#Food App Scraping

[foodspark-scraper]

Competitor Price Monitoring Services - Food Scraping Services

Competitor Price Monitoring Strategies

Price Optimization

If you want your restaurant to stay competitive, it’s crucial to analyze your competitors’ average menu prices. Foodspark offers a Competitor Price Monitoring service to help you with this task. By examining data from other restaurants and trends in menu prices, we can determine the best price for your menu. That will give you an edge in a constantly evolving industry and help you attract more customers, ultimately increasing profits.

Market Insights

Our restaurant data analytics can help you stay ahead by providing valuable insights into your competitors’ pricing trends. By collecting and analyzing data, we can give you a deep understanding of customer preferences, emerging trends, and regional variations in menu pricing. With this knowledge, you can make informed decisions and cater to evolving consumer tastes to stay ahead.

Competitive Advantage

To stay ahead in the restaurant industry, you must monitor your competitors’ charges and adjust your prices accordingly. Our solution can help you by monitoring your competitors’ pricing strategies and allowing you to adjust your expenses in real-time. That will help you find opportunities to offer special deals or menu items to make you stand out and attract more customers.

Price Gap Tracking

Knowing how your menu prices compare to your competitors is essential to improve your restaurant’s profitability. That is called price gap tracking. Using our tracking system, you can quickly identify the price differences between restaurant and your competitors for the same or similar menu items. This information can help you find opportunities to increase your prices while maintaining quality or offering lower costs. Our system allows you to keep a close eye on price gaps in your industry and identify areas where your expenses are below or above the average menu prices. By adjusting your pricing strategy accordingly, you can capture more market share and increase your profits.

Menu Mapping and SKU

Use our menu and SKU mapping features to guarantee that your products meet customer expectations. Find out which items are popular and which ones may need some changes. Stay adaptable and responsive to shifting preferences to keep your menu attractive and competitive.

Price Positioning

It’s essential to consider your target audience and desired brand image to effectively position your restaurant’s prices within the market. Competitor data can help you strategically set your prices as budget-friendly, mid-range, or premium. Foodspark Competitor Price Monitoring provides data-driven insights to optimize your pricing within your market segment. That helps you stay competitive while maximizing revenue and profit margins.

Competitor Price Index (CPI)

The Competitor Price Index (CPI) measures how your restaurant’s prices compare to competitors. We calculate CPI for you by averaging the prices of similar menu items across multiple competitors. If your CPI is above 100, your prices are higher than your competitors. If it’s below 100, your prices are lower.

Benefits of Competitor Price Monitoring Services

Price Optimization

By continuous monitoring your competitor’s prices, you can adjust your own pricing policies, to remain competitive while maximizing your profit margins.

Dynamic Pricing

Real-time data on competitor’s prices enable to implement dynamic pricing strategies, allowing you to adjust your prices based on market demand and competitive conditions.

Market Positioning

Understanding how your prices compare to those of your competitors helps you position your brand effectively within the market.

Customer Insights

Analyzing customer pricing data can reveal customer behavior and preferences, allowing you to tailor your pricing and marketing strategies accordingly.

Brand Reputation Management

Consistently competitive pricing can enhance your brand’s reputation and make your product more appealing to customers.

Content Source: https://www.foodspark.io/competitor-price-monitoring/

[vaguelymellowharmony]

Realigning Food Delivery Market Moves with Precision Through Glovo Data Scraping

Introduction

This case study highlights how our Glovo Data Scraping solutions empowered clients to monitor food delivery market trends strategically, refine service positioning, and execute agile, data-backed business strategies. Leveraging advanced scraping methodologies, we delivered actionable market intelligence that helped optimize decision-making, elevate competitiveness, and drive profitability.

Our solutions offered a clear strategic edge by enabling end-to-end visibility into the delivery ecosystem to Extract Food Delivery Data. This comprehensive insight allowed clients to fine-tune service models, sharpen market alignment, and achieve consistent revenue growth through accurate competitor benchmarking in the fast-moving food delivery sector.

The Client

A mid-sized restaurant chain operating across 75+ locations with a rapidly expanding digital footprint reached us with a critical operational challenge. Although the brand enjoyed strong recognition, it faced a noticeable drop in customer engagement driven by gaps in delivery service efficiency. To address this, Glovo Data Scraping was identified as a strategic solution, as service inconsistencies directly impacted their revenue goals and competitive position.

With a broad menu and widespread delivery zones, the restaurant struggled to manage delivery logistics, especially during peak hours when quick shifts in demand required fast action. Their manual approach failed to support Real-Time Glovo Data Scraping, leading to missed revenue opportunities and weakening customer loyalty.

Recognizing the need to refine their delivery strategy, the management team saw that without proper visibility into Glovo’s delivery ecosystem, they lacked the insights necessary for efficient operations and practical customer experience management.

Key Challenges Faced by the Client

In their pursuit of stronger delivery market intelligence and a sharper competitive edge, the client faced several operational and strategic hurdles:

Market Insight Shortage

Limited insights into Glovo's platform and competitors made scraping Glovo Delivery Information difficult, preventing effective market analysis necessary for informed business decisions.

Slow Response Adaptation

Reliance on manual weekly evaluations slowed the restaurant chain's ability to act quickly. Without Glovo Delivery Data Extraction, adapting to real-time market changes became a challenge.

Demand Forecasting Gap

Traditional methods failed to account for real-time delivery data. The restaurant chain needed Glovo Product Data Extraction to predict demand and adjust services based on emerging trends accurately.

Manual Process Overload

Labor-intensive processes hindered efficient service decisions. By applying methods to Scrape Glovo For Product Availability And Pricing, the restaurant chain sought automation to optimize service delivery.

Service Consistency Issue

Inconsistent service quality across zones presented a problem. They required Mobile App Scraping Solutions to streamline operations and ensure consistent service delivery across all customer touchpoints.

Key Solutions for Addressing Client Challenges

We implemented cutting-edge solutions to the client's challenges, combining delivery intelligence with advanced analytics.

Delivery Optimization Engine

We built a centralized platform that leverages Real-Time Glovo Delivery Time Data Extraction to collect live data from various restaurants and delivery zones, enabling efficient decision-making.

Competitor Monitoring System

Our system, designed to Extract Restaurant Menus And Prices From Glovo, quickly identifies service gaps when competitors adjust, giving restaurant chains the edge to adapt promptly.

Dynamic Market Signals

By integrating multiple delivery signals, such as peak hours and weather, with Glovo Scraping For Restaurant Delivery Services, we created flexible models that adjust to market fluctuations.

Automated Service Recommender

Using Real-Time Glovo Data Scraping, we implemented an automated engine that generates service suggestions based on customer feedback and competitive positioning, reducing the need for manual input.

Strategic Adjustment Mechanism

Competitor promotions directly influence our service strategies by using tools to Extract Food Delivery Data, optimizing delivery times and fees while ensuring premium offerings remain profitable.

Cloud-Based Monitoring Hub

A robust Mobile App Scraping Solution enables managers to access and update delivery data remotely, facilitating continuous optimization and transforming strategy management into a dynamic process.

Key Insights Gained from Glovo Data Scraping

Service Elasticity Analysis Revealed delivery time sensitivity across different menu items, offering immediate operational optimization opportunities.

Competitive Positioning Patterns Provided insights into neighborhood-specific delivery differences, supporting targeted service improvements.

Pricing Cycle Optimization Illuminated optimal fee adjustment timing for different meal categories, aiding in more strategic revenue management.

Data-Driven Service Decisions Enabled the implementation of adaptive delivery models based on competitive positioning patterns.

Benefits of Glovo Data Scraping From Retail Scrape

Strategic Boost

By utilizing solutions to Scrape Glovo Delivery Information, the client improved delivery strategies, positioning their services for maximum value, enhancing market responsiveness to competitive shifts.

Loyalty Growth

Using competitor service insights, the client predicted market trends and strengthened customer retention, employing to Extract Glovo Product Data to stay ahead of shifts in demand.

Efficient Operations

The client minimized manual efforts by employing advanced Real-Time Glovo Delivery Time Data Extraction, driving faster decisions and better service while ensuring precise positioning and operational success.

Competitive Edge

With advanced techniques to Scrape Glovo For Product Availability And Pricing, the client gained critical insights into market trends, allowing for service adjustments that boosted profitability in competitive delivery sectors.

Retail Scrape's Glovo Data Scraping solutions revolutionized our approach to delivery market positioning. By gaining comprehensive access to Extract Food Delivery Data insights, we rapidly adjusted our strategy, refined our service models, and achieved a remarkable 37% increase in customer retention.

- Operations Director, Leading Multi-Location Restaurant Chain

Conclusion

Maintaining optimal delivery service positioning is crucial in today's competitive food delivery market. Glovo Data Scraping empowers businesses to monitor competitor services, make informed decisions, and improve market competitiveness.

Our customized solutions offer smooth delivery intelligence and actionable insights, allowing businesses to refine their competitive positioning. With in-depth expertise in Glovo Delivery Data Extraction, we equip businesses with the tools to unlock valuable insights for strategic growth.

Our specialists help evaluate market positioning, refine delivery strategies, and boost profit margins through Real-Time Glovo Data Scraping. Contact Retail Scrape today to minimize service inconsistencies, enhance market positioning, and drive long-term revenue with our advanced food delivery intelligence solutions.

Read more >>https://www.retailscrape.com/glovo-food-delivery-data-scraping-for-market-insights.php

officially published by https://www.retailscrape.com/.

[actowiz135]

How to Do Restaurant Data Collection Using Food Intelligence?

At Actowiz Solutions, were your window into the bustling US and UK restaurant industry. Dive into Actowiz Solutions Blog and Harness the Power of Real-Time Data.d practical meal-serving apps.

[mobiledatascrape]

Food Delivery App Scraping Services | Extract Restaurant Menu Data

Elevate your food business with our Food Delivery App Scraping Services. We can extract restaurant menu data from the USA, UK, UAE, Canada, China, India, and Spain.

know more: https://www.mobileappscraping.com/food-delivery-app-scraping-services.php

[ivyues]

Hotter than expected ⋅ Bang Chan

How you found out your boyfriend can’t handle spicy food.

Chris and you had been dating for a little while now – long enough to feel comfortable around each other but still new enough that the little things felt exciting. Tonight, he was over at your apartment, lounging on the couch while you scrolled through your favorite food delivery app.

“Alright,” you said, clicking confirm on the order. “I hope you like this place. Their food is amazing.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Chris replied, giving you that warm smile that always made your stomach flutter. “What did you get?”

“Just some of my usual favorites. I think you’ll like it.”

“How’s the spicyness?” he asked, leaning forward with genuine interest.

You laughed lightly, shaking my head. “It’s got a little kick but isn’t too bad.”

He nodded, seemingly unfazed by your comment. Little did you know, Chris wasn’t exactly the best with spice. But wanting to impress you, he figured he’d be fine.

When the food finally arrived, you both sat down at the table, the aroma of the meal filling the air. Chris took his first bite, and at first, he thought he could handle it. But then the heat hit him. It crept up slowly, coating his tongue in a fiery burn that only intensified with every second. His eyes widened slightly, but he tried to play it cool.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Oh, wow.”

“How is it?” you asked, happily eating your own food.

“Good!” he said, voice just a little too high-pitched to be convincing. He grabbed his drink and took a sip, but it did little to help. Still, he was determined to push through. He took another bite—

Mistake. Big mistake.

The heat doubled. His mouth felt like it was on fire. He shot up from his seat, the chair lightly scraping against the floor. You blinked, confused as he started pacing back and forth, fanning himself with his hand.

“Uh… are you okay?” you asked, concerned.

“Y-yeah, totally fine,” he choked out, but the glint of sweat on his forehead and the way he was now grabbing his shirt, pulling it away from his burning skin, said otherwise. “It’s so hot in here.”

You stared at him for a second before realization dawned on you. “Oh my God, is it too spicy for you?”

Chris opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment, the heat surged again, and he had to take a deep breath as he ran his hand through his hair.

“Okay, wait, I think I have some milk… or maybe bread?,” you said, trying not to laugh as you rushed to the fridge.

You handed him a glass, and he practically chugged it in one go. But even after that, he couldn’t sit still. He walked in circles, sat down, then immediately got back up again. At one point, he even lifted his shirt slightly, fanning himself again, but quickly let it go as if remembering that things were still new between you two.

You bit your lip, watching him with pure amusement. When he finally sat down again, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“So…” you drawled, smirking. “You don’t manage spicy food very well, do you?”

Chris shot you a glare, cheeks flushed (whether from embarrassment or the spice, you weren’t sure). “Okay, first of all,” he said, voice still slightly strained, “this is not just ‘a little kick’. This is fire. This is lava.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh, poor baby. I didn’t think your spice tolerance was that bad.”

He groaned, dropping his head onto the table dramatically. “I wanted to impress you.”

“That’s cute,” you teased, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “But next time, we’ll make sure to order something mild for you.”

Chris finally lifted his head, blinking up at you. His lips were still tinged red from the spice, but at least he wasn’t gasping for air anymore. “I can feel my mouth again,” he muttered, sounding both relieved and mildly traumatized.

Unable to resist, you leaned in with a smirk. “... but for someone who handles spice so well,” you teased, raising a brow, “I’d think you’d have an easier time with a little heat.”

Chris groaned, but couldn’t help a small smile. “Not the same thing, and you know it.”

“Mmm, sure. Whatever you say, babe.”

masterlist

[actowiz-123]

Exploring the Uber Eats API: A Definitive Guide to Integration and Functionality

In this blog, we delve into the various types of data the Uber Eats API offers and demonstrate how they can be ingeniously harnessed to craft engaging and practical meal-serving apps.

[iwebscrapingblogs]

Discover the diverse types and uses of data sets in the Swiggy API ecosystem. Dive into this comprehensive blog post that explores how Swiggy's API provides developers with valuable data sets, enabling them to create innovative applications and enhance user experiences. Gain insights into the different types of data sets and their practical applications in the food delivery industry.

[be4chywritez]

you again? | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

After a disastrous first date, you and Quinn Hughes think you’ll never see each other again—until he shows up in your office… as your newest therapy client.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

THIS IS MY WORK AND MY WORK ONLY. I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT TO ANY FORM OF “REWRITING” MY FICS

You agree to the date because your friend swears he’s normal.

“You’d like him,” she says. “He’s low-key. Dry humor. No red flags. And he’s hot. But like… tired hot.”

“Tired hot?”

“You’ll see.”

The app profile is vague. One picture—blurry, probably a cropped group photo. Bio says:

Hockey. Golf. Mostly quiet. Good at Mario Kart.

You message him because the Mario Kart line makes you laugh. He replies ten minutes later.

Only if you pick Yoshi. Anyone else is a war crime.

You meet him at a little place you like—a bar with decent food and mercifully low lighting. He’s ten minutes late, and when he walks in, he looks…

You squint.

He looks like he got hit by a truck, reversed over, and then forced to do media availability. His hoodie is slightly damp. His eyes are red-rimmed. He has the audacity to sniffle.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough. “Quinn.”

You blink. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not contagious.”

“Right.”

“I took DayQuil.”

“...Okay.”

You both sit.

It goes downhill immediately.

You ask normal questions. He answers in fragments.

“So, are you from around here originally?”

“Michigan. But I live here now.”

“What brought you to Vancouver?”

“Hockey.”

You sip your drink. “Right. Of course.”

He nods, sniffling.

“You play professionally?” you ask, just to clarify.

He glances at you. “Yeah. Canucks.”

“Oh. I don’t really follow hockey.”

“That’s fine.”

Silence.

You try again. “So besides that... what do you do for fun?”

He shrugs. “Not much. Golf in the offseason.”

You wait.

That’s it. That’s the whole sentence.

He reaches for his water and knocks over the salt shaker.

You press your lips together. “You know, we could reschedule.”

“I’m already here.”

“You’re clearly not feeling great.”

“I didn’t want to be a flake.”

“That’s very noble of you,” you say flatly, and he huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

You spend the next ten minutes trying to scrape a conversation out of someone who answers like he’s being cross-examined in court.

Eventually, you set your fork down.

“This isn’t working, is it?”

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“This. Us. The date. It’s not going well.”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Then nods. “No. I guess not.”

You sigh. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“I’ll get the check.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I feel bad. You came out.”

You glance at him, and for a moment—just a second—you feel sorry for him. The hoodie. The puffy eyes. The way he keeps rubbing the side of his neck like he’s thinking hard about something he’ll never say.

But then he adds: “You ask questions like you’re a therapist or something.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I am a therapist.”

His face does a weird thing—like his brain short circuits and he reboots mid-sentence. “Oh. Shit. That makes sense.”

You stare at him. “Good night, Quinn.”

Two weeks later, your receptionist pokes her head into your office.

“New intake just arrived. Quinn H., 2:30 p.m.”

You freeze.

“No,” you say automatically.

She tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, pulling up the intake form. “That can’t be right.”

You read the form. Referral: E. Pettersson Presenting concern: Work-related stress. Generalized anxiety. Difficulty with emotional processing. Client: Quinn Hughes.

You close your laptop and stare at the wall.

A minute later, there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t look up when you say, “Come in.”

You do look up when he says: “Are you serious?”

He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like someone just told him he has to retake the SATs.

You stare back. “I could say the same thing.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Petey said you were good.”

You sit straighter. “Elias sent you to me?”

“Yeah. He’s worried about me or whatever.”

“I mean… fair.”

He glances up. “You gonna refer me out?”

You pause. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t treat someone I’ve had a personal relationship with.”

Quinn snorts. “We went on one date and hated each other.”

You nod. “True. Still personal.”

He looks at the wall. Then back at you. “I just— I don’t really want to start over.”

You sigh. “You could’ve led with that.”

“Not really my style.”

You hesitate. Think. One session. One session won’t kill you.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s try. One session.”

He sits, awkward in the chair, like it might bite him. “So what now?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

He talks more than you expected. Not easily—but once he gets going, it’s like he can’t stop. He talks about pressure. About expectations. About how he gets stuck in his own head. About never feeling good enough even when he is good enough. About how sometimes he feels invisible, and sometimes he wishes he was.

You say very little. You let the silence do its work.

At the end of the session, he stands slowly, almost reluctant.

“That wasn’t terrible,” he says.

You give him a bland look. “High praise.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re still kind of annoying.”

You smile sweetly. “And you’re still emotionally repressed.”

Quinn pauses at the door.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean that thing I said. On the date. About you analyzing everything.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” He shifts on his feet. “You were just trying to be nice. I was... sick. And stressed. And kind of a dick.”

You nod once. “Apology accepted.”

He clears his throat. “So, uh. See you next week?”

You smile. “Same time.”

Quinn’s slumped in your office chair, head tilted back, arms crossed. He's staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to count how many ways he’s trapped in his own head.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “Why is it still like this? I’ve done what you said—I've tried journaling, I’ve been getting sleep, I even stopped reading Reddit.”

You blink. “Wow. That one must’ve hurt.”

He gives you a weak smirk. “Little bit.”

You nod slowly. “Alright. You want to try something different?”

He looks at you. “Different how?”

“Out-of-office different.”

Quinn squints. “Like... a field trip?”

“Not officially,” you say. “But yeah. Come with me. I want you to try something.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside a strip mall building with blacked-out windows and a fluorescent sign that says: “Rage Room.”

Quinn looks at the door. Then back at you. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t blink. “Nope.”

“You want me to hit stuff?”

“I want you to let go of things without overthinking them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this even—like—allowed?”

“Ethically? Not ideal,” you admit. “But you said you didn’t want to start over. So you get me. And I say you need to get out of your own head before you spiral into another three-day silent shame cycle.”

He huffs a breath. “You’re weird.”

You smile. “You’re avoidant.”

The rage room smells like old rubber and drywall. A speaker’s blasting 2000s emo music at an almost disrespectful volume. A wall of bats, crowbars, and sledgehammers hangs like a weapons rack in a zombie movie.

Quinn’s in a beat-up hoodie and safety goggles, staring at a pile of breakables like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You hand him a metal pipe. “Start small. Smash something.”

He hesitates. “Like what?”

You gesture to the row of ceramic mugs lined up on a folding table. “Pick your least favorite and commit a crime.”

He gives you a look. “You get weirder every week.”

“You get quieter.”

He walks up to the table, lifts the pipe, and smashes a mug with one clean, decisive swing.

It shatters like a tiny explosion. Glass skitters everywhere.

You wait.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “That was kind of satisfying.”

You grin. “There it is.”

Twenty minutes later, Quinn has completely entered his rage era.

He’s sweating, muttering under his breath between swings. You only catch bits and pieces—some unholy mix of “fucking power play,” “media bullshit,” and “Jack gets away with this stuff.”

He’s wrecked three keyboards, a set of old plates, and a plastic printer you brought from home that’s been jamming since April.

And finally, finally, when he stops—breathing heavy, shoulders tense—he leans back against the wall and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

You pass him a bottle of water. He takes it, still catching his breath.

“That helped more than I want to admit,” he says.

You sit next to him, cross-legged on the padded floor. “Then why don’t you want to admit it?”

He shrugs. “It’s dumb.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not. It's physical release. Unfiltered emotion. No expectations. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I think that’s the part I’m bad at. Not being explainable.”

You blink. That’s… unexpectedly honest.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not loud. Or charismatic. I don’t want to be interviewed. I don’t want to sell myself. I just want to be good at what I do.” He pauses. “But everyone’s always trying to tell a story about me.”

You nod slowly. “So you feel like you’re not allowed to write your own.”

He glances at you. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You let the silence settle between you for a second.

Then, gently, you ask, “So what story would you write?”

He snorts. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn one good moment into a pop quiz.”

You smile. “I call it ‘holding space.’ You call it ‘being a pain in the ass.’”

“Both can be true,” he mumbles.

You nudge his arm. “Come on. Try.”

He sighs. Looks down at the dented metal bat in his hands.

“I think…” he starts, slowly, “...I’d write that I’m trying. Even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I fuck it up. I’m still trying.”

You look at him for a long second. “That’s a good story.”

He shrugs, glancing away. “No one wants to hear that one.”

“I do.”

It’s out before you can stop it.

He blinks. His face shifts—something between surprised and soft.

You clear your throat. “Professionally speaking.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Obviously.”

Another beat of silence.

“…But seriously,” he says, “this was good.”

You nod. “Next time we do yoga.”

He groans. “No thanks. That feels like a Jack thing.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

You walk out together. It’s raining lightly, just misty enough to make your clothes cling.

He stops at his car, hesitating before opening the door.

Then: “Hey.”

You turn.

“Thank you.”

You nod. “You’re welcome.”

Quinn’s quiet for a second. Then, very softly, “I don’t think I hated our first date as much as I acted like I did.”

Your breath catches.

You try to play it cool. “Because of me? Or the DayQuil?”

He laughs—low, real. “A little of both.”

“Noted.”

He opens his door.

“You’re still not allowed to flirt with your therapist,” you call after him.

“I know,” he says. But he smiles anyway.

Quinn stops coming to your sessions after the rage room.

At first, it’s just a reschedule.

“Practice ran late.”

Then a last-minute cancellation. “Bit of a travel day mess. Can we push to next week?”

Then nothing.

You try not to take it personally.

You’re a professional. You have to be. You remind yourself of this while reading over your clinical notes, chewing your pen cap like it might bite back.

Still, you can’t help but notice the shift.

He’s not just skipping therapy. He’s avoiding you.

Which—fine. It makes sense. The line got blurry. He opened up, got comfortable, probably caught himself too late. That happens sometimes.

But what bugs you isn’t that he stopped coming.

It’s that he didn’t say goodbye.

Three weeks pass.

You try to forget about him, but then Jack Hughes goes viral for doing donuts in a golf cart, and it’s all over your For You page.

Quinn’s in the background of the video, arms crossed, trying not to smile, and your stomach flips like you swallowed a rock.

You set your phone down and say—out loud, to your empty apartment— “Get a grip.”

It’s nearly 7 p.m. on a rainy Thursday when you hear a knock on your office door.

You glance at the clock. You don’t have anyone booked this late.

You open it slowly, cautiously.

Quinn’s standing there in a baseball cap and a hoodie like he thinks he’s undercover. His expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says.

You stare at him. “Are you lost?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Kinda.”

You lean against the doorframe. “You’ve missed three sessions.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even email.”

“I know,” he says again.

You pause. “You okay?”

He looks down. “Not really.”

You step back. “Come in.”

He doesn’t sit on the couch. He hovers, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like he’s not sure he should be here.

You let the silence stretch until it starts to fray.

Finally, he says, “I think you should refer me out.”

Your heart sinks.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “Okay. That’s fair. If you think someone else would be a better fit—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “You’re—you’re a good fit. That’s the problem.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He drags a hand down his face. “I liked talking to you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

His voice gets quieter. “And then after the rage room… it didn’t feel like therapy anymore.”

You try to steady yourself. “We’ve kept clear boundaries—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You’ve been... great. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you did?”

“No, I just—” he stops, frustrated. “I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t feel like something else.”

Something thick swells in your chest.

He finally meets your eyes. “I couldn’t come back in here and keep pretending I didn’t want to see you outside of this room.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

“Look,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “I don’t want to mess this up, and I don’t want to put you in a weird spot, but I— I want to try again. I want to go on a real date. With you. No DayQuil. No pretending it didn’t happen. Just... you and me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You understand the rules, right?”

He nods. “Six months. After termination.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked it up?”

He shrugs. “I looked a lot of things up.”

You stare at him. You think about your ethics board. You think about your job. You think about the way he looked in that rage room—focused, present, real—and the way his laugh got stuck in your throat after he thanked you. The way your fingers itched to reach for him and didn’t.

And you think: maybe it’s okay to want something, too.

You exhale. “Alright.”

Quinn blinks. “Wait—really?”

“I’ll refer you out. To someone I trust. And if you still want to try... after the required time... I’ll consider it.”

His eyes flicker with something bright. “You’ll consider it?”

You smirk. “You have to earn your second date.”

He grins, small and honest. “Fair.”

He stands to go.

At the door, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. “For what it’s worth... I think I got better. Not fixed. But better. Because of you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.”

Quinn nods once. “See you when I’m legally allowed to flirt with you.”

“Countdown starts now.”

[idekkkjja]

dom camgirl ningning with reader as a guest whehehhehwhehw

Dripping intoxication ₊˚.༄

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ In college, barely scraping by on cheap instant foods from a nearby convenience store was not weak, and the long shifts on enduring jobs were only enough to make meet ends either. Ningning had no spare change for any reasonable entertainment—sometimes in a dire situation not being able to afford food—or things she wanted for years.

So, a desirable option was to be… a sex worker! Well, online. And it did turn out to benefit her a lot, a bit too much perhaps. Being now well-known and making good money on the app she works on.

And the job was fun too, especially with pretty guests like you. The innocent, inexperienced ones were her favorite!

The description matches you perfectly, and she didn’t know until she tested it.

Heads-up: English not my first language so may be mistakes yall, sorry. And this my first smut about a strap-on GUYS IDK IM GETTING USED TO IT BUT ITS AWKWARD HAHA… writing smut 💔.. idm tho. Drunk sex, swearing ofc, semi-public sex? Pool sex.. strap-on usage.

— Completely unaware of the sex industry itself, you weren’t the type to watch porn in your free time; deeming it to be forbidden and an unhealthy obsession.

And yes, you were one of the girls who proudly despised men and women in those types of activities, believing they’re the corruption to major things in society right now.

All you knew was that porn was bad, and don’t be associated with those who do it or willingly watch it for disgusting entertainment. Because you could be influenced, you were gullible a little. The thought made you want to throw up.

Many of your friends didn’t judge that much when realizing your sex life is drier than a Sahara desert; some motivated you to keep it up, life isn’t all about sex.

You weren’t a virgin, you did have done it a few times with men but did you count them? No, every one of them wasn’t worth it. No pleasure in all, one orgasm was scored if you added.

In college, you had a lot of friends, quite popular within your circle so you knew everyone and what they did since you also loved a pretty thing called gossip.

Meaning you knew everything about people they may not know about themselves.

Except Ningning: a walking puzzle piece, the odd one left out of the beautiful piece to be crafted. It was frustrating, it seemed as if the woman didn’t know herself yet.

Once before a lecture, bored and curious enough, to waste time you asked Ningning a question about what her favorite color was.

And she didn’t know, her face scrunched up in bewilderment, nor when her birthday was.

To that point, you checked what day it was, assuming that it must be April Fools Day because that woman had to be kidding right?

No, she wasn’t. At the end of the draining conversation, you had frustration and a hypothesis that she could be potentially an international student from abroad and that English wasn’t her thing.

But you always have heard her yapping her ass off in English to others about the most random thing on the planet, so you don’t know why it’s a different case with you.

Whatever, you could eavesdrop. Your ears aren’t useless like her mouth is anyway to get something to blackmail her with. It wouldn’t be so difficult, you hope.

A friendship, or a tolerance in others’ perspective did bloom out of the dull ground, intertwining you two in some classes. Warily, (not eagerly) sticking by each other’s sides when needed.

Unnecessary amount of stuff you two discussed, one random question to another, having limited vague answers as the response. Carefully chosen by each momentarily pause, a dry ‘sure’, or ‘maybe’, not certain in most. Dreadfully, the talking rather you set you far back from your starting point.

Did this bimbo know anything, no connections to other bitches around here?

Her words created an untamed doubt brewing in the back of your head, a constant bother that something much more is going on than what she puts on. Painfully obviously so.

You had to get to the bottom of it, ASAP.

Weeks passed by, nearing a much-needed spring break for everyone. The last week, many people were planning late outings, parties, and hangouts for the holiday. You did agree to some of them, especially the parties, you knew what went on over there and loved it.

Yes, you were a hardcore (not really) virgin but that didn’t restrict you from having fun. Though nobody would notice. Like heated make-out sessions at the back, hidden from the blurry crowds under the blinding lights with music blasting the most unhinged thing was your type of night! And assuming that you were in the category of having one-nighters nearly every week was the norm.

These days, nothing was the norm. Everything becoming a dismissive matter to you. Bother, bother, and bother…

Until shockingly, Ningning invited you over to her apartment for a girl's night.

Whenever you did have the chance to hear about that woman; it was things like how hard-working she was, and how she always stayed up-to-date about the latest trends in clothing.

Managing to make anything on her look classy and chic.

Also, her apartment, through peoples’ eyes appeared to be ridiculously expensive. A pool and all, modern-day designs, and all. Humbly, she didn’t brag about it much to others, restricting it to a private part of her shallow life. The way some people knew was because there were parties hosted at her home occasionally, exposing every inch of her routine to others from the habits displayed physically.

Excluding the locked, hidden closet in her bedroom. Even then, her bedroom was locked as well, and no visitors were allowed.

If only you knew how much suffering she did to stand in her place by now.

That playing dumb was something she did very often to get what she want.

You accepted the invitation with careful consideration in your voice, ensuring she could sense the measured approach you took, in a subtle insulting way of course.

Upon arrival at the place, a soft gasp in awe and admiration was breathed out of your gaping lips in surprise; not expecting the girl’s exaggerated words of her home to be true.

Finally enough of the gawking, you took fast and hurried steps to the elevator, jabbing the button for it to swiftly rise to the skies.

Floor 11, room 67.

For reassurance, you kept repeatedly checking on the same message to make sure you were in the right place.

You were a little nervous when unfortunately seeing the right unit room.

Fisting your sweaty hands into a tight ball, you knocked on it firmly once, or twice just in case.

“It’s Y/n!” Awkwardly you called out and the door opened as if on demand when hearing your name.

Your breath hitched, stuck in your throat like mental wires constricting your ability to sputter out any words the moment your gaze fell on the woman: her wet dark hair carelessly hanging down to her chest, water dripping down to her jaw, and her casual clothes being just a small top barely covering her lower stomach and a short hugging her slick thighs.

Interestingly, a bulge was present in her chest, did she buy a cheap press-up bra from Temu or something? You wanted to laugh in her face but… the rest of her body distracted you.

About to explode, all blood streaming inside your body rushing solely to your cheek creating a burning red only achieved when running a deathly fever, you stood there in a deafening silence. Eyeing her carefully, not noticing there’s nobody else there.

“Couldn’t be asked to change since I just showered, but it doesn’t matter. We are both girls after all, right?” Ningning said cooly, stepping side for you to take the breath-taking view of the navy blue sky resembling the upcoming night, and the dark buildings lit by the endless windows for life not so far, glimmering white sparkles in a certain direction.

“Yeah,” dryly you agreed, trying to act nonchalant like you weren’t on the verge of fainting from the sight (her) a few seconds ago.

Glimpsing around, searching for another soul in this humongous place to ease the unknowingly growing tension in the air between you two, there was nobody.

Only you two, no one else to interfere.

“Where’s everyone else?” Out of curiosity, you chirped your spiraling thoughts loudly.

A melodic laugh rang out as your response, her head tilting back in joyful abandon, her long hair cascading like a dark waterfall around her shoulders, creating a wet stain on her shoulders. The rich, musical sound of her cackling filled the air, echoing with warmth, a contrast to her dark amusement.

“Silly, I invited you. Why would I invite anybody else?” Wiping the blossomed tear in the corner of her eye, she breathes, a pang of air needed clearly.

“I thought it was the girls’ night.” Specifically emphasizing ‘girls’, you rolled your eyes at her in annoyance. Wanting to leave already even though the night hasn’t started yet.

“The girls’ night for two of us.” Plopping on a nearby, extended beige couch, she lounged and stared at you in delight. Her dark eyes sparkled like the city behind her from the transparent walls.

How humorous, indeed… you thought sarcastically. Is this a setup or something?

Wine cups filled to the brim with an unfamiliar, pink color, most likely a unique cocktail, and the ice cubes floating above beside the small inedible pretty decorations. Damp leaves laid in the cup, sunk to the narrow bottom of the glass. It was two of them set up on the table invitingly and a jug of the contents, glowing in the dim living room and Ningning elegantly rose one up in the air.

“Cheers to our first night together?” She tilted her head, batting her eyelashes expectingly for you to join the playful interaction.

“And last,” you grumbled under your breath, brushing the delicate glasses carefully together creating a satisfying clink.

Gruffly, you sat down next to her but created a safe distance between you two and sipped out of the straw to soothe your dry throat.

“Like it?” Fraught in the inner to keep the hopeless conversation going, Ningning let out an audible exhale to the warm air, throwing her head back to rest on the couch to let the alcohol travel within her veins affecting her brain.

“It is nice.” Haunches over, you twirl the drink in your glass to entertain your growing boredom.

You shouldn’t have accepted this.

“Alcohol kickin’ in?” Not even one glass had passed yet, and the woman’s stability was deeply impacted by a mere fruity cocktail.

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes glazed over in sheer excitement and desire, her hands inching closer enough to her thigh but didn’t reach. Yet.

“Drink, loosen up more baby…” she whispered, her dreamy words an easy influence on you.

Obediently, you gulped down the drink in one shot, your throat shuddering in protest. A strangled breath broke out, and you wiped your lips with the back of your hand, ruining the perfect red shade you used for tonight.

To impress, and you don’t know why.

What is the point of all this?

Extending your slightly trembling hands, gripping the crystal handle of the jug, you messily dunked it down to the cup and ruined its aesthetic in the first place. An opposite to Ningning who slowly consumed the cocktail, her both hands clutching on the upper part of the cup, the main holding.

The straw now futile, you swallowed the drink in whole, a burning determination ignited.

And the alcohol, ultimately did kick in.

“Mhm.” You lazily hummed, resting against the sofa, serene to sleep on there if needed.

In a sharp motion, Ningning stood up from her seat, wobbling over to the pool outside on the balcony. The whole action a dangerous hazard itself.

Following her to ensure no fatal accidents would occur that night, you heard a startled yell and your heart stopped. Your eyes snap over to where you heard it.

Her body blends under the cyber-blue pool, shining underneath the moonlight’s pale glow over the city. Playfully, she giggled high-pitched and swished around, nothing ever a problem since the water wasn’t deep. Perfect for her height.

“Get me—my phone,” she hiccuped, mixing with another squeaky giggle, throwing her head back against the cool edges.

You didn’t say a word, acting on her drunk demand to get her phone, though you cautiously reached out.

“Cold, isn’t it a little cold, Ningning?” Warily, you hoarse out.

No answer.

Propping it up at a bizarre angle, the phone’s camera a little broken letting the video stream’s quality wear down from her other (professionally done) videos, she waved at the camera, a sly smirk curled up on her lips like a mischievous idea sparked in her empty mind.

“Baby, come here…” she ushered, slapping the water.

Intoxication dumps your brain into a haze where nearly everything is deemed acceptable, nothing is ever too weird for you now. Hopping down to the pool with a resounding splash, your outdoor clothes sticking onto your wet body now, you shyly looked at the screen.

Ashamed; even when not knowing the context of this whole scenario, your eyes didn’t meet the camera, rather staying down or on the other woman.

“Sorry guys for the horrible setup for today… just had a few drinks or so with my friend. Say hi,” the lenses were blurry, creating a fuzzy effect limited to existing in dreams or nostalgia.

Movements choppily moved in each frame, the perverts on the live had no complaints, at least their precious content was being served.

At least money will be received.

“Hi,” gingerly, you muttered and actively avoided the eye contact with the camera.

“You know what this is for, right?” Ningning whispered, hiccuping amidst her slurred sentence.

You didn’t, too oblivious.

“No,” honestly you admitted. Oh, you were perfect for the woman.

“Sex,” she husked lowly, pulling out a strap-on from her visible bra under the thin shirt sticking to her like a second skin.

Stunned, you stared at her, this bizarre situation worse now for your drunken mind to deal with.

“You want? Be a guest to my sex show?” Raising an eyebrow teasingly, invading your space in the lurking water, the coolness of it doing nothing to calm you down.

“Yes.” Shocked by your reply, your eyes widened while her pupils dilated in desire to meet your trembling ones.

Her hands found themselves on the opposite sides of your waist at the edge of the pool, her lips sloppily pampering yours with a heated kiss, her tongue twirling around lazily with yours.

“Baby, do you need to follow the lead?” She cooed against your saliva-slickened lips, her needy hands massaging your breasts slowly, making sure you felt it.

Ningning internally was a little dumbstruck that it was crystal clear you didn’t know what you were doing, the magic alcohol did you some justice though.

Did she judge? No, she adored it, finding your inexperienced behavior adorable.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, your heart racing as she gently turned you around, her hands creating a warm embrace as you leaned against the soft walls of the pool, feeling a mixture of excitement and a forbidden lust you didn’t want to accept.

“The viewers and I are going to love you…” messily dropping her soaking shorts down and throwing them aside on the balcony with no shame present whatsoever, she hastily adjusted the thick strap-on, letting it brush against your drenched clothed sex; casting an unintelligible moan.

“Must be uncomfortable, hm? Let me help you, sweetiee…” giggling in excitement, she yanked your pants and threw them out of sight.

Her teeth grazed against your moist skin, biting your shoulder blade and branding a light mark on it to distract you from an unfamiliar invasion slowly sinking in your ass from behind.

A whimper made her halt, caressing your body almost lovingly to give you a sense of comfort and reassurance. “It’ll be okay soon… you must not be used to this that much, hm? That’s alright, mm…” her hands groped your waist and let your body adjust to the girthy plastic entering you fully.

“I-I… it hurt, I-I’m not used to—”

“I can… tell sweetheart,” she hiccuped again, even sounding too confident then.

Your glossy eyes faced the beautiful scenery, but she didn’t want that.

She wanted your eyes on her instead.

Assisting your chin gently towards her, she pouted playfully. “Treat me like I’m that scenery, or whatever it is, yeah?”

Bending you over completely so it’s easier to get in deeper, letting your chest press against the floor, she held you tight. Too tight, even, her nails clawing in.

The thick head of the strap slams your sweet spot repeatedly, causing you to babble and moan like a broken record and she laughed at the sight, slapping and squishing your bright red ass cheeks cruelly now.

Unspoken promises about being gentle long gone now.

“Moan louder, moan louder, let our perverts see how much you want this…” she grunted, anomalistically hammering you in and out without any mercy for you to accommodate to the rough, undeserving flow.

When you tried to silence yourself, your numb hands reaching to muffle your filthy noises, she pinned your wrists violently together.

Insistent to hear you tonight.

“No, didn’t you fucking hear me? Louder.” Fisting your hair into a bundle in her hand, she pulled your head back and leaned closer to your ear.

“Let the viewers hear how much of a slutty bitch you are under that cocky and crude facade you have at college, ahuh?” Moonstruck, you cried out loudly when the thrusting turned erratic, making you chase a shattering orgasm sooner and sooner.

Tears sprung up mixing in with the water dripping down your chin, the fake cock not slowing down anytime soon as you mindlessly bubbled under your shallow breaths, feeling your stomach tighten.

“A-ah, I’m close—I’m really, really close-”

Shaking like a leaf caught up in a ruthless storm, you cummed and screamed throughout the whole apartment disturbing the poor neighborhoods’ serene stillness.

Satisfied, she paused and smirked at the camera, slowly pulling out and the cum coating the plastic.

You just had a second orgasm and the best one of your whole life.

About to go limp, she trapped you in her grip once again. “This isn’t over, baby. One orgasm isn’t enough for someone like me.” Pecking underneath your ear, she chuckled.

One orgasm was enough for you to pass out, imagine how much she wanted from you throughout this long, long night.

In the morning, surely you will be exhausted.

[renthony]

(Article date: December 26, 2024)

I liked this Rolling Stone article about the upcoming potential TikTok ban. People like to make fun of TikTok users, but it really bugs me that so many people aren't thinking of the folks relying on TikTok for income. Livelihoods are being impacted. The category of "influencer" includes a lot of small-time artists barely scraping by. A significant number of my Patreon backers & regular donors found me via tumblr. If that went away overnight, I'd be screwed, and it's the same with TikTok for a LOT of people.

It reminds me a lot of Etsy changes screwing over indie artists--and as an Etsy seller, holy shit, y'all, so many Etsy sellers rely on TikTok to advertise. I don't, but I know several who do. TikTok pulls major, major numbers.

Like, the platform has issues, absolutely, but those issues exist across social media platforms, and a TikTok-specific ban is such a blatant case of "privacy violations are only okay when AMERICA does it!"

Article highlight:

Much of the talk around finances on the app has remained largely antagonistic against large-scale influencers. Users have joked that a ban will finally force big-name creators to get real jobs or join the real world. But smaller creators say this mindset completely leaves them out of the equation. ‘TikTok being banned is going to hurt me financially and I’m not an influencer. I’m not a big creator,” posted one emotional TikTok user, who said she usually only has around $122 left after bills for food, gas, and her mother’s medical supplies each month. “I entered the creative rewards program in July and I started making TikTok Shop videos once a month in July as well. It’s not been life-changing money, but it has been life-saving money for me. I don’t mean to be dramatic but it has saved us. I’m going to have to go back to figuring out how to survive.”

[anjalikestodraw]

Sun drenched sofa days (2025)

inspired by and set directly after Love is a Witch - Chapter 6 by @beauttifullife

And as usual here is a tiny ficlet going along with the art. Enjoy :)

“So what do we want?” Rio mused aimlessly scrolling through the food delivery app.

They were lying on the couch Rio’s head resting comfortably on Agatha’s chest their legs entangled, Agatha’s hand absentmindedly running through Rio’s hair while watching a documentary.

“You choose.” Agatha responded not taking her eyes off the TV.

“No, I can’t decide.” Rio replied yawning.

She held her phone higher slightly blocking Agatha’s view of the TV screen.

“Help.” Rio demanded as Agatha tried to continue watching the programme past the other woman’s hand. “I am tired from my late night flight and I have no idea what I want.”

Finally peeling her eyes away from the programme, Agatha glanced at the phone and quickly scrolled to one of their usual delivery places jabbing her finger at the screen.

“This one’s always good. And you always say how much you love their dim sum stuff.” She explained her attention already back on the TV.

With a slow “Mhhh.” Rio brought the phone back down to her eye level and skimmed the menu.

“Or we can get tacos,” Agatha added clearly sensing Rio’s indecision. “I just thought you’d have had some good ones back home. Also the Chinese doesn’t deliver to yours, so…”

“Chinese it is.” Rio concluded after a moment.

She quickly picked her usual order from the menu adding some new dumplings she wanted to try and then scrolled to Agatha’s favourites.

“Your usual?” Rio asked slightly stretching her neck to try and look up at Agatha.

“Yeah,” Agatha replied her eyes still on the TV. Then with a sudden movement she looked down at Rio and added “Don’t order too much.”

“Never.” Rio replied smirking and sticking her tongue out before adding more items to the basket and checking for the estimated delivery time.

Agatha huffed knowing that they somehow always ended up with food for four. She returned her attention to the TV her hand automatically finding its way into Rio’s hair again.

Leaning into Agatha’s touch Rio thought how much she loved days like these. Weekends without plans, without pressing appointments or errands to run. Days filled with sunlight filtering through the big apartment windows but no need to be outside in the noise and hubbub of New York. Days spent tangled up with Agatha and them just being them. And she never had thought that this was what she would ever want but now that she had it she couldn’t imagine a life without it. Without her. Feeling Agatha’s fingers lightly scrape over her scalp Rio closed her eyes sighing gently.

She thought back to the stress of the day before, the frantic search for an earlier flight, the rush to the airport when she had finally managed to change her booking, and the half-hearted apologies to her extended family. The only person she had been sad to leave so early was her abuelita. But something in the old woman’s smile as she kissed Rio’s hand wishing her save travels told Rio that she knew how much Agatha meant to her, how different this situation was to any of her previous flings or short lived girlfriends. Her abuelita understood. And yes, coming back after a mere three days apart had seemed pathetic. But having this extra time with Agatha had absolutely been worth all the stress and extra money she had spent.

Letting out a contended sigh Rio inched closer into Agatha’s side, draping her leg over Agatha’s and lifting her head up just enough so she could fully see her lover’s face. Looking at the woman’s profile her gaze swept from her beautiful messy hair flowing in waves around her face, over her perfect nose and lips to her sharp blue eyes so intently watching the programme they had put on. And of course the sweater; her old worn out Texas Longhorn hoodie, which Agatha was still wearing.

“Riooo?” Agatha asked drawing out her name, while her eyes remained trained on the TV a faint smile playing around her lips.

“Nothing.” Rio replied still quite obviously staring at Agatha.

Agatha raised her eyebrows and stole a glance at her before looking back at the TV.

“I was just thinking…” Rio added smiling softly. “…how much I love this.”

“I love Chinese food, too.” Agatha replied a little too quickly still staring straight ahead.

But Rio knew better. She knew all too well that Agatha was only feigning ignorance and had fully understood Rio’s meaning. She knew this was simply how Agatha was, always masking her feelings with humour, deflecting, struggling to put into words what was going on in that beautiful head of hers. And Rio had gotten used to it, she even had started to love this little quirk of hers. She didn’t just love Agatha despite of who and how she was, she loved her because of it, with all her little bumps and edges. And even if she hadn’t been fully fluent in 'Agatha', the broad smile on her lover’s face was a dead giveaway. Biting her lip and shaking her head slightly Rio let out a low chuckle.

“Food will be here in forty.” She said tossing her phone onto the couch before resting her head back onto Agatha’s chest.

“Good.” Agatha replied pulling Rio closer to herself and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

Smiling at the gentle gesture Rio reached for Agatha’s hand entwining their fingers and shuffling into the other woman’s body. Having found a comfortable position she finally returned her attention back to the TV.

“I love this, too.” Agatha whispered after a while, her thumb tracing circles on Rio’s hand.

Feeling a familiar warmth spread in her chest Rio raised Agatha’s hand to her mouth kissing the back of it.

“I know.” Rio replied quietly and she could feel Agatha’s hand squeezing hers lightly.

“You know what I would love even more though?” Rio mused a sudden thought entering her mind. “When the delivery guy comes I think you should get the door - seeing as you are wearing your new favourite sweater.”

Lifting her head up again to see Agatha’s reaction Rio put on her signature smirk.

“Your favourite sweater.” Agatha corrected her, turning to face Rio her eyes narrowed.

“You are the one wearing it.” Rio pointed out with a shrug feigning innocence.

Taking in her lover’s frown Rio’s grin widened thinking of another tease. But before she could add anything else Agatha’s hand grabbed one of the sofa cushions and shoved it into Rio’s face.

“Hey!” Rio protested her voice muffled by the pillow as she fell backwards into the couch.

Propping herself back up she put one hand on either side of Agatha’s face locking her in.

“Not cool.” Rio said trying to look angry but her features betrayed her as she was smiling down at Agatha.

“I might still burn it.” Agatha teased with a wink.

“Oh... you wouldn’t dare.” Rio replied sticking her tongue in her cheek.

Agatha only raised an eyebrow in response a mischievous look on her face. With one smooth movement she grabbed Rio’s waist and tossed her to the side planting one knee on either side of Rio’s hips reversing their positions. Triumphantly she looked down at Rio with a cocky smile.

“You’re impossible.” Rio huffed but she couldn’t stifle a laugh.

Reaching up Rio grabbed the front of the orange hoodie gently pulling Agatha down.

“I still think you should get the door later.” Rio whispered one hand wandering into Agatha’s hair while her gaze flitted down to her lover’s lips.

“Over my dead body.” Agatha growled without any real bite to her voice before closing the distance between them. Her hands snaked behind Rio’s neck pulling her closer into a long passionate kiss forgetting all about the documentary still running on the TV, their food order, or for a fact, the world around them.

[foodspark-scraper]

Kroger Grocery Data Scraping | Kroger Grocery Data Extraction

Shopping Kroger grocery online has become very common these days. At Foodspark, we scrape Kroger grocery apps data online with our Kroger grocery data scraping API as well as also convert data to appropriate informational patterns and statistics.

[actowiz135]

Exploring the Uber Eats API: A Definitive Guide to Integration and Functionality

In this blog, we delve into the various types of data the Uber Eats API offers and demonstrate how they can be ingeniously harnessed to craft engaging and practical meal-serving apps.

[lou-struck]

At the Top

Keigo Takami/ Hawks x reader

W.C~ 2k

~ Your date at the Fair turns from a questionable experience to a full-blown disaster when you and your online date get stranded at the top of the Ferris Wheel.

With the fair in town, you thought that spending the afternoon eating ridiculously sounding fair food, playing games, and riding the rides sounded like a picture-perfect first-date idea. But that's the problem with being a romantic.

You tend to get your hopes up…

"So… Are you having a good time so far?" the man sitting across from you asks for the 9th time this evening. The two of you had matched on a dating app a few weeks ago, and after many late nights of texting that filled your stomach with butterflies and heart with hope, you finally took the step and asked if he would like to actually go out.

But the evening has been less than ideal. Your date, although good-looking, clearly has some serious baggage from his last relationship that even your 'I can fix him' mindset wants to turn away from. 

He has refused to go on ride after ride after ride with you, claiming that he and his friends rode all of them last year and thought they were just a waste of time. And he turned his nose up at any of the mouthwateringly atrocious fair food you wanted to try out and dragged you to the only place on the fairgrounds that sold smoothie bowls, which may be delicious, but they are something you could eat any other day whilst cheddar cheese flavored ice cream is not.

You try to hide your frown as you spin the deep purple, soupy concoction with your spoon as you stare across at your dark haired date and tell him what you think is a convincing lie, "Yes, I'm having a great time. Thank you for the acai bowl."

"Don't mention it," he chuckles, wiping his berry-dusted chin with his sleeve. "I'm glad I was able to find us something in this place that was organic. All that deep-fried garbage they sell at the other stalls is repulsing."

"Maybe," you say, stirring your bowl even more, really not wanting to engage in any kind of debate with this guy. You take a bite of your bowl, and while it is good, you hate that it costs the same as half a tank of gas. 

Luckily, your date paid for that. 

Just getting up and leaving is always an option, but there is still hope that things can turn around, or at least you'll have a decent bad date story to tell your friends when the night is over.

"How about we go on the Ferris wheel?" he says at last, boredly scraping the button of his paper bowl with his spoon. 

"Really?" you say, thankful that you are finally able to go on one freaking ride on this date. Maybe you were being too critical of your date…

"Why not?" he says, "I didn't go on that one yet."

oh…

~

When you like someone, the idea of being wedged together on the Ferris wheel is something straight out of a romance movie, But when the already little spark of attraction you are feeling for your date has been drowned and smothered by the murky waters of his overflowing ego, the act is tortuous. 

Despite the little legroom in your pod, your date has decided to take up most of it with his wide stance; his obvious manspreading gets more and more stifling as you rise slowly into the air. The multicolored light bulbs of the wheel flicker, and you wonder briefly if that is normal.

It's getting a bit cold up here, isn't it?" he asks with a sly smile. It's honestly not cold at all; in fact, the warm air is kinda stuffy. Before you can say anything, his arm slings over your shoulder, and you dig your nails into your palm; it doesn't feel right; you know how you feel when you are attracted to someone, and this is not it.

The flash of a camera phone catches your attention and you blink away the spots in your vision. 

"Oh, that's perfect," he chuckles, looking at the selfie he just took of the both of you. "I'll send it to you and we can set it for our lock screens."

"Don't you think it's a little soon for that?" you ask, now wondering what kinda psycho you are trapped on this ride with.

"Hey, when you know you know Baby Cakes," he says with an almost hallmark channel level of confidence as he looks at the photo with a delusional smile. "Oh, we look great. I gotta send this photo to my Mom; she is gonna love you."

"Oh… how nice," you say dryly. You feel sick… in that moment, you decide that when you touch down on solid ground, you are going to get the hell out of dodge and take a cab home and leave this guy in the dust.  

The ride reaches its peak, and you sigh; at least you only have a few minutes left of this tortuous experience.  

"Hey, have you ever kissed someone at the top of a Ferris wheel before?" he asks, leaning in close. 

"Not really my thing," you say, scooting as far away from him as you can. But in the little car, you can't really go far. 

"Oh come on, don't be so shy, y/n, I don't ~" he starts to say when the ride suddenly jolts to a stop. Your little pod rocking back and forth."

"What was that?" he asks, getting a bit out of your bubble to look around. His lack of proximity makes you sigh in relief before realizing that you are stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel with this dude. 

Hopefully he doesn't try anything…

"Oh my god, oh my god, we're gonna die," he says, completely freaking out. "This is all your fault, y/n." He glares at you with tears streaming down your face as snot pours from his nose as he rocks the cart back and forth. 

You are speechless and have no idea what to do at this moment. All you can hope is that your date won't pee himself next to you in this little pod. 

You look down at the pavement; at least if you fall, you won't have to deal with this guy anymore…

Suddenly, a red feather whizzes by your face. You follow it with your eyes. Turning your head, you come face-to-face with the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Bright golden eyes staring into yours warmly from behind a yellow visor. Crimson wings beat softly in the air. "Hey there, you look like you could use a hand."

"H-hawks." Your date says addressing the pro hero. "Thank God you're here. Please get me down."

"No problem, folks, I'll get you down; it looks like that machine down there is a little jammed, so you'll have to bear with me." His feathers harden as they whittle away at the steel safety harness that keeps you trapped in the air. 

"Now, don't move, all right? I had to cut the beam to get you guys out of here, so hang tight in those seat belts." He looks at you and holds out a hand. "how about I start with you? Wanna get back on solid ground?"

You smile. "So badly." His hand has a pleasant warmth through it, but right before a hero can gently take you out of your seat. The bench starts to swing rapidly.

"No!" your date screams, unbuckling his seatbelt. "don't take them, take me." he stands and lunges towards the Pro Hero, only to be halted in the air by a cluster of feathers latching to his clothing. 

His arm pushes you off balance, and you slip, letting out a yelp as you wonder if this is the end. Frightfully, you imagine yourself becoming one with the pavement below, the worst end to the worst date of your life. 

Strong arms are quick to grab you, and you are pulled into the safety of the winged hero's chest. "Don't worry, I gotcha," he says softly; the world beneath you makes your head spin. "Hey… Don't look down, you're safe. What's your name?" 

The unwavering care in his voice calms you, and you answer. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the feathers bringing your date down to the ground and setting him on the pavement with an unceremonious plop.

"Serves him right," you mutter, "This has been the worst first date of my life."

"Don't tell me there's gonna be a second." He jokes as his feathers start to free the other passengers, setting them on the ground; he brushes a strand of hair out of your face and winks, "Just between you and me, I think you can do way better than that guy."

Your cheeks heat under the hero's surprisingly flirty banter, and you realize that you are still nestled comfortably in his arms, high above the ground. But instead of feeling worried, you feel strangely comfortable. Your stomach seems to flutter as you are brought down to earth. 

"There you go," he says gently, placing you on solid ground. Although you are safe and sound, you can't help but feel a little disappointed that your short time with the Pro hero has to end so soon. 

"Thank you for helping me out up there," you say, remembering your manners. 

"It was my pleasure," he says; his golden gaze flickers from you to behind you and narrows. "Hey, I hope I'm not crossing a line or anything, but it looks like you may need a bit more saving." He gestures over to your still-sniveling date, who doesn't seem to notice you at all. 

"Ugh, where were you three hours ago?" you chuckle dryly. 

Your little comment sends him into a fit of laughter so hard he has to remove his visor to wipe tears from his eyes. "Sorry, I guess that saving your life was the best I could do."

"And you call yourself a hero," you shake your head and fight the smile on your lips. 

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks earnestly. "My patrol ends in a few, so I could take you home or somewhere else, maybe grab some food."

Your brain shorts out for a moment as you are shocked by this unexpected turn of events. 

Is he flirting with you?

This is Hawks, one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, and he is offering to take you to get food.

"It seems like you are going above and beyond the call of duty," you comment, watching as he tucks his wings to his back. 

"Well, it just seems right," he says honestly. "You look like you need a better day, and I'm starving. So what do you say? Wanna use me as a good old-fashioned rebound?"

The corners of your lips turn upward. "I would."

"Perfect, then let me work my magic, and we can get out of here." he smiles, the toothy grin looking much more natural than the ones you see plastered on the magazine covers. He turns and walks over to a sidekick in an elastic red suit. "Hey, this one is a bit shaken up, so I'm gonna help them home; you got everything handled over here, right?"

They nod, and he turns on a dime, walking over to you with a poorly concealed pep in his step. "Are you ready to go?" 

You nod eagerly. And motions for you to hang on tight to him. Although just a few minutes ago, you were disgusted at the idea of even brushing knuckles with your previous date, being in the arms of the hero is comfortable. 

He launches the two of you into the air, and the wind tickles your face. Leaving your sniveling date in the dust. 

"So where to first?" he yells above the breeze. 

"There's a really good fried chicken food truck near my place if you want to try it out?" you say after a bit of thought. 

His gaze fills with affection, and his laughter rises with his wings. "Oh, I think we are gonna get along just fine."

Tagging: @pixelcafe-network @sleepyyshroom @anjodedesgostoeerros @isaacdaknight @qardasngan @dog55teeth @atigerandabear

[feedybot]

The Tipping Point, Part 2/2

Chapter Eight: Starting Over (Again)

You woke up with a plan.

No more second helpings. No more surprise desserts. No more letting someone else decide what your body becomes. The confrontation had left you raw, uncertain—but one thing was clear: if you didn’t take back control now, it might slip away for good.

So you started over. Again.

Just like all the other times.

You dug your food scale out of the drawer. Downloaded a new calorie-tracking app. You went grocery shopping alone, avoiding the bakery aisle, steering past the frozen pizzas and tubs of ice cream with gritted teeth. You came home with greens, lean proteins, low-cal snacks. Stuff you used to live on.

And you told him.

“I’m doing this for me now,” you said, staring him down across the kitchen.

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once and stepped back. “Okay.”

But you saw it—the flicker in his eyes. Something unreadable. Something between disappointment and desire.

He didn’t offer you a single extra bite that week. Didn’t tempt you. Didn’t say anything when you went to bed hungry, stomach gurgling, mouth dry from another salad you didn’t really want. He even offered to meal prep with you on Sunday—chopped vegetables, grilled chicken, little plastic containers lined up in neat rows like soldiers.

You should’ve felt proud.

But something was missing.

It hit hardest at night.

When you stood in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, catching glimpses of your body in the mirror under harsh light. You’d changed. The curve of your belly, the heaviness in your breasts, the way your thighs squished slightly when you sat—all of it still there, stubborn, soft, real.

And when you touched it, trying to remember how you felt before it was there… you couldn’t. Not fully.

It wasn’t just weight now.

It was you.

Your hands roamed over your sides slowly, tentatively, like you were trying to take stock of everything he had helped you build without even asking. The way your hips swelled out beneath your fingers. The curve of your lower belly pressing gently into your waistband. You turned, arching slightly, watching how your backside rose up in the reflection, rounder than you remembered, fuller.

There was a part of you—small, quiet, dangerous—that didn’t hate it.

But you shut that part down.

This was a reset. A comeback. You were in control now.

The first week was okay.

By the second, your energy dipped. You started snapping at him for no reason. Everything felt hard. The cravings came back stronger than you expected. You found yourself thinking about food all the time—those rich, creamy pastas, the warm desserts, the casual, cozy fullness after a big meal.

You didn’t tell him you were struggling.

But he knew.

He held you tighter at night. Touched you longer. Whispered how proud he was that you were sticking to it.

“You’re strong,” he said, and you heard the unspoken part:

Even if I liked you better before.

Chapter Nine: The First Slip

It was a Friday night.

Two weeks into your new plan. Fourteen days of strict tracking, clean eating, and willpower you’d scraped together like brittle glass. You were tired. Not just physically, but deep in your bones—tired of bland food, of tight jawlines and stomach grumbles, of being “strong” for a body that no longer felt like yours.

And you were so hungry.

He saw it before you said a word.

You were curled up on the couch, hoodie draped over your knees, trying to distract yourself with a show you weren’t watching. He walked in with a plate. You smelled it before you even looked up—garlic, butter, something thick and rich and hot.

“Made too much,” he said casually, holding out a forkful. “Just a bite?”

You stared at it.

It was so small. Just a forkful. It wouldn’t ruin anything. You’d had a good day. Maybe even a low-cal day. And god, your mouth was watering. Your stomach clenched with longing.

So you took the bite.

Warm. Creamy. Perfect. Your eyes fluttered closed before you could stop them, a soft sound catching in your throat. You didn’t even realize he’d scooped up another forkful until it was in front of your lips again.

“I shouldn’t,” you said quietly.

“But you want to,” he murmured.

And you did.

So you took another.

And another.

He didn’t stop feeding you—not until the plate was gone, and your belly was full, and your breath had gone slow and heavy from the weight of it all pressing gently against the inside of your hoodie. You leaned back, dazed, feeling warm and bloated and just a little bit ashamed.

You opened your mouth to apologize.

But he was already in front of you—kneeling between your legs, hands on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the softness there. You tensed.

“I broke it,” you whispered. “Everything I worked for—”

“No,” he said firmly, voice low. “You remembered.”

Your breath caught.

“Remembered what it feels like to stop punishing yourself. To let yourself be taken care of. To enjoy it.”

He reached up, tugged the hoodie up and over your head before you could protest. Your bare belly spilled into the cool air, soft and round and clearly fed. He didn’t hesitate—his hands slid over it, caressing every inch like it was precious.

And that’s when it happened.

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his expression changed. The patience was gone. The restraint. What replaced it was darker. Deeper. Hungrier.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice barely above a growl. “And I’m done waiting.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

He kissed you then—hard, deep, his hands gripping your hips like they were handles made just for him. And when he pulled back, your legs had fallen open, breath shaky, thighs trembling under the weight of his gaze.

“I’m going to take care of everything from now on,” he whispered. “No more tracking. No more guilt. Just meals, and softness, and you—exactly how I want you.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to reclaim control.

But the truth was… you felt relief.

You were so tired of fighting.

And his hands felt so good where they were.

Chapter Ten: Crossing the Line

You didn’t get out of bed the next morning.

You woke to the smell of something warm—sweet, buttery, familiar. Your limbs felt heavy, your body still thick and soft from the night before, but more than anything, you felt held. His arm draped over your waist, hand resting right beneath your bellybutton, fingers lightly pressing into the plush swell of your stomach like he didn’t want to let go.

And he hadn’t. Not all night.

There was no tension in his touch anymore. No hesitation. He touched you like you belonged to him now—like every curve, every ounce, was something he’d earned.

“Morning,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

You grunted, still half-asleep.

He chuckled. “You’re going to need energy today.”

You blinked, confused. “For what?”

But he was already sliding out of bed.

When you finally dragged yourself up—sore, full, dazed—you padded into the kitchen and saw what he’d made.

Pancakes. Bacon. Scrambled eggs swimming in cheese. Syrup. Toast thick with butter. Not a single low-fat anything in sight. Just a table laden with calories.

“I can’t,” you said softly, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He pulled out a chair for you. “You will.”

You stood there frozen, breathing shallow.

Your stomach still felt full from the night before. You could feel its gentle swell, the weight of it against the waistband of your pajama shorts, the way it pushed outward when you inhaled. You still wore yesterday’s weight like a secret—but he saw it all. Worshipped it.

He tugged the chair again. You sat.

The first bite hit your tongue like sin. Warm, sweet, rich. Your eyes fluttered shut. The second bite melted into the third. You felt your resistance drain with every chew.

And he watched.

Not with smugness. Not with cruelty.

With possession.

Like feeding you wasn’t a game anymore—it was a ritual.

He refilled your plate before you were halfway done. You hesitated—but he didn’t let you pause for long. His hand cupped your chin, guiding another forkful to your lips. You opened without thinking.

“You fought it for so long,” he whispered, brushing your cheek. “But look at you now.”

You did.

You glanced down.

Your belly pressed against the table’s edge. Your thighs spread wider on the seat than they used to, plush and soft. Your arms no longer looked toned but cushioned, and your pajama top had ridden up just enough to expose the curve forming between your breasts and belly.

You weren’t the same.

You didn’t feel the same.

And something inside you—a flicker you’d tried to smother—lit up with warmth.

Later, when he pulled you back into bed, you felt heavier. Your body moved differently now—slower, more deliberate, your center of gravity shifted by softness and fullness and the knowledge that you were no longer pretending.

He undressed you with reverence, kissing every inch he revealed.

“You were made for this,” he said, his hand settling on your belly, slowly rubbing circles into it. “All of this. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You whimpered, breath hitching, one hand pressing over his, feeling the way your flesh yielded beneath both of you.

“I still—” you started, voice cracking, “I still don’t know if I can stop.”

He leaned in close, lips at your ear.

“That’s the point.”

And you realized, in that moment, that the line had been crossed.

Not in a rush. Not with force.

But with every meal. Every touch. Every soft “just one more bite.”

And now, you didn’t want to go back.

Chapter Eleven: Guests

He told you that morning.

“Dinner tonight. Just a few people—nothing big.”

You looked up from your breakfast, spoon frozen midair. “Who?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Borry, Alison, and Steve. Thought it’d be nice to catch up.”

Your stomach tightened.

You hadn’t seen them in months. Not since before. Back when Borry was still the big one in your friend group, always joking about her curves. When you and Alison split desserts and compared yoga routines. When Steve barely knew you existed.

And now?

You weren’t even sure if your jeans still counted as wearable.

“Do I have to?” you murmured.

He smiled. Walked around the table, kissed your cheek. “You’ll be perfect.”

You changed four times.

Nothing fit the way it used to. The jeans didn’t button. The loose blouse felt tight in the arms. Even the dress you used to wear when you felt “bloated” clung uncomfortably to your belly now, bunching where there used to be space.

You settled on black leggings and a roomy sweater that hid just enough.

But not everything.

By the time the doorbell rang, your heart was pounding harder than it should’ve. You stayed just out of sight as he greeted them—warm hugs, easy laughter. You heard Borry’s booming voice first, then Alison’s soft chuckle, and Steve’s lower tone beneath it all.

You inhaled. Stood straight. Walked out.

Three sets of eyes turned to you.

You saw it instantly.

The tiny pause from Alison. The shift in Steve’s expression—surprise, maybe even curiosity. And Borry? Her eyes flicked over your figure once, and her mouth tugged into a smile. Not teasing. But something else. Like she knew.

“Look at you,” Borry said brightly, pulling you into a squishy hug. “You’ve got that happy weight going on.”

Alison blinked. “You… look different.”

Steve gave you a slow once-over before smiling. “Hey. It’s been a while.”

You laughed, too loud. “Yeah, I, uh—got really into cooking, I guess.”

“Or someone got really into cooking for you,” Borry added, shooting your husband a knowing look.

He just smirked.

Dinner was ridiculous.

He went all out—heavy pasta in cream sauce, thick garlic bread, roasted vegetables slathered in butter, dessert trays already waiting in the kitchen. It was intentional. Of course it was.

You told yourself you’d go easy.

You didn’t.

The first few bites sent that familiar warmth through you—creamy, savory, comforting. You saw Alison take small, polite portions. Borry filled her plate with no shame, but even she didn’t go back for thirds.

You did.

And Steve watched.

You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. But his gaze followed every second helping. Every roll of your sleeves as your arms shifted, softer now. Every time your sweater rose slightly over your growing middle when you leaned forward.

By dessert, your stomach ached—but you still took the biggest slice of cake.

And no one stopped you.

You felt stuffed. Heavy. Overwhelmed. But when you looked up and met your husband’s eyes, you saw that look again: proud. Possessive. Like this—you, swollen and slow and totally lost in it—was exactly what he’d wanted all along.

When they left, the silence buzzed.

Borry hugged you extra tight. “You wear it well, babe. Seriously.”

Alison just gave you a half-smile and a confused look, like she couldn’t quite reconcile what she’d just seen.

And Steve… gave you a longer goodbye than he ever used to. His eyes flicked down your body one last time before he turned away.

Then the door shut.

His arms were around you instantly—sliding under your sweater, gripping your waist, hands sinking into the softness.

“They noticed,” you breathed.

He kissed your neck. “Good.”

“I’m bigger than Borry now,” you whispered.

“You are,” he said, voice dark with satisfaction.

And somewhere beneath the shame, beneath the fullness and disbelief, came a flicker of something hotter:

Pride.

Chapter Twelve: The Talk

You sat on the edge of the bed that night, too full to lie down. Your belly rested heavy in your lap, round and warm and softly aching beneath the stretched hem of your sweater. You’d eaten more than anyone at that table. More than Borry. More than you ever would’ve allowed yourself, once.

You didn’t even remember deciding to.

And now it was quiet.

The buzz of the dinner party had faded. Your guests were gone. Only the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the house filled the silence. You felt… exposed.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, not looking at him.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Watching.

“Anything.”

You hesitated. Then: “How long have you been wanting this?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

He stepped into the room slowly, eyes locked on you like prey. “Since before you knew what this even was.”

Your throat went dry.

He knelt down between your legs again, like he had that night—the night everything changed. But now, your thighs spread wider. Your belly hung lower. Your breath came quicker, already knowing what was coming.

“I didn’t plan it all,” he admitted, his hands sliding up your soft sides. “Not at first. I just… noticed. How you reacted when you were full. How beautiful you looked with that little food coma glow.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“And then?”

“Then I started helping,” he said. “Extra portions. Richer meals. Gentle pressure. Praise when you gave in. You wanted control, but you melted every time you gave it up.”

You felt his thumbs dig into the flesh at your hips—new, thick softness that hadn’t been there just months ago.

“I didn’t think it’d go this far,” you whispered.

“It hasn’t even started yet,” he said, and kissed your belly—right at the center, where it curved tight and full.

Your hands shook. You didn’t know if it was fear or hunger or heat.

“You want me to get bigger,” you said softly. Not a question. Just a truth, finally spoken.

He nodded. “I want you softer. Slower. Needier. I want to see your belly stretch to meet your thighs when you sit. I want to feed you until you’re breathless—until there’s no going back.”

You whimpered, caught between panic and arousal.

“I’m not… I’m not sure I can handle that.”

He looked up, expression dark and calm. “That’s okay. I’ll handle it for you.”

He slid your sweater up with reverence, revealing the plush overhang of your stomach. The waistband of your leggings had rolled beneath it, digging into your skin. You felt it jiggle under his hands, felt the weight of your decisions, your indulgences, your surrender.

“From now on,” he whispered, kissing the bare swell of your belly, “you don’t need to worry about discipline. Or control. Or what anyone else thinks.”

You closed your eyes.

“And when I’m so big I can’t hide it anymore?” you asked, voice barely audible. “When I outgrow everything? When even Borry makes comments?”

“Then I’ll feed you dessert while you cry about it,” he said with a grin. “And rub your belly until you beg for more.”

You didn’t know when your hands had found his hair.

You didn’t know when your legs had wrapped around him, belly pressing down into his chest as he held you.

But you knew what was happening.

You were his now.

Not just emotionally. Not just in the quiet, hidden parts of your relationship.

Physically. Publicly. Completely.

Chapter Thirteen: Indulgence Day

You woke slowly, your body still thick with sleep and the weight of the night before. No alarm. No schedule. Just the soft pressure of your own belly pooling across your middle, the sheets tucked tight around it.

And his arm—still draped around your waist, like it hadn’t moved all night.

He was already awake. Watching. You felt his hand slide downward, over the gentle curve where your stomach spilled outward. His thumb traced the line where skin met sheet, slow and reverent.

“Today’s the day,” he murmured into your neck. “No distractions. No guilt. Just you. Me. And everything you’re becoming.”

You blinked, still dazed. “You’re serious?”

He kissed behind your ear. “You don’t have to move. I’ll bring everything to you.”

And he did.

Hour One: Breakfast, in bed

You didn’t even sit up.

He fed you from the side, cradling your head against his chest as you took bite after bite. Buttery croissants filled with cream cheese. Sugary fruit tarts. Maple-drenched pancakes, cut into perfect pieces and slipped into your mouth like communion.

Every time you slowed, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Almost done, beautiful. Just a little more.”

Your belly rose with each bite—rounding, stretching, gently tightening beneath your shirt until the hem gave up entirely, exposing soft skin that rippled slightly with your shifting.

By the time he laid you back against the pillows, you were panting. Too full to move.

He pulled your shirt higher, placed his palms against the bare swell, and massaged. Slow, soothing circles. Deep pressure that melted every protest into silence.

“You’re going to feel this all day,” he whispered. “Every bite. Every stretch. And you’re going to love it.”

You whimpered. You did.

Hour Three: Snacks, lounging

You waddled—yes, waddled—to the couch with both hands cradling your belly. He piled pillows beneath and around you, propped you up like something delicate, precious.

Then came the snacks.

Cheese-covered popcorn. Chocolate truffles. Milkshakes in thick glass mugs.

You ate slowly now, your stomach already taut, but he didn’t push. He offered. Encouraged. Worshipped.

Between bites, his hands roamed—lifting the heavy undercurve of your belly, tracing the lines stretching across it. “You feel so full,” he murmured, voice reverent. “So ready.”

And you were.

Not just full. Soft. Lazy. Heavy. You felt it in the way your body sunk into the cushions. In the way your thighs pressed together when you shifted. In the growing ache in your lower back from carrying yourself.

And still… you kept eating.

Hour Six: The Rubdown

You were on your back, belly high and domed, when he returned with lotion and a low, dark look.

“You’ve been so good,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did.

Warm hands smoothed the lotion across your belly, his palms gliding over the stretched skin in long, indulgent motions. You moaned as he worked—kneading, rubbing, praising every inch.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly. “Every part of you. Every pound. And we’re not stopping.”

You shook your head, wide-eyed and breathless. “No. We’re not.”

And he leaned in, pressing a kiss right where your belly met your thighs.

“Next time,” he whispered, “you won’t even be able to see me down here.”

Your breath caught.

You couldn’t wait.

Chapter Fourteen: Push Past

It started with a whisper.

“Just one more bite,” he said, like he always did. But his voice had that tone—that low, coaxing sweetness that made your brain fog over and your belly flutter with nerves.

You were already full.

No—beyond full. You’d passed that two plates ago. Your belly sat like a warm, stretched mound in your lap, too heavy to suck in, too swollen to hide. Your breathing had gone shallow. You’d had to shift in your chair twice, just to relieve the pressure pressing into your ribs.

But you opened your mouth anyway.

And he slipped the fork in. A bite of something rich and warm and buttery, you couldn’t even tell what anymore. You just chewed, swallowed, and let out a low, aching sound as your stomach gave another protest.

“I—I think I should stop,” you whispered.

He wiped your lips with a napkin, gentle. “I know you think that. But you don’t want to, do you?”

You whimpered. “I don’t know…”

His hand slid beneath your belly, lifting the heavy swell with care. You felt it shift—slosh, even. Every inch of you was full. Your belly was stretched taut, skin hot to the touch, resting on your thighs with its own weight now.

“I want to see what you can really handle,” he murmured. “No holding back. No pacing. Just you and me and your limit.”

You whimpered again—but didn’t say no.

Minutes blurred. Bites melted together.

He fed you fast now—no time to think, no time to hesitate. Each bite bigger than the last. Creamy, cheesy pasta. Soft, oily garlic bread. Melted ice cream spooned right from the tub. A fizzy, sugary drink to help it all slide down.

Your belly bulged. It wasn’t just full—it was massive. The kind of full that felt alien. Like something too big for your own body, resting on top of you, demanding attention. Every breath was shallow. Every shift made your thighs jiggle beneath the weight of it.

You couldn’t sit upright anymore. He helped you lean back, cradling your belly like it was something sacred.

“Look at you,” he whispered, eyes wide with pride. “You’ve never looked like this before.”

You hadn’t.

The skin was flushed, tight and gleaming. The stretch marks at your sides looked like lightning bolts, glowing under the strain. Your belly button was flat now, barely holding its shape under the pressure.

“I can’t move,” you breathed.

He grinned. “You’re not supposed to.”

He kissed your gut then—deep, hungry, worshipful. Both hands spread across it, palms splayed wide to feel every inch. You whimpered, your entire body trembling with overstimulation. With fullness. With helplessness.

“You pushed past,” he whispered. “You’re past the edge now.”

And you were.

No more guilt. No more pretending. Just you, impossibly full, impossibly heavy, broken wide open by indulgence and love and pressure you didn’t know you could endure.

Tears welled in your eyes—not from pain, but from surrender.

You were his now. Not just emotionally. Not just physically. But visibly. Irrefutably.

And you loved it.

Chapter Fifteen: No Way Back

The house was quiet.

There were no guests. No outside noise. No distractions.

Just the soft hum of the fridge and the weight of your body spread out across the bed—pillows propped beneath your aching back, your bare skin glowing in the golden spill of late-afternoon light.

And him.

Sitting beside you. Watching.

You’d outgrown everything.

The shirt you’d worn earlier now lay discarded on the floor—useless. Your leggings had rolled down long ago, overtaken by the generous curve of your belly. Even your underwear sat low and strained, hips too wide, waist too thick. You were flushed, heavy, swollen from hours of indulgence. And still, you wanted more.

But this time, it wasn’t food he gave you.

It was touch.

His hands started low, slow. Sliding up your thighs, which were plush now—thick and soft and pressed tightly together. They trembled under his fingers, skin dimpled and warm. You closed your eyes and let yourself breathe into it.

“I remember when these barely touched,” he murmured. “Now look at them. So soft. So heavy. You’re perfect.”

He moved higher, over the gentle slope of your hips—now wide, cushioned, generous. His palms pressed into them, fingers sinking into the new flesh that had crept in over time, bite by bite.

“You don’t even realize how much you’ve changed, do you?” he said.

Your breath hitched. “I try not to.”

“You should. You need to.”

His hands climbed to your belly.

It was massive.

Domed and tight, but soft around the edges. The center rose high, lifted by everything inside you—pasta, dessert, snacks, days and days of indulgence stacked into a soft monument of surrender. The bottom curved low between your thighs now, resting there with its own gravity. A constant reminder.

He lifted it gently, kissed the underside where it folded and creased and overflowed.

“You can’t take this back,” he whispered. “This belly? These thighs? This appetite? They belong to me now.”

Your eyes filled with tears—but you didn’t fight him.

Because it was true.

You’d slipped at first. Then surrendered. And now… there was no going back. Your body told the story in every soft inch. Every stretch mark. Every labored breath. Every second of helpless pleasure when his hands slid under your belly, cupped it, felt the sheer weight of what you’d become.

He kissed every part.

Your arms—softer now, with a gentle jiggle.

Your sides—thick rolls where skin once clung tight.

Your breasts—fuller, heavier, resting atop your swollen middle.

“You’re mine,” he said again. “And I’m going to keep feeding you until you can’t walk without waddling. Until your thighs chafe when you stand. Until your belly hangs so low it brushes your knees. I want you huge.”

You moaned, louder than you meant to.

He pressed his hand into your belly, firm and deep. You felt it shift, your whole body rippling with the movement. You were so heavy. So full. So unmistakably changed.

“I can’t stop,” you whispered. “Even if I wanted to.”

“I know,” he said, smiling. “That’s what makes it perfect.”

He kissed your lips then. Deep. Possessive. Full of everything unspoken.

And you kissed him back—because it was done.

There was no going back.

You didn’t want to.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: Lights Out {5}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: The most anticipated race of the year is here, and the most controversial, Las Vegas GP. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, fluff, angst, injury WC: 3.5k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six

Round Twenty Two - Las Vegas

Kristian sat on a weight bench, flipping through the pages of the motherhood magazine he was reading. Every so often he would look up and give some guidance until the tips became a nuisance.

“I should have fired you,” you muttered as you rose up from the last lunge.

“You say that a lot but you should keep your back straight,” he shot back, grating you further with the slow scrape of the page turning. “And keep your feet in line with your hips.”

“Can we play some decent music at least?” you whined between the gulps of water you swallowed down. The training was far less intensive than they used to be with everything focused on just maintaining fitness and health rather than a goal weight or strength like before.

“Nope,” he chuckled, clearly enjoying being able to boss you around the gym again. “Baroque is good for the baby.”

“Bullshit.” There was no way the classical music meant anything to her, she was only the size of an avocado - or so Lando said. He had an app that he checked daily and uploaded photos onto as a keepsake. 

Kristian turned back to the start of the magazine and turned it around, tapping the title of the article. “So you think you know more than Harvard scholars now, Spitfire?”

He took your silence for defeat and pointed to the pool door. “Twenty lap cool down and then it’s breakfast.”

Your stomach grumbled at the mention of food and you grabbed a towel as you passed the door to the changing room. Breakfast didn’t feel like the right term since it was well past lunchtime. The whole Las Vegas schedule had screwed your body clock with the late night practices and qualifying rounds but you were grateful it was the last night of it. 

Lando and Charles had been fast asleep when you slipped out of the room. Something had disturbed you from the dream you were having and despite the room being pitch black with the thick blockout curtains your body could tell it was daytime. Thankfully Kristian was already awake and happy to move your fitness session up a few hours. 

Cool water washed over you as you dove into the tepid pool and started to glide along the surface. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. The monotony was therapeutic and you didn’t even bother to keep count of the laps - your mind was elsewhere.

You had been dead on your feet in the wee hours of the morning after you finally left the track with Lando and Charles after qualifying finished. They still had adrenaline flooding their systems and had no hope of sleeping when they sunk into the couch cushions and pulled your exhausted body over their legs. 

You were in a drowsy state, half asleep but half aware of the other two chatting quietly together. Their hands had softly caressed your skin, brushing your shirt up so they could feel the warmth of your abdomen beneath their palms. 

“She’s so beautiful, Cha, and she’s carrying our kid. I don’t think I have ever been this happy in my life,” Lando hummed as he rested his head on Charles’ shoulder and smiled at their hands. 

“We are very lucky to have her,” he agreed as he kissed Lando softly.

“So…” You tasted the mischief in Lando’s drawn out tone and it stirred some energy back into your body. “When can I start calling you daddy?”

Charles’ legs shifted beneath you with a groan and you willed your eyes to open as his cheeks flushed pink. “Mon cher...”

“You can call me papi chulo,” Lando smirked. “It means-”

“I know what it means,” Charles choked, knowing exactly who had taught him that too. “Carlos is a menace, but if anyone is going to be papi chulo it’s me.”  

You nearly swallowed a mouthful of water as the memory of what had happened next led to a lapse in your count and you pulled yourself out of the pool with a splutter. Those two had a lot to answer for.

“Here,” Kristian said as he tossed a bottle of water to you. “Try not to drink from the pool.”

“What would I do without you?” you asked dryly. 

“I don’t dare to think about that,” he joked before he said your favourite words. “Let’s go eat.”

You stared at the egg on your plate before pushing it away with disinterest. Charles looked up from his own plate and frowned at the rare sight of the food that remained on yours. 

“Would you like something else, mamie?”

You smiled at the new endearment and watched Lando cut an avocado in half before passing one part over to you. The vibrant green flesh did look delicious but when you held it in your hand you could only think about the bump that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. You hadn’t noticed it before changing into your swimsuit but when you peeled the tight layer off in the gym's changing room you had frozen. The mirrored wall caught your side profile under glaring fluorescent lights and there, just below your belly button it swelled ever so slightly. 

A hand waved in front of your face and you broke away from the memory to see both your boyfriends watching you with worried frowns. One of them had obviously spoken to you but you couldn’t recall hearing them as you stared at the avocado. 

“You’re crying,” Lando murmured as he swiped away the tear on your cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s this big already. Our baby is the size of an avocado. She’s so tiny,” you said with a small laugh, raising the fruit higher for inspection. They looked at you like you were a little crazy and it wouldn’t have been the first time that was suspected but you pushed the chair out and placed the avocado back on the table. “Come, I want to show you something.”

You led them to the bedroom and Charles opened his mouth to break the bad news that they didn’t have time for even a quickie. The thought had crossed your mind when you found them still naked and splayed across the bed before breakfast was ready, but they needed to get to the track soon for media duties and to prepare for the race. 

“That’s a shame but also not what I came here for,” you admitted as you started to remove your shirt. 

“I’m getting mixed messages here,” Lando chuckled as he reached for his own shirt. “But I don’t mind being late.”

“Stop, before I really do make you stay,” you chuckled knowing they would do anything for you. You dropped your shirt and turned sideways while you stared at the reflection in the mirror. “Look…”

Their eyes followed the wave of your hand, the way your palm drifted over your hip to cradle the small bump, and Lando gasped along with Charles soft praise. Knees hit the soft carpet below your feet and warm lips replaced your hand, teasing your skin with kisses. Two heads of dark hair bowed against your stomach and whispered words of promise you couldn’t quite hear, but they weren’t for your ears. Finally they looked up, emerald and azure eyes filled with enough love that you were certain your chest was going to crack open.

You reached for their cheeks and felt the same dampness that coated yours. “She’s real,” you whispered. It had taken a few weeks but finally it all felt real. She wasn’t just a picture on a piece of paper or measurements of a hormone in a blood test. She was real, and she was yours.

“You look like a twat,” you greeted Max with a grin, flapping the collar of his race suit made to replicate Elvis Presley. “You’re just missing the blue suede shoes.”

Max rolled his eyes and ducked his head when you tried to mess his gelled hair up. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

“Oh I am,” you laughed, slipping back into Charles’ side. “I’m actually happy to sit out this circus act.”

Max narrowed his eyes as he scanned your face for a lie or bitterness but all he saw was a bright smile and genuine amusement sparkling in your eyes. A sense of relief washed over him as for the first time since losing your seat you looked completely content and happy.

“I don’t blame you,” he finally replied and looked down at the costume he had been given. He would be glad when all this was over too. “I’ll see you at Omnia?”

The sun had already set on the strip and the temperature was quickly dropping as the hour grew late, and closer to the start of the race. “Maybe, if it’s a boring race I might not even be awake to see the end of it.”

“Fair enough.” He hoped you would be there to celebrate whatever the results were but he knew you were more exhausted in your current state and wouldn’t hold it against you. Christian waved at Max from across the street that divided the hospitality area from the garages and he gave you a quick hug, clapping Charles in the shoulder as he passed. “The Ring Master calls.”

“Drive safe!” He threw a thumbs up over his shoulder in answer and you laced your fingers with Charles’ before continuing to the McLaren garage.

It was strangely quiet for a race that had been hyped up so much over the last year, but you were kind of relieved that there were less people to weave between. It was great that the sport was growing in popularity but it was a pain in the ass trying to get anywhere when you are squashed like sardines in the paddock.

Somehow you still managed to bump into someone.

“Shit, sorry, Logan.”

“That was my bad,” he apologised as he turned to face the direction he was walking, waving back to the fan who had stopped him. His eyes widened when he saw who he had collided with and regret painted on his face. “Shit, are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I, or the, um…” he waved a hand to your stomach and you tilted your head wondering who had told him.

“I’m fine, but you knew?”

Logan scratched the back of his neck nervously and shrugged. “The walls were thin in the medical centre.”

You were dumbfounded and the sound that bubbled from your chest confirmed it. “Huh.”

“I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t,” he promised before his name was called and he waved to his PT. “Oh, congratulations though, I probably should have started with that.”

Charles laughed and shook the American’s hand. “Thanks, mate.”

You smiled and accepted the half hug he offered, probably thinking a handshake would be even more awkward. “Thanks, and congrats on your first point too.”

“Not as exciting as a baby.”

“Yeah it is,” you laughed, remembering your first point for Alpha Tauri. “That’s your baby right now.”

His smile grew as he set off to his PT and you carried on your way to see Lando before the race. There was still over an hour until lights out but every minute had been scheduled for media duties, meet and greets, and the driver parade. You wanted to have a few moments of their time before releasing them to the wild.

Charles’ hand slipped from yours as you reached McLaren and he cradled your cheek before kissing you. “Are you alright to get back on your own?”

You rolled your eyes before looking at the Ferrari space four garages down. “I don’t know, it’s pretty far…I might get lost and end up in the Bellagio.”

“If you do, bet it all on Red for me,” he joked. The smile on his face dimmed as he saw the magician and Carlos waiting for him. “I’ll see you after the race, mamie. Je t’aime.”

“Love you too.”

“And Lando too.” He would have preferred to tell Lando himself but he just ran out of time with all the activities his team had planned for race day.

“I’ll let him know, and I’ll even give him a kiss from you,” you teased as you stole another kiss for good measure.

“Any advice from the current world champion?” he asked as he started to back away.

You shook your head. “It’s Vegas, baby, just give them one hell of a show.”

To say the atmosphere in Ferrari was charged was an understatement. There was resentment for Carlos’ car being destroyed and his mechanics gritted their teeth as they walked to the middle of the grid thanks to the penalties for fixing the car. On the other side of the garage, the side where you sat with Joris, excitement permeated the air as you watched Charles’ walk to his car parked in pole position.

You were torn between that excitement and the sadness that had followed you since leaving McLaren. Lando was being too hard on himself again for the bad luck he had qualifying 15th, but he was determined to make his way to the front of the pack. If anyone was going to be called Spitfire in the race, it was going to be him. He was going to dogfight his way forward from the moment the lights went out.

One of the cameras panned the crowd and you spotted him walking up from his spot three quarters of the way down the grid, all the way to the front where Charles was talking to Max. For a moment you were once again hit with the sense of longing to be out there but the feeling washed away as quick as it came.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Joris asked as he looked up from his phone. You chuckled knowing Charles would have sent the reminder text but you shook your head. 

“I’m fine, thank you. And you can tell Charles I am keeping hydrated too,” you said with a smile, shaking your water bottle for him to see. 

“You can always trust him to worry more about others, even when he’s meant to be focusing on the race,” he laughed as he sent the reply. “Have you thought any more about where you want to go for the maternity shoot?”

Charles had been eager to lock his friend in as the official bump photographer but there was still another four months until it was the best time to have them taken. He was also open to taking photos while you were in labour but you weren't too sure how you felt about that yet.

“Somewhere warm.”

“So no alpine backdrops then,” he chuckled, probably remembering how much you had complained about hiking in the snow last winter.

You scoffed at the idea, an adamant refusal to it. “Not if you’re expecting me to wear something that shows the bump.”

The action around the garages stilled as the guests on the grid were guided away for the formation lap to begin and you breathed a sigh of relief when Charles made it back to the first box without drama. Even Joris released a nervous laugh beside you. 

“That’s a better start,” he murmured so the engineers around him didn’t hear. 

“Couldn’t get any worse than the last one,” you replied just as quietly. 

You held your breath and felt the same rush of adrenalin fill you as if you were right out there in front of the lights with them. Your fingers twitched at your sides, the muscle memory begging them to prepare for action as each red light appeared, then all five were gone. The keen whines of twenty engines accelerating to their limit screamed into the night and you grinned at the sound even though it was muted by the headset. 

“Oh, fuck off, Max,” you screamed as he pushed Charles wide and they both went off track before pulling back on with your brother taking the lead. Suddenly your attention was brought to the back of the pack where multiple cars had been involved in an incident, but Lando had managed to avoid it and slip ahead a few places too. “Come on, baby, you can do it.”

Although there had been a lot of complaints about the showy nature of racing in Las Vegas, there was no denying it was a track that offered a lot of entertainment with long straights to overtake and high risk high reward corners too. You could barely sit still with your eyes glued to the many screens around the garage offering almost every angle of the race. 

“Ok, I think this race has just redeemed itself,” you commented with a smile as you watched the battles taking place around the track. 

“It is pretty amazing,” Joris said with his own excited grin, but shock fell over him and you snapped your head back to screen dreading seeing Charles out of the race again. But it wasn’t Charles. 

Sparks flew as the floor hit the asphalt and your brain couldn’t seem to understand why Lando’s car was facing the wrong way. Still it kept skidding along the straight at full speed, spinning back around just before it collided with the barrier at the end of the runoff. Your breath left your lungs with the force of the collision and your entire body stiffened as your ears began to ring loudly. Your stomach lurched as you desperately hit the keys on the screen to select the driver view and you saw Lando’s shaking hands pull his steering console out.

“I, I need to go,” you whispered as you stood up on weak legs. “Can you tell Charles?”

“Xavi can do that, I’ll walk with you,” he said with a shake of his head. His arm looped with yours and stabilised you as you tried to rush out of the garage. They weren’t even stopping the race because he wasn’t on track and that made you feel even sicker. What if someone else went into the runoff? 

“Mr Norris,” Joris called out, waving the worried man down. You blinked as you realised you were already in the McLaren garage, but you couldn’t remember the walk there. 

“He’s alright,” Adam assured you as he pulled you into his side and thanked Joris for the escort. “I spoke to him after he got out of the car. They are going to the medical centre. Come on, darling, we can go together.”

“He’s alright?” you double checked, your vision blurring with tears. 

Adam gave a sure nod as he started back the way you came, except he went towards the medical centre instead of the other garages. “His ribs hurt but he’s tough.”

Max said that when he was a child he would sleep walk, Vicki too. You imagined this was how they felt. Detached. Moving through darkness. Closing your eyes and waking in a new place. You blinked and the concrete path you were on was suddenly linoleum. 

“Lando…” you sighed as you found him on a gurney, white blankets tucked in close around him. 

“Heeeey,” he slurred happily, wincing as he snaked a hand out of his swaddle to reach for you. “It’s my girls.”

“You’re on the strong stuff, aren’t you, my love?” You faked a smile for him and took his hand, tilting your head towards Adam and the doctor explaining what was happening. You carefully leaned over the bed and kissed Lando until he broke out in giggles and his head lolled lazily back against the pillow. 

“They’re taking him to the hospital for some scans just in case there’s any broken ribs,” Adam relayed when he reached your side and gave Lando a kiss on his forehead. “How are you feeling, son?”

“It hurts to breathe, but this is good,” he said, holding up his hand that was connected to the IV bag filled with strong painkillers. 

A nurse came and unlocked the wheels on the gurney before asking who was going to ride in the ambulance with Lando. Adam looked at you and nodded, and though you knew he would have wanted to go with his son himself you were selfish and couldn’t leave his side. 

“I’ll follow behind,” Adam promised before Lando was wheeled away. 

You walked at Lando’s side out of the medical centre and found tv crews waiting, their cameras zoomed in on Lando and capturing his almost drunken state. A little loopy from the drugs in his system, he waved his fingers at the camera. “This will be on Netflix next year,” he laughed before wincing at the pain that flared. “So it’s safe to tell them, ‘I’M GOING TO BE A FATHER!’ and they can’t say a thing.”

Adam froze at his son’s outburst, though it was no secret that he was eager to shout to the world his joy. “Lando…” he growled, looking at your wide eyes.

“What? They aren’t allowed to use the footage for months,” he huffed. 

“That’s not Netflix,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat as you watched the tv crew almost tremble with excitement. “That’s Sky TV.”

Click here for the next part.