moment.  

Arthur’s hand slid lower, his breath hot against Dean’s skin, and Dean closed his eyes, giving in completely.  

Valentine’s Day had never felt this good before.  

Dean leaned back into the recliner, his belly rising and falling with each slow breath, his shirt hanging open in tatters. He should have felt humiliated, but Arthur’s presence—his arm still draped over him, fingers occasionally tracing along his softened side—kept him grounded.  

Arthur chuckled low in his throat, giving Dean’s exposed belly a playful pat. “You, my friend, are officially *boyfriend material*.”  

Dean blinked, his dazed mind struggling to process the words. “Boyfriend material?”  

Arthur smirked. “Mmhmm. You’re cute, you’re fun, and you look *real* good all filled out like this.” He squeezed Dean’s side gently, his thumb brushing against warm, stretched skin. “Definitely my type.”  

Dean’s face burned. He *should* have protested. *Should* have questioned how any of this made sense. But sitting there, basking in Arthur’s attention, his words sank into him like honey. It felt *nice* to be admired. To be *wanted.*  

Arthur reached down, pulling off his oversized leather jacket. “Here,” he said, draping it over Dean’s shoulders. “Can’t have you walking out of here half-naked.”  

Dean swallowed thickly. The jacket was warm, still carrying Arthur’s scent—leather, cologne, and something undeniably *him*. It swallowed Dean up, the large fit doing a decent job of covering his ruined shirt, though it couldn’t hide the heavy curve of his stomach pressing forward.  

Arthur stood first, stretching, and then turned to offer Dean a hand.  

Dean hesitated.  

He was *so* full. So heavy. His body felt different, weighed down in ways that still surprised him. His recliner had molded around him, making the act of *getting up* seem like a task in itself.  

Arthur’s hand remained outstretched, firm, patient. “Come on, babe.”  

Dean exhaled and took it.  

The moment he started to stand, *he knew something was wrong*.  

His balance felt *off*. His thighs brushed more than they should have. His stomach shifted as he straightened, pressing forward under the weight of his fullness. He barely had time to register it before—  

*Rrrrip.*  

The sound was unmistakable.  

Dean froze.  

His breath hitched as a rush of cool air hit his exposed backside.  

Arthur made a strangled noise—somewhere between a laugh and a hum of appreciation. “Well, *that* was inevitable.”  

Dean clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified. “Arthur—”  

Arthur grinned. “Relax, babe. Happens to the best of us.” He slid an arm around Dean’s waist, his grip *strong*, supportive, *possessive*. “Let’s get you to the car.”  

Dean’s heart pounded as Arthur guided him toward the exit, keeping a firm hold on him. Every step felt *different*, his body heavier, softer, more *aware* of itself than ever before. The remains of his pants clung uselessly to his thighs, his overgrown form barely concealed by the leather jacket.  

But Arthur? Arthur acted like this was *completely normal*.  

Like he *wanted* him like this.  

As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Arthur pulled Dean in closer, his voice low and teasing.  

“Guess I’ll have to keep you in my clothes from now on.”  

Dean’s face burned.  

And yet, beneath the embarrassment, beneath the shock of how much he had changed—  

A tiny, undeniable part of him *liked* that idea.  

*****

The car ride was a blur.  

Dean sat in the passenger seat, Arthur’s oversized leather jacket wrapped tightly around him, barely concealing the wreckage of his clothes. His pants were beyond saving, split down the back and hugging his fuller thighs in a way that made movement difficult. His shirt? Utterly destroyed. And beneath it all, his body—*soft, heavy, undeniably changed*—settled into itself, pressing against the seat, his stomach nudging up against the seatbelt.  

And yet…  

Arthur’s hand never left his thigh.  

It was casual at first—just resting there, warm and grounding. But as they drove through the quiet streets, Arthur’s fingers began tracing slow, teasing circles against Dean’s leg, his touch light but deliberate.  

Dean should have been panicking, should have been freaking out about his *impossible* weight gain, about the way his body had expanded so quickly in just a few hours. But every time doubt crept in, Arthur squeezed his thigh a little, anchoring him, reminding him how *good* it felt to be wanted.  

“Let’s go back to my place,” Arthur murmured as they pulled up to an apartment complex. His voice was smooth, confident, laced with something undeniably suggestive. “Netflix, chill, and maybe… I’ll keep you warm.”  

Dean’s stomach fluttered—an entirely new sensation given its size.  

He *should* have hesitated. He *should* have questioned what was happening.  

But Arthur’s smirk, his touch, the way he *looked* at him like he was the most *irresistible* thing in the world—it made it impossible to say no.  

“…Yeah,” Dean said, voice softer than usual. “Yeah, okay.”  

Arthur’s apartment was exactly what Dean expected—dimly lit, tastefully messy, filled with small touches of personality. Shelves lined with books on astrology and mysticism. Tarot cards scattered on the coffee table. The faint scent of incense in the air.  

Dean would have made a skeptical remark *any other night.* But tonight? He barely noticed.  

Arthur guided him to the couch, helping him ease down with surprising gentleness. “You good?”  

Dean exhaled, settling into the cushions. “Yeah, just—full.” He glanced down at himself, the leather jacket shifting slightly to reveal the swell of his belly. *More than full.* He *felt* the difference in his body—how his middle rested against his lap, how his arms felt just a little thicker, how *big* his thighs looked, pressing against each other in a way they hadn’t before.  

Arthur’s gaze flicked over him, slow and appreciative. “You wear it well.”  

Dean’s face went hot. “Shut up.”  

Arthur chuckled, settling beside him. The couch dipped under his weight, and before Dean could react, Arthur’s arm was around his shoulders, tugging him in. The warmth of him, the firm grip, the *undeniable chemistry* between them—it sent a pleasant shiver through Dean’s body.  

The TV hummed to life, some action movie starting up in the background, but neither of them really paid attention.  

Arthur leaned in, his voice low, teasing. “You know… I think I like you better like this.”  

Dean swallowed hard. “Like what?”  

Arthur’s fingers trailed along his side, over the softness that hadn’t been there before. “Relaxed. Indulgent. *Comfortable*.”  

Dean’s breath hitched. Arthur’s hand wasn’t just resting anymore—it was *exploring*, tracing lazy patterns over his belly, along his waist, down his thigh. It should have been embarrassing. He *should* have pulled away.  

But he didn’t.  

Because for the first time, Dean wasn’t thinking about how different he looked.  

He was thinking about how *good* it felt to be touched like this.  

Arthur smirked, leaning in, lips brushing against Dean’s ear. “You’re *gorgeous*, babe.”  

Dean’s heart *skipped*.  

His body was different—softer, heavier, undeniably changed—but Arthur didn’t just accept it. He *adored* it. And for the first time, Dean let himself *believe it*.  

He turned his head slightly, closing the space between them, and Arthur took the invitation without hesitation. Their lips met, slow at first, then deeper, more *needy*. Arthur’s grip tightened, pulling Dean closer, pressing him into the couch, making sure he *felt* every inch of his desire.  

Dean melted into him, his doubts and disbelief fading into the background.  

Whatever had happened tonight—however impossible it was—there was no denying one thing:  

Arthur *wanted* him.  

And God help him—Dean wanted Arthur too.  

The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, Arthur’s hands moving over Dean’s softened frame like he *owned* every inch of it. Dean barely noticed when the leather jacket slipped from his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested, his exposed skin still warm from the rush of their night.  

Arthur pulled back slightly, his lips hovering just over Dean’s, his breath hot against his skin. “You’re addictive, you know that?” he murmured, his fingers trailing lazily down Dean’s belly, tracing the new curve of it with clear admiration.  

Dean swallowed hard, still breathless. “You don’t… think this is weird?” His voice was quiet, uncertain. “I mean—*this*—” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the fullness of his stomach, the undeniable weight of his transformation.  

Arthur smirked, his grip tightening around Dean’s waist. “Weird? No. Expected?” He tilted his head. “Maybe a little.”  

Dean stiffened. “…What do you mean?”  

Arthur exhaled, his fingers pressing into Dean’s side, his expression somewhere between amusement and something almost—*possessive*. “That popcorn? It wasn’t exactly *normal*.”  

Dean’s stomach twisted. “Arthur.”  

Arthur sighed, shifting, his hands settling on either side of Dean’s belly. “It’s a bit of a… *ritual*,” he admitted. “A way to open you up to pleasure, indulgence. *Abundance.*” His eyes gleamed. “And judging by how much you enjoyed yourself, I’d say it worked.”  

Dean’s breath hitched.  

He wanted to be *angry*. Wanted to shove Arthur away, demand answers, *demand to know how the hell this was possible*.  

But his body betrayed him.  

Because the moment Arthur’s hands moved again—skimming over his softened stomach, his warm, newly plush sides—Dean *shivered*.  

Arthur leaned in, his lips brushing over Dean’s jaw. “The magic doesn’t just change you for one night,” he murmured. “It… *adjusts* things.”  

Dean’s stomach let out a soft, traitorous *growl*.  

Arthur chuckled. “Like your appetite.”  

Dean inhaled sharply. “You’re telling me—”  

“That you might *always* be this hungry now?” Arthur smirked. “Yeah. Probably.”  

Dean’s head spun. *This wasn’t happening.*  

But the warmth of Arthur’s touch, the heat between them, the way Arthur *looked at him*—it made it so much harder to care.  

Arthur’s lips found his again, stealing his protests, drowning them in something deeper, *hotter*. Dean exhaled shakily, barely noticing as Arthur guided him backward onto the couch, pinning him beneath his solid, muscular frame.  

“You can be mad at me later,” Arthur murmured against his lips. “Right now? Let’s see just how much you like this new body of yours.”  

Dean’s heart pounded, his body already surrendering.  

Maybe—just *maybe*—this wasn’t a bad thing after all.