#he got front row seats and popcorn

[1244950]

Bay! Optimus showing up to TFP! Megatron's live execution

[lecxtasy]

max idk if you're vying for a proper enemies to lovers arc and all but going around gossiping about charlie is def nawt it 😭🙏🏻

[cosycryptid]

Something Real

One movie, one confrontation, and one shared bucket of popcorn makes Eddie start to realise that maybe he never really knew Steve at all—and maybe, just maybe, he wants to. Also on AO3 [Here]

Eddie Munson has been waiting for weeks for this movie to come out.

It’s a low-budget horror flick with a cult following and a killer soundtrack. None of Eddie’s friends were available or particularly interested in going, but that’s fine, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He’s got his overpriced popcorn, a drink the size of his head, and a seat smack in the middle of the theatre. Perfect.

Or it is up until Steve Harrington walks in.

Eddie notices him immediately. It’s hard not to. He’s got that hair, that walk, the tiny moles on his face that make him look soft and a great body. The subject of Eddie’s most hopeless, pathetic high school crush. And of course, he’s not alone. There’s a girl on his arm, pretty in a polished, too perfect kind of way.

He watches, curious despite himself. Steve’s always been a bit of an enigma. Eddie’s heard the stories. King Steve. Heartbreaker. Every bit the stereotypical leader of the jocks, treating women like objects and everyone else like loyal subjects for him to look down on.

But what Eddie sees now doesn’t match up with those stories at all.

Steve opens the door for the girl with a soft, “After you,” and she brushes past him without a word. When she stumbles on the stairs, he catches her gently by the elbow, murmurs an apology for touching her without warning, and offers his arm for balance the rest of the way.

Eddie blinks. Huh.

They settle into their seats two rows down and directly in front of Eddie.

Of course they do.

The movie doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, not even trailers yet, but Eddie’s already more interested in the Steve Harrington Show than whatever’s going to be on screen. He feels like he’s getting a sneak peek behind the scenes into Steve’s world and it’s nothing like he imagined.

They sit. She shivers under the AC, and Steve immediately shrugs off his jacket and offers it to her. Then he offers to switch seats so she’s not directly under the vent.

Surprisingly, Steve’s the perfect gentleman. He asks about her day, offers her popcorn, and laughs at a joke that leans more mean than funny—though Eddie catches the subtle flicker of discomfort in his posture when she’s not looking.

He compliments her hair and outfit, asks what kind of music she’s into, and even admits to liking '70s rock. It’s something Eddie never expected to hear from him but can’t help respecting. It’s the kind of detail that makes Eddie pause, realizing with a jolt that they might have a few songs in common. And that’s unexpectedly disarming.

Steve even double-checks if she’s sure she’s okay with horror movies, offering to see something else if she’s not.

“Why? Are you scared?” she teases.

“Terrified,” Steve replies with a grin. “But I figured if I screamed, you’d protect me.”

Eddie nearly chokes on a kernel of popcorn.

That was smooth. Like, actually smooth. It wasn’t cocky or rehearsed. It was playful and self-aware. The line showed Steve didn’t take himself too seriously, a refreshing contrast to the image-obsessed popular kids Eddie had grown up resenting. He leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to solve a tricky riff. That line might’ve even worked on him. He’s always been a sucker for someone who knows how to be a little silly without losing sincerity.

“Huh,” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts in his seat, suddenly more invested in this pre-show than the actual movie he’s paid to see.

But then the girl leans in, voice low and suggestive. “I didn’t expect you to take me on a date like this. When I said we should watch a movie, I thought we’d grab one from the rental store and watch it at your place. Or, you know… somewhere more private.”

She walks her fingers up his chest in a way that makes Eddie want to gag.

Eddie rolls his eyes. Here we go.

He braces for the shift; the moment Steve drops the nice guy act and becomes the player everyone says he is. The moment he starts acting like the stereotypical meathead jock who only cares about getting girls into bed and out again before they get too attached. God forbid a straight guy have actual emotions or care about someone beyond the surface.

But it doesn’t come.

“Oh,” Steve says, shoulders going stiff. He takes hold of her hand and moves it away from his chest but holds onto it gently. “I thought we could spend some time together. Get to know each other. This is just our first date, after all, right?”

“I guess.” The girl shrugs. “I just thought you were supposed to be into showing girls a good time. I’ve heard the rumors.”

Steve laughs, but it’s nervous. Hollow. His eyes flick toward the fire exit like he’s considering a tactical retreat.

“Yeah, uh… you don’t need to worry about that,” he says. “I was kind of a mess in junior year. I’ve learned a lot since then. Hookups were fun, sure, but they never really felt good after. I’d rather have something real now.”

“Hmm,” she says, unimpressed and takes her hand back, turning back to the screen.

Eddie frowns. Something about her tone grates on him. Dismissive. Like Steve just offered her a piece of himself and she tossed it aside without looking.

He shifts again, but this time it’s not out of amusement. His smirk is gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and a faint scowl. He watches Steve fumble through the conversation, trying to be honest and vulnerable and getting nothing but attitude in return.

And it bugs him. More than it should.

Maybe it’s because he’s seen too many guys like Steve get away with being jerks. But here’s Steve, trying to be better, trying to be real, and this girl’s treating him like he’s a joke.

Eddie knows what that feels like. To be misunderstood. To have people assume the worst of you based on old stories and high school gossip. And it sits right on his last nerve to watch it happen to someone else.

The conversation shifts.

Not in a dramatic way. There are no raised voices, no sudden outbursts, just a slow, steady unraveling. It’s like watching a thread being pulled loose from a sweater.

The girl starts interrupting Steve. Not just once, but over and over. She talks over him, cuts him off mid-sentence, contradicts him just to do it. When he mentions liking a certain band, she scoffs and says they’re overrated. When he shares a memory about a summer job, she calls it boring.

Eddie watches it all unfold like a car crash in slow motion.

Steve doesn’t snap. Doesn’t even push back. He just absorbs the impact of it. Smiles tightly. Tries to steer the conversation back to neutral ground. He’s patient, too patient. Like he’s used to this and he’s trying not to make a scene.

Eddie’s scowl deepens.

He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. Maybe it’s because he expected Steve to be the problem. Expected him to be the shallow one. But instead, he’s watching Steve try—really try—to be kind, to connect and make something work. And this girl is steamrolling him like he’s not even there.

It’s uncomfortable. And not in the way Eddie usually enjoys.

The lights dim. A hush falls over the theatre. The trailers are about to start.

And then she speaks again.

“Oh wow, look at that,” she says, pointing down toward one of the lower rows. Her voice is just loud enough to carry. “I bet they think no one can see them because the lights are off.”

Eddie follows her gaze.

Two men. Sitting close. Hands intertwined.

Something drops in his stomach.

“Gross, right?” she laughs, looking at Steve for agreement.

The sound is sharp. Ugly. It cuts through the quiet like a knife.

Eddie freezes.

He doesn’t know those guys. Doesn’t need to. Because he knows that feeling. The one where you let yourself believe, just for a second, that you’re safe. That you can be like the people who are allowed to love their partner openly. That you can feel normal, just for one precious moment.

And then someone like her reminds you of exactly what the world thinks of you.

His jaw clenches. His grip tightens on the armrest. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose and braces himself for the inevitable crushing blow of hearing his straight boy high school crush agree that men who like men are gross.

It doesn’t come.

Eddie cautiously opens his eyes.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. But Eddie sees the way his shoulders have gone rigid, the way his head has dipped slightly, like he’s trying to disappear into the seat. And that’s when Eddie knows.

This isn’t just secondhand embarrassment. Her comment hit him somewhere deep.

The girl leans in again, not picking up on Steve’s body language silently screaming at her to stop, voice low but still audible. “I mean, it’s just weird, right? Why do they have to do that in public? It’s not like anyone wants to see it.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold.

Steve shifts. His hands curl into fists on his knees. Then, quietly but firmly, he says, “Shut up.”

The girl turns, startled. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up,” Steve repeats, louder this time. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He watches the girl recoil, stunned, and then scoff like she’s the one who’s been wronged. “What crawled up your ass all of a sudden?”

“They’re just two people who like each other,” Steve says. “They’re trying to enjoy a date. How is that any of your business?”

Eddie’s breath catches.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the back of Steve Harrington’s head like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Steve had said something. Not just something, he had stood up - loud and clear and without hesitation - for two strangers. For people like Eddie. Eddie’s heart is pounding, but not from fear this time. It’s something else. Something warmer. Fiercer.

“Because it’s weird.” The girl doubles down,

“You wouldn’t think it was weird if it was those two people over there who were holding hands.” He gestures toward a man and woman sitting together near the front of the theatre.

“That’s different.”

Steve turns to her fully now, eyes sharp. “How?”

“Because it’s two men. It’s wrong. It’s disgusting,” she says. “I’d say the same if it were two women.”

Steve flinches hard, like he’s been physically hit.

There’s a beat of silence. Heavy. Final.

“I’m very close to someone who’s gay. And they’re smarter, kinder, funnier, and better than you’ll ever be,” Steve says, voice low and steady. “This date is over. Don’t bother calling me.” He goes to stand, but the girl shoves him back down and rises from her seat instead.

“You don’t get to walk out on me, I’m walking out on you,” she snaps. “I only came on this stupid date because I was bored, and I thought you’d wanna fool around like you supposedly do with all the other girls anyway. Turns out you’re a disappointment.”

She grabs her purse, mutters something under her breath, and storms out, heels clicking angrily against the floor.

Steve doesn’t watch her go. He just stares straight ahead, jaw tight, hands still clenched on his knees.

Eddie swallows hard.

He wants to say something. ‘Thank you for saying that,’ maybe. Or ‘that was brave’. Or even just ‘hey’. But all he can do is stare, stunned and a little breathless, because Steve Harrington just shattered every expectation Eddie ever had of him. And now Eddie’s sitting here while a laundry detergent commercial plays loudly in the background, heart in his throat, wondering how the hell he ever thought he had this guy figured out.

Steve puts his face in his hands and exhales deeply, like he’s trying to calm himself down. He seems tired now, defeated. Something about that doesn’t sit right with Eddie after what he just witnessed. It spurs him into action. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just knows he can’t keep sitting there without saying something.

So, he stands. Walks down the steps. And stops at Steve’s row.

Steve hears the footsteps and looks up, startled. His expression flickers—confusion, then recognition, then something like wariness.

“Hey,” Eddie says, voice low. “Mind if I sit?”

His heart is hammering out a beat that would rival the work of the drummers in his favourite metal bands. He’s still mentally preparing himself for this Steve to disappear and be replaced by the jerk that had existed in his brain for the past few years.

Instead, Steve blinks at him, surprised. “Uh… sure? Eddie, right?”

“That’s what all the legends call me,” Eddie confirms, dropping into the seat beside him. There’s a beat of silence. Then he turns to look at Steve and “You okay?”

Steve lets out a breath, a small smile appearing on his face. “Yeah. I mean, not really. But I will be.”

Eddie nods. He doesn’t push. Just lets the quiet settle for a moment. Then he says, “So that was a lot.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Not exactly how I pictured the night going. I assume you heard everything?”

“Yep. She sucked,” Eddie says bluntly.

Steve snorts. “Yeah. She really did.”

Another pause. Eddie shifts, glancing sideways at him. “You didn’t have to say anything,” he says. “But you did.”

Steve shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Didn’t feel like a choice.”

“That’s kind of the point, though,” Eddie says. “Most people would’ve just let it slide. Pretended they didn’t hear it. You didn’t.”

Steve’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I’ve let too much slide before. I’m not doing that anymore.”

Eddie studies him. There’s something in Steve’s voice, something tired, but solid. Like a line’s been drawn and he’s not stepping back from it. And Eddie feels that twist in his chest again. That strange, warm ache.

“I meant every word I said,” Steve adds, softer now. “I have a close friend, more like a platonic soulmate really, who’s gay and the best person I know." He looks wounded. “And hearing someone I put enough trust in to consider dating basically call that person gross and disgusting and wrong... I couldn’t just sit here and listen to that crap.” His fists clench. “It’s one thing if it’s me she’s saying those things about but-”

He turns to face Eddie, his eyes wide and hands shaking as he realises the implications of what he said.

And Eddie knows that feeling.

He’s worn that same expression before. In locker rooms. In hallways. In classrooms where someone said something cruel under their breath and everyone else just laughed. But Steve Harrington? King Steve? He’s not supposed to know what that feels like.

Except he does.

Eddie nods slowly. “It’s okay. I figured.” He admits as casually as possible to try and ease Steve’s panic, although he’s still reeling over the events of the past few minutes. “You’re safe with me,” he promises.

Steve’s tense shoulders deflate, and glances at him curiously. “You?”

Eddie meets his eyes. “Yeah. Me.”

There’s no shock in Steve’s face. No judgment. Just a quiet kind of understanding.

“Cool,” Steve says. And he means it.

Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then he grins, crooked and a little shy.

“You know,” he says, “you’re not what I expected.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re kind of a dork from the bits of conversation I overheard before things went bad.”

Steve laughs, and it’s real this time. “Takes one to know one.”

They sit in silence for a moment longer, their eyes lingering on each other, then Steve fully relaxes into his seat and turns to face the screen. “Well, no sense in wasting my ticket,” he says, then he holds his popcorn bucket out to Eddie, who’s only just realised he left his behind. “Wanna share?”

Eddie grins and grabs a handful. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—————————

It’s the most fun Eddie’s had in a while.

Steve leans into his space every now and then, whispering snarky commentary about the characters’ terrible decisions and even worse fashion choices. He especially tears into the asshole jock character, which catches Eddie off guard in the best way.

Eddie starts leaning in too, throwing in his own jabs, and before long, they’re trading quips like they’ve done this a hundred times before. At one point, one of them says something so ridiculous that they both dissolve into laughter. It’s the kind that’s breathless and uncontrollable.

Someone turns around and shushes them, loud and annoyed.

They immediately straighten, whispering apologies like guilty schoolkids. But the second the person turns back around, they catch each other’s eyes and grin, barely holding back another round of hysterics.

Steve nudges Eddie’s shoulder with his own, playful and warm.

Eddie nudges back.

If the small, friendly gesture sends goosebumps up his arms, well—that’s for Eddie to know and nobody else to find out.

Then, near the end of the film, the tension ramps up. The music swells. Eddie’s leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowed, when a sudden jumpscare hits and Steve gasps. Before Eddie can even register what’s happening, a larger, warmer hand grabs his.

Eddie freezes.

Not because he’s scared of the movie—though the jumpscare was decent—but because Steve Harrington is holding his hand.

Tightly.

Warm fingers wrapped around his own, palm pressed flush against his. It’s instinctive, a reflex, but Steve doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it at first.

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He’s not sure if it’s the shock or the fact that his heart is currently trying to beat its way out of his chest, but he’s rooted to the spot.

Then Steve seems to realize what he’s done. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he glances sideways, eyes wide, a little sheepish.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

Eddie turns his head slowly, meets his gaze. Steve’s face is flushed, his expression somewhere between embarrassed and apologetic. Eddie could make a joke. He could laugh it off, tease him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gives Steve’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You can hold on if you want.”

Steve blinks. His eyes search Eddie’s face for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s serious. Then he smiles, small, grateful and a little shy. It warms Eddie to his very core.

He doesn’t let go.

They sit like that for the rest of the movie. Their shoulders brushing, hands clasped between them and fingers intertwined, the flickering light from the screen casting soft shadows across their faces. Eddie doesn’t even remember how the movie ends, but he remembers the way Steve’s thumb brushed lightly over his when the final girl shared a kiss with her love interest.

And he knows, without a doubt, that something’s changed and shifted between them. It’s something small, but at the same time monumental.

As the lights come up, Steve sighs. He gives Eddie’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and standing to stretch. Eddie’s hand falls to his lap, suddenly cold, and he stares at it for a second like it might still remember the shape of Steve’s fingers.

He already misses the warmth. The weight. The quiet reassurance of it.

“Did you drive here?” Steve asks suddenly.

Eddie blinks, caught off guard. He expected this to be the end. He expected they would just awkwardly part ways in silence after this, try to lose each other in the small crowd exiting the theatre and then avoid each other for the most part. Maybe they would share a nod or a half-smile the next time he wandered into Family Video, but that’s all Eddie had hoped for.

He hadn’t hoped for this, for Steve waiting for Eddie to stand too, still looking at him like he wants to keep talking.

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie says. “My van’s out back.”

Steve nods. “Cool. I parked a few rows over. You wanna walk out together?”

Eddie’s heart stutters. He stands slowly, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

They fall into step as they exit the theatre, the buzz of the credits still echoing faintly behind them. The lobby is mostly empty now, just a few stragglers and the hum of vending machines. Outside, the night air is cool and quiet, the parking lot bathed in soft yellow light.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Steve glances over, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Thanks for sitting with me. I didn’t expect… well, any of this.”

Eddie shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, me neither. But I’m glad I did.”

Steve smiles back, and it’s that same small, shy one from earlier. It makes Eddie feel like he’s standing too close to a bonfire, especially now with the glow of the streetlights illuminating Steve’s features. They reach the edge of the lot where their cars are parked a few rows apart. Eddie slows, not quite ready to say goodbye.

Steve hesitates too. Then, almost nervously, he says, “Hey, uh… are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, slower this time, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Steve’s face lights up, just a little. “There’s a diner a few blocks from here. It’s not fancy, but they’ve got decent fries and terrible coffee.”

“Sounds perfect. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

The pet name's out before Eddie can stop it.

His brain short-circuits the second it leaves his mouth. His eyes go wide, and he immediately wants to rewind time, shove the word back down his throat, and pretend it never happened.

Shit.

He curses himself silently. Nicknames have always slipped out like second nature around his friends, bandmates, even the occasional stranger. But this? This is Steve. And this moment feels different. More fragile. More real.

He risks a glance at Steve, fully expecting confusion, maybe discomfort.

But Steve’s just looking at him with that same soft smile. A little surprised, sure, but not upset. If anything, he looks… pleased?

“Sweetheart, huh?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice.

Eddie lets out a breathy, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a reflex. I swear. I’ve called random people on the street ‘darlin’ and the guy working the counter at the gas station ‘babe’ before now.”

Steve hums, clearly amused. “Didn’t say I minded. But now I’m a little jealous of the guy at the gas station.”

Eddie blinks. “You didn’t? …You are?”

“Nope, not at all. And yeah, I am.” Steve starts walking, hands in his pockets, glancing back over his shoulder with an exaggerated pout. “Thought I might’ve been special for a second there.”

Eddie wants to kiss that look right off his face, but he reels that thought in fast. Steve’s probably just joking. Just sharing friendly banter with a guy he knows won’t hurt him for it. Who is Eddie to deny him that experience or make it awkward by assigning a deeper meaning to it?

“What can I say, Steve?” he shrugs. “The man sometimes gives me discounts on my favourite brand of cigarette. How can you compete with that?”

Steve bites his lip, clearly trying to stifle a smile. Eddie’s eyes lock on his mouth.

“I can think of a few ways,” Steve says, voice low, suggestive and just a little nervous as he sways into Eddie’s space. He gets close, so close Eddie’s stomach swoops.

Then a devilish grin curls at the corner of Steve’s lips.

“Last one to the diner pays.”

“Wha—” Eddie starts, dazed.

But Steve’s already taken off running, his laughter echoing behind him.

“Hey! That’s no fucking fair! You’re rich!” Eddie shouts, already breaking into a sprint.

Steve turns, running backward for a second just to flash him a grin. “Better catch up to me then!”

Eddie cackles, wild and breathless, as he chases after him. He sees the moment Steve realizes he’s gaining fast and the flicker of panic that crosses his face. Steve hadn’t counted on the fact that Eddie Munson has years of experience running from trouble.

Trying to push his legs to work faster turns out to be a fruitless effort for Steve because Eddie manages to catch him around the waist and spin him away from the front door of the diner just as he’s about to reach for the handle. They almost end up sprawled on the ground together from the momentum of it, but Steve manages to grasp Eddie’s forearms and fix their footing as the metalhead leans against his back and laughs uncontrollably.

They stand there for a second, tangled up in each other, catching their breath. Eddie leans into him, still chuckling, and Steve can’t help but laugh too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and giddy.

“You’re fast,” Steve says, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re slow,” Eddie counters, grinning like he’s won the lottery.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “You tackled me.”

“I redirected you,” Eddie says, mock-offended. “With grace.”

Steve turns in his grip, still holding onto Eddie’s arms, and they’re suddenly face to face. Close. Closer than they’ve been all night. The laughter fades into something quieter, softer.

Eddie’s eyes flick to Steve’s mouth for just a second. Steve notices.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.

Then the diner door swings open behind them with a loud ding, and a couple walks out, chatting loudly and breaking the moment. Eddie steps back, clearing his throat. “Guess we should, uh… go inside before they run out of terrible coffee.”

Steve nods, still smiling. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

————————

“So, what you’re telling me is that you’re basically a single parent to six?”

They’re sat in a booth in the back corner, chatting animatedly and occasionally stealing each other’s fries even though they got exactly the same thing. They’d foregone the crappy coffee for milkshakes though, Steve’s strawberry and Eddie’s chocolate.

“Seven if you count Erica, Lucas’ little sister,” Steve corrects him. “But jury’s still out on whether she’s actually a child or whether Lucas is just living with the consequences of feeding a mogwai after midnight.”

“God you are such a nerd,” Eddie laughs, delighted. “’Mogwai’? You didn’t even use the incorrect term - ‘gremlin’ - like most people would. You just went straight in there with ‘mogwai’.”

Steve grins, clearly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I take my pop culture references seriously.”

Eddie leans back in the booth, shaking his head with a smile. “You’re a walking contradiction, Steve. You look like you should be quarterbacking some all-American football team, but you talk like you’ve got the entire catalogue of Family Video memorised.”

Steve sips his milkshake, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I do.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Steve shrugs, all faux-casual. “You’ll have to hang out with me again to find out.”

Eddie’s caught off guard for a second, not by the words, but by the way Steve says them. Like it’s not a joke. Like he means it. Eddie, who’s spent most of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, finds himself hoping just a little that maybe this time it won’t.

He smiles, softer now. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how does King of the jocks and certified lady-killer Steve Harrington become an actually decent and interesting guy with a brood of little lost ducklings?”

Steve leans back in the booth, fingers idly tracing the condensation on his milkshake glass.

“It’s a long story, but I guess I just got tired of pretending I wanted the same things I used to,” he says. “Back in high school, it was all about the image. The parties, the girls, the reputation. I thought that was what I was supposed to want. What everyone expected from me.”

Eddie watches him, the teasing gone from his expression.

“But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t want to keep chasing something that never really made me feel good. I started figuring out that what I actually want is something that feels real. Something that lasts.”

He glances up, meets Eddie’s eyes. There’s something open in his expression. It’s unguarded, but cautious. Eddie’s heart does something strange in his chest, tightens and softens all at once. He reminds himself that shouldn’t be reading into things; Steve might just be getting used to having someone he can talk to about all this.

He nods slowly, voice quiet. “Yeah. I get that.”

They share a soft, secret smile.

“So,” Steve says. “You like metal, right? I don’t think I’ve ever listened to that before. What do you like about it?”

It’s a hard pivot in the topic of conversation, but Eddie allows it. Mostly because the fact that Steve seems to realise how important music is to Eddie and makes a point to ask him about it. Eddie’s eyes light up at the question, and he sits up a little straighter.

“Oh man, where do I even start?” he says, grinning. “Okay, so it’s loud, it’s chaotic. But it’s also honest. It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It’s raw and messy and emotional, and it doesn’t apologise for any of it.”

Steve watches him, chin propped on one hand, milkshake forgotten for the moment.

Eddie continues, more animated now. “And a lot of the songs are about overcoming adversity. About going through hell and somehow still fighting and persevering. It’s about taking back power when the world is trying to crush you. It makes me feel confident for a change, like I could take on anything. And people complain that it’s just noise but that’s so far from the truth. It takes so much talent and years of dedication and-”

He pauses, his eyes flicking to Steve’s, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “No, I like it. You talk about it like it’s more than just music.”

“It is,” Eddie shrugs, a little sheepish. “It kind of saved my life, y’know? When everything else felt like it was falling apart and I had nowhere I belonged, metal was the one place I could just be and feel accepted. No masks. No pretending.”

Steve’s expression softens. “That makes sense.”

There’s a beat of quiet between them, not awkward, just full. Like the air’s thick with things unsaid but understood. Then Steve leans forward, a playful glint in his eye. “So, if I wanted to dip my toe into the world of metal, where would I start? What’s, like, the gateway drug?”

“Really? You want to give up your metal virginity?”

“Didn’t have to put it like that,” Steve says, his face scrunching up in a way that’s far too cute to do anything good for Eddie’s heart.

“Okay, you’re coming over to my trailer as soon as possible and I’m going to play you some songs. I’m already mentally writing a list. This is gonna be so good.” Eddie laughs ecstatically and rubs his hands together deviously. “We’ll make a metalhead out of you yet, Steve.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Steve replies, his expression so open and honest that it gives Eddie pause.

Eddie’s demeanor turns softer. “You don’t have to like it though, y’know. I won’t be offended.”

“I know,” Steve meets his gaze, steady. “I want to understand the things that matter to you.”

Eddie’s caught off guard again. His heart does that weird fluttery thing, and he has to look away before he says something stupid.

“Cool,” he says, voice a little rough. “Yeah. Cool.”

They go back to their fries, the silence between them now warm and companionable. Outside, the neon sign of the diner flickers softly, casting pink and blue shadows across the table.

——————————

The bell chimes above their heads and a nice, middle-aged lady calls out a, “Thank you for coming, be sure to get home safe,” as Eddie holds the door open for Steve and they step back out into the cold night air.

Steve sidles up next to him. “Thank you for getting the door for me, Sweetheart,” he says, teasing.

Eddie groans loudly. “You are not going to let me forget about that, are you?"

“Never,” Steve beams.

They settle into a comfortable silence as they walk. Their shoulders touch once, then again, and neither of them moves away. Their hands are so close that they constantly brush against each other and it’s driving Eddie mad. All he would have to do is reach out a little and he could be holding Steve’s hand again. He isn’t able to summon the courage for that because he’s still not quite sure if Steve feels anything more than a budding sense of friendship toward him.

They walk in step down the quiet street, the night air crisp and laced with the scent of damp pavement and distant woodsmoke. The town is mostly asleep, windows glowing softly in the distance, the occasional car humming by like a lullaby.

Their hands brush again. This time, Steve doesn’t pull away. In fact, he lets his fingers linger just a second longer than before. Eddie’s heart stutters.

He swallows. “Hey, uh… you don’t have to say yes or anything, but would you ever want to come to a show sometime, like one of the local gigs I play or even just hang out while I practice? Hear some live music.”

Steve looks over at him, eyes warm. “I’d love that.”

Eddie blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I want to see you in your element. I bet you look cool as hell on stage.”

Eddie laughs, a little breathless. “I mean, I do, obviously. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

They stop next to Eddie’s van. Neither of them moves to leave just yet.

Steve rocks on his heels. “Thanks for tonight. I had more fun than I probably had in years if I’m being honest.”

Eddie nods, his voice soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a pause. Neither of them moves.

Then Steve clears his throat and pulls one hand free, fishing around in his back pocket. “Before I forget,” He pulls out a pen and the crumpled diner receipt, scribbles something down, and hands it to Eddie. “My number. For whenever you want to hang out or just talk.”

Eddie takes it, fingers brushing Steve’s. He looks down at the messy scrawl of digits, then back up, heart thudding. “Thank you. I’ll definitely call you to set something up soon, and let you know as soon as I know when the next gig’s going to be.”

“Cool, I can’t wait,” Steve smiles.

He hesitates for a second, then steps a little closer, his gaze drifting to Eddie’s lips. “Also, I’ve been thinking about doing this all night.”

Eddie barely has time to process that before Steve leans in and kisses him.

The kiss is soft and tentative at first, like a question asked in a language neither of them is fluent in yet. Steve’s lips brush against Eddie’s with a kind of reverence, like he’s afraid to push too far, too fast. But Eddie’s breath catches, and instinct takes over. He leans in, closing the distance, answering the question with a quiet certainty.

His hands find their way to Steve’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like they’ve always belonged there. Steve’s hands hover for a moment before settling gently on Eddie’s shoulders, grounding them both.

The world fades. The cold night air, the hum of a distant streetlamp, the faint creak of the van’s metal frame, all of it disappears. It’s just them. Just this.

Steve tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and Eddie feels it like a spark down his spine. It’s still gentle, still careful, but there’s something more now. It’s something that says ‘I see you’ and ‘I want this’. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When they finally part, it’s slow, reluctant. Steve’s eyes flutter open, and he looks at Eddie like he’s trying to memorize every detail of his face.

“Was that okay?” Steve asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie blinks, dazed, lips tingling, heart pounding. Then he grins, wide and a little breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, that was more than okay.”

Steve lets out a soft laugh, relief blooming across his face. “Good.”

They linger there, close enough to feel each other’s breath in the space between them. Steve leans in again, slower this time, and kisses him once more. It’s just as soft and just as sure. It’s the kind of kiss that says this isn’t a one-time thing.

“I’ll call you,” Eddie says, still smiling as they hesitantly move away from each other. “God, it might even be as soon as I get home after a kiss like that.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Steve replies, stepping back slowly, like he’s reluctant to go.

Eddie watches him walk away, heart pounding, fingers still curled around the scrap of paper like it’s something precious.

Steve turns back to face him and, he’s smiling, nervous, but genuine. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

Eddie’s frozen for a second, then grins, wide and a little dazed. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

They part ways, both of them feeling a little lighter than before.

[storyslover]

plsss can you do one where you’ and lando are both celebs, established relationship on hot ones versus!!!! reader is good with wings and lando we clearly know is rubbish with spice!!! 😭

Heat Check

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader (both celebrities – established relationship) Setting: Hot Ones Versus Episode Genre: Humor, Fluff, Realism, Slightly Suggestive Word Count: 5.8k

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

INTRO

The Hot Ones Versus set was exactly as intimidating as it looked on YouTube. A sleek black table. Two rows of sauces. An aura of chaotic pain in the air.

Y/N adjusted her mic and smirked. “You ready to embarrass yourself in front of millions, baby?”

Lando, already chewing on gum to “prep” his taste buds, gave her a look. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I’m mentally prepared. Physically, though? I’m fully expecting to cry.”

Sean Evans laughed from across the table. “This is gonna be good.”

Cameras rolled. Lights came on. The director counted them in.

“Alright, welcome to Hot Ones Versus, the show with hot questions and even hotter wings. Today we’ve got a power couple in the hot seats—Y/N, international superstar and apparently spice queen, and Lando Norris, F1 driver, known for fast laps and a weak spice tolerance.”

Lando raised his hand. “That’s slander. I never said weak, I said sensitive.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and winked at the camera. “Translation: weak.”

Sean grinned. “Let’s get into it.”

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

WING ONE – “Classic Hot Sauce”

“You know what’s terrifying?” Lando said after the first bite. “This already has a kick to it.”

Y/N shook her head. “It’s literally the starter wing.”

“Exactly. And I’m already sweating.”

“You always sweat when you’re nervous.”

Lando looked at her. “I’m nervous because of you. You eat scotch bonnets like popcorn.”

Sean laughed. “So, question one—how did this power couple begin? We know you kept it low-key for almost a year.”

Lando took a sip of milk and leaned back. “It was at the Monaco afterparty, remember that?”

Y/N nodded, lips curved. “Yeah. You spilled your drink on my shoes.”

“They were white! I thought I’d ruined your life.”

“You kind of did. But in a cute way.”

He chuckled, eyes soft. “I offered to replace them. She said I could buy her dinner instead.”

“And he was too nervous to kiss me until the third one.”

“Because you’re intimidating.”

“Because I could handle jalapeños and you cried at sriracha.”

Sean held up a wing. “And now here you are. Full circle.”

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

WING FOUR – “Los Calientes Verde”

“This one’s tasty,” Y/N said, licking sauce off her finger. “Limey. Fresh.”

Lando was already hiccupping. “I’m dying. Are my ears supposed to ring?”

“Only if you’re a coward.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he wheezed.

Sean leaned in. “Y/N, let’s talk about your latest album. Critics called it your most personal work yet—how did Lando react to being... heavily featured in some of the lyrics?”

Y/N smirked. “He blushed so hard he looked like a tomato.”

“I didn’t know she wrote that song about the balcony in Ibiza,” Lando groaned.

“Oh, you knew. You just didn’t want your mum to find out.”

Y/N turned to Sean. “Let’s just say he didn’t mind the writing process.”

The corner of Lando’s mouth lifted. “I definitely didn’t.”

She gave him a loaded look. Suggestive. Playful. Dangerous.

Sean raised a brow. “Okay, the room is  heating up in more ways than one.”

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

WING SIX – “Da Bomb Evolution”

Lando stared at the sauce bottle like it had personally offended him.

“This is the evil one,” he said solemnly. “I’ve seen the memes. I’m not ready.”

“Baby,” Y/N cooed. “You race at 300 km/h. This is just sauce.”

“This sauce doesn’t have brakes.”

Sean gestured dramatically. “Da Bomb Evolution. The moment of truth.”

They both took a bite.

Lando immediately made a sound between a cough and a whimper. His eyes widened. “I can’t feel my lips.”

Y/N winced slightly, but kept chewing. “That... yeah, that’s aggressive.”

Lando stood up, pacing behind the chairs, muttering, “Why is it bitter? Why does it taste like pain?”

“You okay, sweetheart?” Y/N asked innocently, fanning him with a napkin.

“I think I saw my ancestors,” he whispered. “They said turn back.”

Sean leaned in. “Lando, real talk—what’s harder: hot wings or driving through Eau Rouge in the rain?”

Lando, eyes watering, didn’t hesitate. “The wings. Every time.”

“Spoken like a man in distress,” Y/N said, smug.

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

WING EIGHT – “Puckerbutt Pepper Company”

Lando was fully slumped in his chair, hoodie half off, eyes glassy.

Y/N, surprisingly composed, dabbed her lips with a napkin. “You good, babe?”

“I’m reconsidering my life choices.”

“You picked this show.”

“You said it’d be fun!”

Sean interjected, “Alright, next versus question—who’s more competitive?”

They both answered at the same time:

“Her .” “Him.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You nearly flipped a Monopoly board because I wouldn’t sell you Boardwalk.”

“Because you only bought it to spite me!”

Sean laughed. “I feel like there's a running theme in your relationship—chaotic flirting and competitive spice wars.”

Y/N smirked. “That's basically our love language.”

Lando turned to her, mouth still burning. “If I survive this, I deserve a back massage. And cuddles. And like... eternal praise.”

“You already get that.”

“Not enough. I’m being a spice martyr here.”

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

FINAL WING – “The Last Dab: Apollo”

Sean held up the final wing. “Tradition says we put a little extra on the last wing.”

Lando shook his head. “Tradition can go to hell.”

Y/N didn’t blink. “Load me up.”

Lando stared at her like she wasn’t human. “You’re not real.”

She leaned in. “That’s what you said last night.”

Lando choked on air. Sean nearly dropped the sauce bottle.

“Y/N!” Lando hissed.

She laughed, biting into the final wing with almost zero hesitation.

He followed, grimacing instantly. “This is... this is a hate crime.”

Sean, through tears of laughter, asked, “Final question. What’s next for you two?”

Y/N smiled through the heat. “More music. More racing. Hopefully fewer spicy sauces.”

Lando wiped his face with a napkin. “And if I survive, maybe a vacation. Somewhere cold. Iceland. Antarctica.”

Y/N leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You were brave.”

He gave her a look. “You are so paying for this.”

“Gladly.”

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

POST-INTERVIEW: BEHIND THE SCENES

In the dressing room, Lando collapsed dramatically onto the couch, still fanning his mouth.

“I will never recover.”

Y/N sat beside him, bottle of milk in one hand. “You were cute. I think Sean’s gonna ship us now.”

He glanced at her. “You mean you weren’t already shipping us?”

“You were very dramatic,” she teased.

“I nearly died for you.”

“Oh? For me?”

He looked at her, eyes softer now. “Always for you.”

And just like that, the spice was forgotten.

Kind of.

Until he groaned again. “My stomach’s doing things. Bad things.”

She patted his leg, laughing.

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

Here it is hope you like it . and my requests are open guys . just ask .

[my-castles-crumbling]

popcorn - January 20 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 310

"...and then you go over there and get food," James said, gesturing to the counter with all the colorfully-wrapped candies and the giant vat of popcorn. He held their tickets for the cinema in one hand and Regulus's hand in the other.

"No," Regulus whispered, half in disgust and half with disbelief. "James...all of that popcorn...it's all just...sitting there! How long has it been out? That's disgusting!"

"Just wait until they put the butter on it!" James replied gleefully, dragging Regulus towards the food. "It's so greasy and salty! It's amazing!"

But even as Regulus looked on with shock while James spoke with the Muggle at the counter, ordering one large popcorn, two sodas, and two candies Regulus had never heard of, he couldn't help but look around the large room in amazement. Muggles were fascinating, he had to admit.

"Now, he's the thing," James said after he finished, handing Regulus his food and drink, (he overheard that the candy bar came all the way from the planet Mars, but he wasn't sure how that could be true), "when we get in there, you want to head to the back row."

"What?" he asked, stopping to stare suspiciously. He'd been to plays in the Wizarding world, after all, and the best seats were always at the front. "Why?"

"Because," James smirked, winking at him, "I'm showing you how a Muggle date works. And when you go on a date to the cinema, the best place for snogging is in the back."

Regulus let out a shocked laugh, almost dropping his soda as warmth shot through his body. He got ahold of himself quickly, though. "Alright, Potter. Lead the way," he grinned.

And even though the popcorn was disgusting and the movie was subpar, Regulus had to admit that he didn't end up paying attention to either of those much, anyway.

[clawsdevour]

homemade film

wc: 1.3k content warning: post-timeskip, public, fingering, smut, kuroo x reader, not proof read

note: THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS IN SUCH A SHORT TIME SPAN!!!! I LOVE YOU ALL FOR READING MY RANDOM DRABBLES AND ONE SHOTS AND HCS THANK YOU <3

⋆·˚ ༘ ,

The smell of warm buttery popcorn hits your nose the moment your boyfriend, Kuroo, flings open the door for you. Heading in, both of you were so excited to watch this new movie that you see everyone talk highly about.

“Thank you.” Kuroo receives the two slips of tiny paper that tells you your seating, giving you yours to see what seat you’re sitting in.

Glancing down at your tickets, your seat was A19. Which means he’s either gonna be sitting next to you on A20 or A18. A? Is that the front or back row of the theater? Pondering, you’re really hoping it’s not the front.

“Kuroo, are we sitting in the front or back of the room?” Kuroo’s looking at you with a happy expression. You’re staring at him for an answer as he lets out a low nervous chuckle.

“So.. you know the movie’s pretty popular. Somehow I got us the last seats they had left. This might sound funny but, we’re sitting all the way in the back. And well.. in the corner too, haha..” you didn’t mind at all where you were gonna sit, you were just a bit curious about all the seats that would be sold out. You giggled out an It’s okay while you wrap your arm around his bicep.

“Let’s get some popcorn and a drink to share, then find our seats, yeah?” Kuroo nods while walking you over to the concession stands. You order a medium popcorn with extra butter and a soda before strolling down to your assigned theater.

It was pretty easy to find your seats. Like Kuroo said, back corner. Your seating location made it kinda difficult to see the screen. But you’re still able to watch the movie of the century with your boyfriend Kuroo, which was all that mattered to you. You feel his eyes on you as your head is turned to the screen with eyes glued on the advertisement.

“Can you see from here babe?” Kuroo asked while popping a few pieces in his mouth. Nodding your head, grabbing the drink from the cup holder. You brush your hands against his warm knuckles, averting your vision to look back at him as the lights slowly dim.

“I hope this movie is as good as they say…” you leaned in, whispering seductively to toy with him before you returned to your seat. He’s looking at you with his mouth slightly parted open, processing your advances. You see him shift the way he sits to get comfortable, slouching down in his seat. Possibly hiding his slightly growing erection as the movie started.

Halfway into the movie, he’s munching loudly on popcorn acting like the movie’s gonna end already. The look in his expression already tells you that he’s not getting the film whatsoever. Three quarters through, you started to understand why. The movie is such a bore. Did people actually sit through and watch this whole thing.. or are they lying in the reviews?? Random thoughts about the movie raced through your mind as you tried to understand this strange plot.

At some point in the movie it’s literally just the main character’s flashbacks replaying from the beginning of the movie. The light casted onto you from the screen, and onto your smooth thighs that spilled on the seat. Kuroo’s eyes couldn’t keep his gaze away, you felt his piercing pupils stare at you but you didn’t know where they lingered. That was until the brightness dimmed and you felt a warm big hand gently place itself on your leg.

Kuroo’s hand slowly stroked and carressed your thigh as he continued to have his attention on the screen. He knows what he’s doing. Your legs stiffened and pressed against each other. When you turned your head to look at him, his eyes watched the movie with a slight smirk that appeared on his face when he started to trace patterns onto your skin.

You can’t help but think This may be risky, but it does make things fun.. way more exciting than the movie itself. Biting down your lower lip before glancing to your right. People’s eyes are all focused on the boring film in front of them. You reach down, placing your hand on top of his to slide him down to your warm and slightly damp panties. Looking up at him through your lashes, he’s also taking a peek at you, understanding your motives.

“This movie’s boring, hmm?” Kuroo’s husky voice cooed in your ear, words only you’re able to hear through the whole room with his hand between your legs. Quietly you agree with him before rubbing them together when his fingers find and press against your clothed clit.

“You look so pretty today, getting all dolled up for our date.. even though the movie isn't that good as people said…” his lips placed a kiss on your cheek as he continued to murmur into your ear, his hot breath tickling your face.

“Can I make you feel good by slipping a finger or two in, baby?” Awaiting your permission, he doesn’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do. However, you grant access to his request. The thrill was exciting, you’ve never felt the adrenaline rush through you like this before.

Covering your silent gasp with your hands when his fingers reach into your underwear. Brushing against your clit, feeling all the collected slick that you produced down there from all the excitement. His middle finger fiddles around, making sure he gets it all wet before sticking it into you. You can’t help but squirm a bit in your seat when he makes contact with your bundle of nerves. Feeling his finger prob down there, your hand travels onto his forearm, impatiently signaling him to enter your hole. To which he obliges, holding back a sigh of relief while you feel his long thick finger enter you.

He feels you clench around him, driving him crazy. “Shit..” Kuroo’s mumbling to himself while you scanned the theater trying to cover his movements. He’s gradually taunting you down there, curling his finger around your tight walls, watching your silent reactions with a small grin plastered across his lips.

Feeling the knot start to build up in your stomach, ready to be released soon. Breathing heavily as he starts to speed up, he adds in another finger which makes you tilt your head back. Kuroo… this man..! When we get home I’m gonna suck you bone dry, just you wait. The juices coming out started to soak your panties, and eventually dripped down onto the cushions of the seat you’re sitting on.

Increasing your grip on his arm to let him know you’re close. He’s adding more speed and power with each thrust his fingers launch into you. Your legs started to shake as you tried to keep them apart for him so he could finish you off. Your nails dug deep into his arm, creating crescent marks on his skin. Knowing how that knot was about to be cut, he places his thumb on your clit. Kuroo’s thumb moved in circles to stimulate you further.

Shuffling around with your head pushed back on your seat with all your might, taking in his long and thick fingers that created stimulating waves of pleasure. Your vision turned white. It wasn’t the end credits of the movie, you just came on his fingers. That built up knot that was just cut, sent you into great relief as euphoria washes over you. Your grip on his arm dropped to a zero while you sat in your seat trying to get your breathing back to its original state.

Pulling his fingers out of your sopping wet pussy, he’s also looking around to see if anyone noticed. Slipping his digits away from your body, Kuroo’s eyes were filled with lust while he showed you his devious smirk.

“How ‘bout we make our own movie when we get home?” Kuroo whispers while he licks your warm release off his glossy fingers.

masterlist here

[luvwestwood]

"Give Me Five" - Choso Kamo

4,591 words.

₊˚༊*·˚ warnings. nsfw (18+), ice-hockey player! choso, bestfriend's brother trope, p in v, resolved sexual tensions, foreplay, fingering, titty sucking, choso fucks you in his jersey, orgasm denial, praising, hair pulling, rough play, nsfw links (underlined), spitting kink, mirror play, feral choso

₊˚༊*·˚ notes. I absolutely enjoyed making this special request for @moonriseoverkyoto! thank you all so much for 700 followers ^^ included a link for you lovelies as a gift, hehe I hope to send more work your way soon :) thank you for the love and support this whole month!

rightful art credits to @/kmskc_f, @/yume041624, @/elcheggen, @/uoru1_juju (all on twt)!

(russian translation) - creds to @juliabelll 🩷

Goosebumps formed all over your skin as you were met with the coldness of the rink. Bits of regret filled you for being stubborn this morning, choosing to not wear extra layers. Squinting, you look around to find a close friend of yours, not too far a figure jumping up and down catches your eye.

"Hey! Over here- I'm here!" Yuji called to you in his typical, chirpy voice. Multiple heads turned to the sudden commotion, followed by another look to your direction. Embarrassed, you facepalm; whispering quiet apologies to others as you squeeze past the row of seats, making your way over.

"Yuji!- I got caught in traffic. Did I miss anything?" You fold down the seat next to him, the excited Yuji passing you another one of those generic team jerseys that he also had on. You take a good look at it before putting the garment over your head, the team colours being black and yellow.

Beside you, the boy rummages through a large plastic bag of popcorn. "Mmph- No- My brother would be happy if he knew- You were here." His eyes were wide open and alert, observing the game like a hawk.

"..Ah, it's nothing. If I didn't go, I would have been rotting at home." You giggled, knowing the real answer. As soon as Yuji sent the text, 'wanna go to my brother's game next weekend?'. You had to go. You've been dying to go. Ever since you met Choso for the first time, you made good use of every opportunity you had to see him.

He had an unforgettable face, and a dreamy body you'd sometimes, and shamelessly catch a glimpse of from time to time. But you were doubting, and unsure if the feeling was mutual. The man was busy, which drove you to think he had no time for a woman in his life.

You fixate your head to the rink in front of you. Of course, you got a hold of the best seats. Yuji being the brother of a world renowned hockey player had it’s benefits.

The same bag of popcorn lands firmly onto your lap, Yuji reaching for the soda cup underneath his foot. "Hmm, he looks pissed though. I think I know why." He leans back, index finger scratching at his head.

You furrow your brows, taking several glances around the ice. A familiar back faced you, 'Kamo' and '12' plastered onto the behind of his jersey. Dark hair effortlessly left down, not too much going on. A couple loose strands falling onto his face, Choso looked like a dream. Yuji beside you shrieks for his name, cheering his brother on.

Choso spins around, glaring at the audience. He was outraged, and you weren't sure why. He didn't dare smile, or wave. Yuji grunts at his brothers reaction, smile fading and slouching back down onto the seat.

"..Oh, I get what you mean now." It was undeniable that Choso was a different person behind his helmet, and that he took the sport seriously. He always wanted to make everyone proud. As one of the best players on his team, everyone counted on him, so there was a generous amount of pressure on his shoulders.

The screeching blow of a whistle shrills throughout the arena for half time, Choso violently shoving his hockey stick onto the ice. Plenty of teammates approach him, others choose to not get involved. Either way, he shoves past them. Everyone around you seemed confused, wondering what made him so agitated. You watched as he cursed to his higher-ups, hands strongly gripping onto the side wall.

"Every day, I fucking hate this sport more and more." Choso speaks through gritted teeth, angrily ripping off his helmet. "Piece of shit."

The staff team stands aside, ushering him out of the rink. His coach guides him over to the side bench, crouching down to give him a typical, motivational chat. Choso only puts his head down and into his gloved hands, becoming more and more annoyed by the second.

"Kamo- you know what? Bring your ass back to the locker room and give yourself five." Not knowing what to do, his coach decides it was best for him to blow off some steam. Not letting out another word, he storms off back into the locker rooms, the crowds groaning as he does so; the privacy invading camera focusing on him.

Chatter filled the air between the crowds around you. “..What happened to him? Your brother just stormed off.” You turn to Yuji, confused and filled with millions of questions.

"No clue, but I'm still a bit hungry." Yuji sighs, looking at the now empty plastic bag of popcorn. He takes a sip of what's left in his soda cup.

"..What? You are?" You look through your purse for some money. More than enough, that's for sure. A wrinkled twenty bill was tucked away inside. "Here- I'll go and get you something. It's on me."

You could've sworn that you had seen happiness twinkle in his eyes. This boy certainly loves to eat. "..Really?" He smiles, in response you nod your head up and down.

"Yeah! Just give me five, I'll be back as soon as possible." You warmly confirm the offer and he nods, shortly before you had to endure the entire process squeezing your way back out of the row.

You walk off into the tunnel leading to the outside of the arena. So many halls, and I’m not even familiar with this place. The two minute stroll led you to nowhere anyways, resulting in you doubting yourself. “…Where’s the food court?” You pout, coming to the conclusion you had probably been walking in circles this whole time.

The next long corridor you were met with was filled with doors everywhere. Loads of them. “..Ah.. have I been here before?”

Walking past each door, you look around for anybody nearby who was able to provide some sort of guidance. Hopeless, there was no one at all. Until one door you had walked past was slightly open, the light on. Maybe someone was in there? You genuinely just wanted to get your hot dogs.

You retrace your steps backwards, the faint sound of two voices coming from the room. Curious, you peeked your head through the slight gap.

"I don't think I did my best out there." It was Choso, elbows on knees on a padded seat. Heaving heavily, pulling the last strings of himself together. His coach with arms crossed in front of him. The conversation was hard to make out, but you were still able to put together some bits of it.

Clutching tightly onto your necklace, you couldn't help but feel concerned. Choso adored this sport with his entire heart, but so much he didn't have time to do anything else. Yuji always talked about how distant he could be when preparing for the new season.

The cursing stops, and before you know it, the door in front of you was wide open; framing you to look like an absolute snoop. You howl, instantly stepping back from the door frame. The same coach stood in front of you, an appalling look on his face. "Who the hell are you?! A money hungry reporter? Guards!-"

You nervously laugh, "Oh- No, no- I'm not a-", endless words were coming out of your mouth in a complete babble.

"..I know her." Choso who was watching everything unfold, tilted his head to the side, looking to see who was at the door.

The coach looks at you with an unamused expression, giving Choso a double look. His voice grows low, speaking in a discreet manner. "How about you talk it out with him. He needs it." He says before walking away from the frame, giving you a stare down as he does so.

Dumbfounded, a string of words only come out in a disoriented patter, "..I was just, looking for the.. concession stand.."

Choso on the other hand, keeps quiet. Blankly staring at the carpeted floor. His gloves and skates were off, but his jersey still on. You gulp, considering if you should speak anymore; scared that you'll only tick him off further.

Your hands rested in each of your palms, unsure whether you should step inside. "..I'm here with your brother, actually- cause he invited me to-"

"I know. I wanted you to come. I invited you, I told him to ask you." Choso speaks lowly, his tone different from when he was talking to the coach. He lets out a labored sigh, mumbling. "..Only for me to play like absolute shit,"

Processing what he had just said, it still changed your entire perspective. You didn't know how to think of it though, so you simply looked over it.

Deciding to approach him rather than standing at the door like some stranger, you close the door behind you. Recalling the coach talking about 'money hungry reporters', you didn't want to take any chances. "..I don't mean to pry, but do you want to talk about.. this?" Sitting down on the free seat beside Choso, you were careful with your choice of words. You didn't want to dig the hole any deeper. Making yourself comfortable, you set your bag away to the side and faced him.

Choso's voice was more soft, and it wasn't as stern to when he was talking to his coach. "..I just don't approve of how I'm performing lately."

Personally, you didn't know much about ice hockey. Nor did you store any valuable advice for it in your brain. It pained you to think that if you were to give him advice, you'd sound like a typical high school guidance counselor.

"Oh, well um.." You purse your lips, trying to come up with something to say. "Is it because you're.. stressed?" Still unsure of what to do, your hand slowly makes its way onto the flat of his back; slowly rubbing shapes all over to comfort him.

"Probably." Although his voice was now mellow, Choso's replies were becoming short and quick. You were afraid that this talking out was of no use to him.

Your hand stops its movements, "..Should you do something about it? Like let it out?", Choso lifts his head up, turning to you. A gulp forces down your throat at how intense he was eyeing you, your own eyes unable to hold contact.

Choso blinks, head turning away once again to rest his chin on his palm. "..I don't know how." That was his problem, Choso wasn't good at letting out his emotions. He usually bottled them up, and solved his personal problems on his own— you could almost refer to him as a stoic being.

Clearing your throat, you bite your lower lip to try and think of something. You gave him the advice, but you didn't know the method yourself. This is why I could never be a therapist.

You mentally curse at yourself, trying to come up with a suggestion that isn't so cheesy like, do what you love to do!

"..I don't know either.. Me- I guess?" A worried expression washes over your face, a mazed Choso turning his head to you for the second time.

A perplexed, questioning noise came stirred up in him. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Eyes fluttering, you were unable to provide him with another answer. What did you mean by, 'me'? Was it just another one of those moments where you let your mouth speak before you think? "..You could let it out.. on me?"

Chosos demeanor had altered, his chin peeling away from the warmth of his palm. His body sat upright as he looked at you, his lips slightly parted. You couldn't tell if he was mortified or enthralled; and you were almost begging for him to say something.

He closes his mouth and swallows some spit to nourish his dried out throat, before standing up in front of you. You feel as if your beating heart were to take over your entire body and head any second now. A lingering tension in the air so thick— not even a lumberjack could saw through it.

Choso's eyes surveying you from top to bottom, studying the features on your face— his thumb swipes across your cheek in a tender, reassuring matter. He was grateful of your offer, but he just couldn't bring himself to directly accept it.

Choso's hand slowly moves down your face, the tip of his thumb gently pressing down on your lower lip. "..You look good in our jersey," His thumb forces the rest of its way into your mouth, "..but even better if it was my own." Was this a code phrase for, 'I need to fuck you, and I need to fuck you now?' His thoughts drifted off to filthy things—like imagining himself rutting into you in his own, bespoke jersey, 'Kamo' in a dirty gold written on your back as you take him whole like a good girl.

Your breath hitches, his finger gliding over the surface of your tongue before he decides to pull it back out. Choso starts to take off the gear on his upper half, both the body pads and jersey.

It was difficult enough to keep your eyes off the now, half naked Choso in front of you. His body muscular and perfectly carved from all of the work he's been putting in for preparation, Choso was more than pleasing to look at. He tosses his jersey and gear beside you, his hands grabbing onto the flesh of your waist.

Lifting you from the seat, you wrap your legs around his torso, lips desperately locking onto each other as he switched positions. The two of you now sitting back down on the seat.

Short mewls and gasps for air leave your mouth as you started to pull your top over your head; Choso's hands roaming all over the surface of your ass. Your hands travel down his chest, your finger tips tracing over his abs painfully slow. Tongues tangling, Choso swallowing any moan he could get from you, especially after the distressingly slow period of yearning for one another. It felt like a reward.

Being the skilled man he is, his fingertips undo the clasp of your bra effortlessly. Groaning in satisfaction, eyes closed and sucking; a free hand fondling with the other.

You claw your fingers through his hair, quietly moaning as he hungrily latched onto your nipple. Arching against his bare skin, you ached to keep him close, and possibly closer. Amidst the sucking, Choso reaches for his jersey beside him, gesturing you to put it over your head. He fulfilled his wish. You proudly raise your arms up, feeling the fabric graze against your skin. It was quite massive on you, hence himself being twice your size.

Impatient, your curious hands wander off to the waistband of his pants; his safety gear already being off had made it easier. Reaching down and past his skin tight shorts, a thought evoking in you causing your hand to withdraw.

"..W-wait," You pant, "What about everyone out there?" You couldn't help but worry about those outside who would start to get suspicious. You knew how much this mattered to him.

Choso rolls his eyes. "I don't really care, they're assholes anyway. Let them wait." His lips only make its way back onto the skin of your neck, warm breath fanning down your sternum. He didn't care if everyone else were to wait outside. He had been waiting for this moment, dreaming about it - and would do anything to not miss it.

Using two hands, you possessively grab onto his jaw to keep him closer, Choso's hands cheekily moving up inside the jersey and cupping onto both of your tits. He really loves them, doesn't he?

Pulling away for another breath your lips miss his already. You hop off his lap, hastily unbuttoning and kicking off your jeans. They fly away to the other side of the locker room, Choso pulling you back into his embarace. But this time, you were facing the other way.

His fingers tug onto the hem of your panties, pulling them back until they snapped against your skin; the stinging sound echoing throughout the room.

You intently watch yourself in the full length mirror across from you two, Choso using his hands to guide your legs open; his head falling onto the crook of your neck.

Choso's hand slowly made its way down to the your panties, his fingertips moving the fabric to the side. Toying with your folds, taking his sweet time. His delicate, addicting touch giving you shivers all over. You close your eyes to indulge in the ecstasy of this moment; scolding yourself for not doing this with him any sooner.

His same fingertips circle your clit, the speed of his movements fluctuating; which resulted in you grabbing onto his bicep, your body sinking down into his lap. Choso watches you break into pieces under his touch, how you repeatedly tap on his arm- asking for leniency.

Choso leans down to your ear, his throaty voice almost sounding like he's purring. “Just relax for me, I can feel you’re too tensed up.” Wasn’t it supposed to be me who gives him advice? Why is it that the roles have reversed?

The back of your head presses deeply into his chest, Choso bringing retrieving fingers give them a generous suck before pushing them into you. His fingers curl up inside, working them in a motion that emits a squelching noise.

“C-Choso, it’s too much- please,” A whimper crawls out of your throat, the man above you cooing and hushing you.

Your hair raising pleas being the catalyst for him only wanting to do more than he already is. His middle finger taps and teases and your bundle of nerves, his strength making your tug on his wrist pointless. “..Shh, you don’t want them to hear, do you?”

You frantically shake your head from side to side, Choso grinning against the top of your head as he had you wrapped around his finger. Cock straining against his shorts, he would take a photo to make this memory last.

His gestures come to a halt and you whine, Choso had forbidden you from orgasming. "Choso!" You hiss as he glues his hands to your hips, twirling you around against the seat.

Mindfully pressing onto the flat of your lower back, he bends you forward; in need of support, your hands reached for the wooden slabs that divided the seats. His strong hands rip your underwear into fragments off your body, Choso sneering at you nagging him.

His actions in no rush, the same hands that were cupping your pussy now feeling down your back, Choso sheepishly grinning at this fresh new view, a degree of gratification fills him for the hundredth time at the sight of 'Kamo' and '12' plastered on your back.

You reach behind you, barely tapping your fingers on Choso's pelvis to grab his attention. He leans down to hear what you had to say, the imprint of his cock imprisoned by his shorts pressed against your bare pussy.

“..Let it all out, I promise I’ll be okay.” Your hand snaked behind his head, fingers combing through his hair one last time. His body heat glossed over your behind, a position so intimate.“Just tell me if I’m hurting you, alright?”

Nodding in approval, Choso withdraws into his old position. Grabbing for his girthy cock out of his shorts, he groans as he jerks it ever so slightly. Forming an orb of spit on his tongue, letting it fall directly onto his length. He doesn't waste anymore time to slide it in, the objective of not hurting you still at the back of his mind.

You let out a long, awaited whimper that broke out into a pained sniffle, his entire length stretching you out. Your anchoring onto the wooden panels only grew stronger, Choso stilling in you for a few moments. The two of you create a symphony of guilty satisfaction, Choso himself unable to process that you let him inside of you; luckiest man in the world, he thought.

His grip on the plush of your waist transition into a soothing massage, “..Are you okay?” Concerned, he regards your strained noises.

Tears well up in your eyes, Choso rubbing his hands up and down your back. “..I-I’m fine.” You replied, managing to form some words. Even though it hurts, you didn't want him to stop. You wanted this as much as he did. He inhales deeply, grunting as his hips stroked into you slow and deep. He took you in like a work of art, savoring every minute, second with you.

“Fuck, Choso- just go faster will you? I know you want to.” You choke out, words dying in your throat. Choso obeying the green llight, you felt him grab and twist onto the fabric of the jersey behind you, his hips snapping into you at a faster pace.

A cacophony of skin slapping and moaning echoed throughout the room, Choso brings his hand down to toy with your clit; heightening your stimulation. Your entire body jolting with each of his thrusts, his little praises like 'good girl', and 'you're taking me so well' making your sex pool like mad.

Broken and choppy curses slip past your wet llips, Choso letting go of the jersey and fixing his grip on your scalp, pulling your head back towards him.

His hand sneaks underneath your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact as you furrow your brows up at him. Your mouth stays wide open, moans no longer heard coming out from it. "Look at me baby," lids shut at the colossal pleasure, Choso needs not to repeat himself; but he does. "I said, look at me," Hauling your eyelids up, a vision of Choso glaring down at you from above— he wasn't the same person as the one half an hour ago.

Choso drops yet another ball of spit into your mouth, patting on the bottom of your chin telling you to shut and swallow, letting out a throaty sound in approval.

Clawing his fingers back into your scalp, he pushes your head back down. His leg lands onto the seat beside you, his thrusts brutally drilling into you deeper than before; Choso definitely rearranging your guts. You let him use you, so he did exactly that. Hell- if you two had a bed, just make sure you have enough saved for a new one the next day.

Makeup was unfortunately ruined from tears and spit, your hair no longer in perfect style from all the grabbing. His heavy balls relentlessly slapped against your clit, Choso huffing quietly.

He takes a hold of your two wrists, prying you from the comfort of the seat and commanding you to stand. Hypnotised, you watched everything unfold; Choso still holding onto your arms behind you as he continued to rut into your hole like a mad man.

Your cheeks were stained with tears, all sorts of unimaginable feelings stirring in the pool of your stomach; Choso already grows bored of the position. He swiftly lides you off his cock, turning you around for the fifth time today so he could see your beautiful face one more time.

Unsure of what was to happen next, you tiringly wrap both of your hands around his neck as he cupped onto the surface of your ass, lifting you up and sinking you down onto his cock. Your head rests against his chest in exhaustion, Choso’s anchored grip slowly loosening, choosing to move into the inside of your legs. Short paced breaths and eyes shutting at the new sensation of him fucking up into you. It was light work to him, carrying you was no problem at all.

Pushing both of you against a nearby wall, your back almost slid up and down the cold panels as Choso grew feral, his cock bullying but thoughtfully kissing your cervix at this unforgiving pace.

You fail to keep your eyes open, body taken over by bliss as he bottoms into you, convinced you had lost your voice. Choso could feel your silky juices move down his shaft, walls constantly clenching around around him.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes,” Choso orders, your hands hysterically tapping onto his shoulders to let him know you were going to snap. Your face winced in pain, you knew that you were going to have a hard time walking for the next week or two.

“..C-Choso,” you choke out, a threshold about to be met as the unfamiliar coil in your stomach urges to let loose.

His thrusts deepening to push you over the edge, cock sloppily moving in and out of your hole; his entire length coated with you.

“Just let it out— let it out.” he desperately whimpered, your mouth forming an ‘o’. His words like a spell, something that will haunt you for days coming. Choso’s eyes faux-sympathetically looking into yours that were blinking like mad as he felt your legs shiver in his grasp.

You shatter and cry at the orgasm that washed over you, bringing yourself to look at his cock withdrawing from your puffy, used cunt. Choso's jaw clenched, beads of white endlessly form at his tip, his balls twitching at the same time your gummy walls pulsed and throbbed around him.

He doesn’t let go of you, bodies still overheating and glistening from sweat. Instead he carries you back to the seats, sitting you down like a fragile porcelain doll. “My legs,” your voice raspy from the endless moaning, “..they’re so sore.”

Choso leans in for a meaningful kiss, your cock-dazed smile forming against his lips. His hands kneading your thighs. The locker room smelled of filthy, sinful sex—but that will just air out in no time. “..You need me to walk you out?”

“Choso, you can’t. There are cameras everywhere.” You grab your purse off the ground, in search of your phone. Almost forty five minutes have passed, your eyes widening. “Huh?! How long have I been gone for?"

He attempts to wipe the stained carpets, a faint white still engraved. Atleast he tried. “Pussy too good I forgot where I was, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Not funny, Choso. I need to get back to your brother!” Scurrying around the room, you pick your jeans off the ground, Choso whistling behind you causing you to turn your head,

“..Guess these aren’t of use to you anymore?” He holds the fragments of your panties up, torn to pieces, the dismaying mempry angering you as you were reminded of it for the second time.

You snap at him, Choso not taking any inch of you seriously. I mean, he literally had you whimpering, fucked you in his jersey and melting under his touch less than five minutes ago. “You fucking owe me a new pair.”

“I’ll buy you a hundred.”

You hurry out into the lobby, looking around for Yuji. Not having time to fix your hair, you almost scream as you walked past a reflection of yourself, mortified at how you looked. It’s okay… he wouldn’t suspect anything, right?

A familiar coral haired person was lounging at the sofas down the end, of course that had to be him. “Y-Yuji? is that you?” The head turning to your direction, it definitely was him; his eyes were shocked to still see you alive and standing before him.

You sit on the free armchair beside him, “..I’m so sorry, something just.. happened.” Nervously smiling, you wipe the residues of dried spit off your chin, your head stuck in one direction to avoid looking at Yuji in the face. Airing yourself with an invisible fan, you look away in all sorts of directions.

“It’s cool, the game got cancelled anyways- and I got my hotdogs.” He points to the four empty wrappers on the table in front of him. Yuji leans back against the sofa.

“..Uh— ..Is that, Choso's jersey?"

Fuck.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⤳ © luvwestwood ‘24 all works are owned by me, and originally come from my own head. please do not re-post on a third party platform without my permission!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⤳ as always, thank you for the love on each and every one of my posts! it means the world to me, ily guys sm!!🎀🩷

[luvwestwood masterlist]

[gainercontent]

The Popcorn Effect

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

With Arthur.  

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

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

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

But he was here.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The previews started. The lights dimmed further.  

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean hesitated.  

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

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

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

Arthur chuckled beside him. “Relax, counselor.”  

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked. He should have expected that.  

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

Dean exhaled, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”  

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

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

Dean wasn’t going to eat the popcorn.  

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

Dean tried to ignore it. He really did.  

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

Dean sighed. One handful wouldn’t hurt.  

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

Okay. Maybe another handful.  

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

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

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

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

The popcorn was *doing* something to him.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur’s smirk deepened, but he said nothing.  

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhaled, reaching for another handful.  

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

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

Now, though, he really needed to get up.  

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

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

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

Dean scowled. “I *got* it.”  

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

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

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

Then—  

*Pop.*  

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

Dean froze.  

Arthur, expression unreadable, casually sipped his soda.  

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

He pretended not to notice.  

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

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

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

Arthur smirked but said nothing.  

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

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

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

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

His stomach dropped.  

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

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

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

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

And then there were his thighs.  

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

Dean stared at himself, breathing heavy.  

*What the hell is happening?*  

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

He swallowed hard.  

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

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

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

And he had no idea how, or *why.*  

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

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

A deep, insistent *hunger.*  

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

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

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

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

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

The walk back to the theater was agonizing.  

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

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

And that was when he saw it.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His belly gave another deep, greedy growl.  

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

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

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

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

Arthur nudged the popcorn bowl closer.  

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

But his hand was already reaching for it.  

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

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

The hunger *demanded* to be fed.  

And Dean, helpless against it, obeyed.  

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

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

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

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

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

Dean sucked in a sharp breath.  

Arthur, unfazed, smirked. “Comfy?”  

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

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

It made no *sense.*  

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

And the popcorn was still there.  

Arthur nudged the bowl closer again, watching him expectantly.  

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

But then his hand moved, almost without thought.  

Another handful. Another bite.  

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

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

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

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

But Dean didn’t stop.  

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

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

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

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

And still, the hunger remained.  

*****

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

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

And then—  

*Ding.*  

Arthur had ordered another refill.  

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

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

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

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

Dean’s breath hitched.  

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

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

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

Dean *should* have protested.  

But he didn’t.  

Instead, he grabbed another handful of popcorn.  

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

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

And then—  

*Pop.*  

The first button gave way.  

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

*Pop.*  

A second one.  

The fabric pulled even tighter, barely containing him—  

*Pop. Pop. Pop.*  

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

Arthur’s grip tightened around him.  

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

Dean shuddered.  

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

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

Dean *was*.  

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

Better than good.  

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

Dean gasped.  

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

“You feel amazing,” Arthur murmured.  

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

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

Let himself *sink* into the moment.  

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

Valentine’s Day had never felt this good before.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean hesitated.  

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

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

Dean exhaled and took it.  

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

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

*Rrrrip.*  

The sound was unmistakable.  

Dean froze.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he *wanted* him like this.  

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

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

Dean’s face burned.  

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

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

*****

The car ride was a blur.  

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

And yet…  

Arthur’s hand never left his thigh.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean’s face went hot. “Shut up.”  

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

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

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

Dean swallowed hard. “Like what?”  

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

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

But he didn’t.  

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

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

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

Dean’s heart *skipped*.  

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

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

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

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

Arthur *wanted* him.  

And God help him—Dean wanted Arthur too.  

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

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

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

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

Dean stiffened. “…What do you mean?”  

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

Dean’s stomach twisted. “Arthur.”  

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

Dean’s breath hitched.  

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

But his body betrayed him.  

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

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

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

Arthur chuckled. “Like your appetite.”  

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

“That you might *always* be this hungry now?” Arthur smirked. “Yeah. Probably.”  

Dean’s head spun. *This wasn’t happening.*  

But the warmth of Arthur’s touch, the heat between them, the way Arthur *looked at him*—it made it so much harder to care.  

Arthur’s lips found his again, stealing his protests, drowning them in something deeper, *hotter*. Dean exhaled shakily, barely noticing as Arthur guided him backward onto the couch, pinning him beneath his solid, muscular frame.  

“You can be mad at me later,” Arthur murmured against his lips. “Right now? Let’s see just how much you like this new body of yours.”  

Dean’s heart pounded, his body already surrendering.  

Maybe—just *maybe*—this wasn’t a bad thing after all.  

[moonstruckme]

have a bonfire - send a character + a trope (one bed, fake dating, etc.) and I’ll write a drabble

steve harrington + friends to lovers maybe? definitely feeling lovesick steve rn 😮‍💨

Thanks for requesting lovely mal <3

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 698 words

The movie theater is dark, and yet Steve catches sight of you the second you step inside. His heart does a dumbass little somersault. 

“Y/n’s here?” he whispers to Robin, who’s sitting next to him and using her licorice as a straw. On his other side, Eddie’s kicked his feet up on the seat in front of him like a total asshole. 

“Oh, yeah.” Robin waves to you, and you spot them, heading over. “I invited her.” 

“You didn’t say she was coming.” 

Robin gives Steve a sideways glance. It’s tinged with a meaning he refuses to decode. “I didn’t realize I needed to check with you.” 

He huffs. You’re climbing the steps, still three rows from reaching them. “Move over by Eddie.” 

Robin turns towards him now, eyebrows raising. “You’re not serious.” 

“Go!” 

“Dingus.” She musses his hair spitefully as she stands, just so he’ll have to fix it, waving over her shoulder at you as you start shimmying down their row. 

You wave back, smiling bemusedly as you take her seat beside Steve. “Hey,” you say. 

“Hey.” He’s grinning like an idiot, and he can’t seem to stop. He wasn’t expecting to see you today. “Long time, no see.” 

You go a bit sheepish, the previews casting a red hue over your features. “Yeah, sorry. Work’s been keeping me busy lately. Three people quit at once, so everyone’s expected to cover until they can hire new ones.” 

Steve grimaces. “Yikes.” He has the urge to tell you to quit and let him pay for everything, as if that’s something he can fiscally manage or even remotely normal. “That sucks,” he says instead. 

“Yeah, hopefully it’s not for long.” You get comfy, slipping off your shoes and putting your socked feet up on the seat. Your knees lean onto your shared armrest, within a pinkie’s reach of Steve’s hand. “I actually just got off, I didn’t grab anything from concessions because I was worried I’d miss the beginning.” 

“Oh, no way.” The movie starts, and he lowers his voice but neither of you turn towards the screen. “Want me to run and grab you something?”

You give him a funny smile. It makes your cupid’s bow flatten out and Steve thinks that if he were to kiss you, he’d start there. “No,” you whisper, “you shouldn’t have to miss anything either.” 

“It’s okay,” he promises you. “I don’t even really care if I see this.” He has been looking forward to it ever since he saw the commercial, honestly, but he’s happy to miss it for you. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, “but thanks, Steve.” 

“At least have some of mine.” Eddie shushes him loudly, and Steve kicks the underside of his knee, making the other boy curse. “I’ve got coke and popcorn, that okay?” 

The movie glows blue over your face as you grin, eyes twinkling in the low light. “Classics. But I’m not gonna take your food.” 

“I’m not gonna eat it all,” Steve argues. “These are both extra-larges. You think I bought that all for myself?” He absolutely did. 

You lean in closer, your knees touching the side of his hand. “You paid for them,” you whisper. 

“So?”

“So, I’d feel bad.” 

“Then make it up to me.” Steve hopes he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. He’s never been able to lay on the charm with you like he can with other girls, he doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does. “Come with us back to my place tonight. We’re ordering pizza.” 

“So,” you murmur through a smile, “make it up to you by taking more of your food, is what you’re saying.” 

“Uh-huh, exactly.” He takes a sip of his coke and then angles the straw in your direction. “Deal?” 

You drop your eyes for a second, shaking your head like he’s silly, and Steve knows he’s won even before you meet his gaze again. 

“Deal.” You wrap your lips around his straw, sucking in a mouthful before letting go. “You drive a hard bargain, Harrington.” 

Steve grins, laying bay in his seat and totally not thinking about how his pinkie is grazing your thigh. “Yeah, that’s what they tell me.” 

[capricornlevi]

"workin' new years for the third time in a row should be illegal," atsumu scoffs, shoving another fistful of popcorn into his mouth. he's perched up on the glass counter closest to the exit, meaning he can slip off quickly if the cranky night manager sticks his head out of his office to check up on you two. "who wants to spend midnight in a movie theatre, anyway?"

you sigh, more fond than frustrated. "you've worked three new year's eves in a row and still don't know the appeal of our late night when harry met sally showing? it sells out by Halloween."

you're sitting in front of the register, having dragged some old folding chairs out from storage to rest on until close. the lobby is dead, and you've got an eye on the security cams to see if anyone leaves the packed screen down the hallway. if you're being forced to work late into the night, you'll at least be comfortable.

you hear a door creak and pause, checking to see if you're about to be scolded for pouring yourself another slushee on the company dime. when no manager surfaces, you return to the conversation, with atsumu stifling his yawn with more popcorn.

"'course i know about it," he chimes back, running his non-popcorn-holding hand through his messy blond hair. "just don't get it, is all, and i don't know why we're always the ones stuck on the holiday shifts, 'specially since we already did christmas eve."

"we're college students, 'tsumu. bottom of the pecking order in terms of festive rostering, i'm afraid."

he sighs, checking the clock behind the nacho display case -- you follow suit, seeing the second hand tick closer and closer to midnight. four minutes til new years, another thirty-ish before closing.

"want a refill on that slushee?" atsumu asks, sliding off the counter and stretching out his shoulders. his black t-shirt lifts slightly and you make an effort to ignore the toned muscles peeking out from underneath. "also -- those chairs look more comfortable than the counter, so I'm gonna steal one too."

even if you didn't know he was captain of the college volleyball team, you could likely guess from the strength in those arms as he shifts some boxes out of the way to take a seat next to you.

"yes please," you answer sweetly, a beat too late, throwing him a beaming smile as he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance.

as he gets back up, he calls out, "cherry, right?"

something flutters through your chest as you call back to him, "right."

"heathen. blue raspberry is superior in every way."

it's your turn to scoff now. "there's no such thing as a blue raspberry, it's a made-up flavour. at least everyone knows cherries are red."

atsumu appears at your side again, handing you the drink. as you accept it with a smile, he places one of his cold hands on your forearm, laughing as you wince and shift away.

"you're ridiculous," you say, half-chuckling and half-earnest. "here i am, spending new years eve toiling away with you, and this is the respect i get."

"i never promised respect -- i promised slushees," he points out, eyes glinting as you meet them. "and we're not exactly toilin' away, i gotta admit."

you take a long sip of your slushee, hoping your lips don't stain red before the customers file out later.

atsumu clears his throat awkwardly, as if he's debating finishing the sentence.

"and it's not so bad, with you," he continues slowly, almost sheepishly.

in the years you've worked together, you have never heard him sound so ... earnest. turning your head to meet his eyes again, you see them diverted to his hands.

"not so bad with you, either, 'tsumu," you reply softly.

he looks back up to you. "i mean it, y'know. even if i wasn't workin', i wouldn't mind ... bein' with you. i mean -- i'd -- i'd like it, spendin' new years with you ..."

"i know what you mean," you gently interrupt him for both your sakes -- his, to relieve him of his uncharacteristically anxious rambling, and yours, so you can figure out how to get your heart beating at a normal pace. you turn in your chair to face him properly, lips curled up into a small, barely-there and very overwhelmed smile.

just as he's about to say something else, you see his eyes flick back to the clock.

"ten seconds," he mumbles, a few strands of hair falling into his forehead. you reach your hand to brush them out of the way for him.

"five," you smile, dipping your head in closer, and when you see atsumu do the same, you continue.

"three."

"two."

"one."

it's a slow kiss, slower than you'd ever expected. atsumu never did things slowly, never took things at any pace other than chaotic, but this is different. he handles you carefully, his hand at the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer to him, lips moving against yours as if savouring every part of every second he gets to do this. as though he's imagined it as much as you have.

you kiss him until you feel as though you're running out of air. when you finally pull away, you marvel at the light pink flush painting atsumu's pretty cheekbones, the look of longing written across the rest of his features, the way his eyes battle between focusing on your face or your lips.

"happy new year, 'tsumu," you whisper, and his smile matches your own.

"happy new year," he says, hushed and low, before leaning in to kiss you again.

you have another twenty-five minutes, after all. and for the first time in your time working here, you're grateful that this theatre schedules when harry met sally so late into the night.

[djdjdjmk]

Somehow you made Frankenstan more devastating, but tbh I’m glad it wasn’t what I initially thought and that Stan is the one who died. (I had a pissed on the poor moment and thought the kid died which would have been YIKES! for Ford. There would have been no place that man could have hid from Stan’s fury.)

Anyways about the kid!

Are they adopted? Are they biologically?

Who are they? What are their pronouns? How old are they?

Also does Ford put on deadened street for the kid, while he’s giving Stan a new kidney and teeth?

Stan: MY KID WHERES MY KID?!

Ford: *has not gotten sleep and has a tummy wummy something buggle that works for pigs but Stan’s kid is in it and has been fighting off demons whilst trying to resserect his brother* They are fine.

———-

Stan’s kid: *drawing a unicorn*

Ford: 💡!!!!

Stan's kid

Stan's kid for ZombieDadStan au. (try to say it three times lol)

Cassidy

They/them pronouns. Cassie didn't had a name until there was a medical emergency and Ford had no choice but to give them a name. Also he had to (very reluctantly) claim Cassie as his own child with all the paperwork. Another thing he took from his brother. They are Stan's biological child from a woman he had a short affair with.

Stan was brought back to the lane of living when Cassie was one year and a three months old.

Cassie started talking before walking (uncle's influence) which result in "family bonding time" where both father and child are learning how to walk while Ford helicopters around both of them. Also, Kid thinks Ford is their dad, not the green stinky man from dad's basement. Stan is miserable, Ford is an apologetic mess, Cassie refuses to come anywhere close to Stan. No one is having a great time. Except Bill, Bill got popcorn and front row seat to all the drama.

The idea of Cassie drawing a unicorn which sparks an idea for Ford is hilarious, but what if i add one more thing: Ford goes to the unicorn groove with the kid, cause "Babies are the purest of hearts" theory that he made up in his sleep-deprived mind. If it works than hooray unicorn hair acquired. If it doesn't Ford kicks a unicorn for telling his brother's kid that they aren't pure. Pick your favourite.

Btw thank you for the ask!!

Also I don't understand what deadened street means and translator isn't helping meee I'm sorry

All my GF au stuff is there

[zomquette]

You Ain't Kin, Bro (Part 2)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Negan’s sister)

Setting: Alexandria, six-year time jump.

Genre: Angst / Comfort / Drama / Negan being Negan / Pregnancy fic

Summary: When you agree to visit your estranged brother Negan in his basement prison, you expect anger. You expect regret. You do not expect to unearth everything you’ve buried for years, or to leave that cell clutching a ghost of your mother and doubled over in fear that something is wrong with your baby. What follows is chaos—an eruption of fists, guilt, and long-overdue truths. But in the aftermath, with blood still drying on the floor and your hands trembling, Daryl is there. And he always will be... Much to Negan's disapproval.

Warnings: Emotional intensity & unresolved family trauma / Verbal confrontation / intense monologue /Physical violence (fistfight between Daryl and Negan) / reader gets a lil (a lot) anxious /Pregnancy-related anxiety attack / abdominal pain /Mentions of death, terminal illness (mother with cancer) / Language (Negan and Daryl-level swearing) /Soft comfort scene / emotional vulnerability

Author's note: Jesus, this is long. It could have been longer, but this is cut down, believe it or not. I've edited this so much, hopefully it hasn't lost its character, but anyway, loads of dramaaaa and some angst. I have loads of ideas for maybe a part 3?! If you like this show, give it some love and idk maybe I'll get to work on a part 3 if this goes down well. The lore between the reader and Negan is kinda tea, I got a lil carried away, lol. idk I'm kinda nervous posting this I wanna make sure I wrote the characters just right so lemme know and yeah... enjoy☕️

______________________________________________________________

The door groaned shut behind you, sealing the world above into something distant, unreachable. Down here, the air was different. Cooler. Still in a way that felt deliberate, as if the space itself had been waiting, breath held, since the moment Negan entered the cell.

Negan was already standing, posture easy but alert behind the bars, like a man who knew how to command a room even when reduced to concrete and steel. He was thinner than you remembered, more grey threaded through his beard, but not smaller. If anything, confinement had only distilled him—leaner, sharper, stripped of the theatrics but none of the presence. His eyes found yours immediately, and for a breath, something flickered there. Not glee, not arrogance—something quieter. A disbelief with teeth.

“Well, shit,” he rasped, voice roughened by disuse and dust. And also Rick slicing his throat open may have had something to do with its hoarseness. “So the mountain finally moved.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t stop, didn’t give him so much as a twitch of muscle to feed off. You stepped forward with a composure that had taken years to earn—years of grief, of distance, of holding your tongue until it bled. Your arms stayed loose at your sides, face carved into something calm and unreadable.

“Please,” you said, cool and clear, your words clean as cut stone. “If I wanted to watch you rot, I’d have come down sooner. Get a front row seat. Popcorn in hand.”

He tilted his head at that, the old smirk tugging at his mouth but never quite touching his eyes. “Still got that bite,” he murmured, the warmth in his voice real, if a little frayed. “Thought maybe all these years would have squashed it..”

You raised an eyebrow, voice dry as dust. “Didn’t work on you.”

That pulled a low laugh from him—gritty and tired, like it hadn’t been used much in a while but still fit just fine. “Ain’t that the truth.”

His eyes didn’t leave your face, like he was trying to line it up with some younger version of you he still carried around. “Honestly? For a minute there I thought you’d bought it. Brought up your name a few times, just to see what would happen. Whole room would go stiff. Eyes on the floor, mouths shut like I’d said a damn curse word.”

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Didn’t take long to figure out your name wasn’t banned ‘cause you were gone. It was banned ‘cause you weren’t.”

“And you starving yourself for attention like a model in the 90s - that’s how you confirmed that hypothesis?” You crossed your arms slowly, careful not to shift your shirt from what is was curtaining, your eyes narrowing. “Ever occurred to you that maybe they just didn’t want to hear your voice longer than necessary?”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like the answer had already long settled in. “Nah, someone made it a rule.” Then, slipping into a rough approximation of a Southern accent, he added with a smirk, “Don’t talk about her. Not around Negan. Don’t give him shit. Keep her safe, keep her quiet, keep her gone.” You rolled your eyes at the hyperbolic impersonation; Daryl was way sexier than that. “And if I had to guess who drew that line in the dirt…” he continued; “I’d bet it rhymes with ‘feral.’”

He stepped forward, close enough that his shadow stretched out past the bars, voice low with amusement that bordered on provocation. “Oh yeah, crossbow cowboy with the charm of a rabid dog? Thought so. Dixon’s got your name locked up tighter than I am in this cell. Man treats it like a state secret—like sayin’ it out loud will cause all hell to break loose.”

You didn’t rise to the bait - but you didn’t look away.

Negan’s grin spread wider, predatory now. “Whole community probably learned real quick—bring up Neg’s sister, and you’ll be on supply duty for a month. Guy’s got it baaad for you lil sis.”

Still, you didn’t speak. You impressed yourself at this point. Your silence, sharp and deliberate, was answer enough.

He leaned back slightly, letting the moment hang heavy between you. “What? You’re gonna stand there and pretend I’m wrong? Pretend you don’t see the way he looks at you like you alone make the world spin? That’s not love, little Miss Dixon. That’s possession.”

The smirk twitched, the showmanship creeping in like smoke. “But then again, you always were good at getting someone to throw themselves on the fire for you. Even when it burned everything else down.”

This time, you took a step forward. Not backing down, not letting the heat of his voice or the bite of his words push you off balance.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, tone shifting, still smiling but hollower now. “I used to be the one keeping people away from you. Thought I was doing you a favour. Kept the creeps off your back, the leeches outta your wallet. I thought I was—” he waved a hand vaguely “—lookin’ out for you. Doing my job as the big brother. But now?”

He stopped pacing.

“Now I guess I’m the monster in your closet. Boo. Fuckin’. Hoo.”

You exhaled slowly. Not because you needed to. But because you were trying not to explode.

“You done?”

Negan’s grin faltered just slightly, a crack in the performance. He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Not even close. But go on, baby sis. You’ve got that look your face - the one that usually comes right before you throw something.”

Well, at least his instincts are still sharp. You looked at him for a few moments longer before speaking up.

“If you think for one second that you’re gonna turn this into some jealous pissing contest, you can go ahead and starve to death, i won’t stop you this time.” You watched his slightly twitching face in annoyance when you held your reserve.“You think Daryl kept me hidden?” Your voice cut through the still air, low but steady, steady like someone who’s been holding this in for years. “Newsflash—Daryl didn’t hide me. I hid away from you. From the wreckage you left behind. From people who couldn’t look at me without seeing your ugly face in its place. From the shit I had to clean up just because we share some DNA.”

And you didn’t stop there.

“I didn’t need him to protect me.” Your voice didn’t rise, didn’t crack. It didn’t need to. “And I sure as hell never needed you to.”

You let that sit, before adding flatly: “I’ve been cleaning up after your messes my whole damn life. That’s not protection. That’s survival.”

The smirk vanished. The silence that followed was thick, tense, like a storm crawling in slowly. And you hadn’t even started yet.

You took a step closer to the bars, not out of intimidation or softness, but because the anger wouldn’t hold still inside you. It needed somewhere to go.

“You know what?” you said, quiet at first. “Yeah. This has been a long time coming.”

Negan didn’t move. Just watched you, still and waiting, but something in his face pulled tighter around the eyes.

“You didn’t drag me down here to check if I was breathing. You didn’t want to make peace. You just wanted a way back in. Like always.”

Your voice sharpened, cutting through the air like it had teeth. “I’m not here because you care. I’m here because you hate not being the centre of the story. Because no matter how many people you hurt or lives you blow up, you always find a way to come crawling back. To insert yourself into places you’ve got no right being in.”

You took a breath, steady but shaking at the edges, and stepped in closer, not out of affection, but to drive the point home.

“Oh, am I not ringing any bells yet? Ok, let’s see.”  Your voice dropped, not quiet, but low—like a warning. “Let’s start with freshman year. You got expelled for fighting a teacher, and guess who spent the next two years with that reputation hanging off her like stink? Every application, every reference, every interview I went into, they didn’t see me—they saw you.”

Your jaw clenched, breath hitching, but you didn’t stop.

“When I got rejected from the one college I’d planned my entire goddamn life around, it wasn’t because of my grades. It wasn’t because of sparkling character references. It was because admissions remembered your name. That’s how deep your mess ran.”

You shook your head once, a hollow laugh catching in your throat.“When you got fired from that high school job, I was the one who had to float you rent money. Your baby sister. Slipping you cash behind your wife’s back because you were too embarrassed to tell her you couldn’t pay your bills.”

“And then came the parade of boyfriends. Every single one of them, torched. Not because they weren’t good enough for me, but because you couldn’t handle the fact that I had something—someone—that didn’t orbit around you. You’d chase them off, chew them up, and when I called you on it, you’d say it was because you were ‘looking out for me.’ Like I was supposed to thank you!”

“And of course, Lucille. You remember her, right?” Your eyes were burning, but you didn't even register it, willing yourself to go on. Keep picking at his wounds. “When you fucked her best friend, who do you think she came crying to? Me. I begged her to leave you. Told her she deserved better. I said she should move in with me— that I’d help pay for her chemo. But she ran right back to you. Because your claws were already in too deep.” The look he now wore on his face was grim. You knew bringing her up would go down about as well as a salad in a polar bear enclosure, but you didn't care. You wanted him to hurt.

“You know what I realised the night she went back to you? I realised I had to get away. That loving you came with a cost I couldn’t keep paying. And even after the world ended, even after everything fell apart—I still couldn’t outrun you.”

You scoffed, gesturing around the dim, suffocating space. If you weren’t crying before you had brought up Lucille, the closest thing you’d had to a sister, you definitely were now. “I spent years trying to forget you. I even convinced myself I missed you. Told myself that even after everything, you were still my big brother, and that counted for something.” You couldn't even look him in the eye now, everything felt so raw, now out in the open. “You just couldn’t stay gone. You had to weasel your way back into my life and ruin literally everything, again.”

Negan’s mouth parted slightly, like he might say something, but the words never came. Tears were now streaming down your face, your eyes puffy and swollen.

A breath caught in your throat, sharp and cold, as your eyes locked onto something small and golden hanging from a rusted nail above Negan’s cot—delicate, almost absurdly so in a space like this, and yet so painfully familiar it felt like a punch to the ribs. You didn’t need to move closer to know what it was. That glint, even dulled with age, was burned into your memory. 

You hadn’t seen it in over a decade. And yet, here it was, hanging like some forgotten relic—less like a tribute and more like a confession he’d never bothered to make.

Your hand hovered near the key on the wall—looped onto a bent nail just outside the bars, easy to miss if you weren’t looking, even easier to justify if you were someone people trusted. You didn’t think. You just moved. The key turned in the lock with a low, mechanical groan, and the door shifted open in a slow arc, not because he allowed it, not because anything had been forgiven, but because the rage in your chest had crystallised into something sharp and precise and entirely unstoppable.

He didn’t move or speak. Just watched you step through the doorway and cross the cell with quiet, deliberate steps, like someone walking into a grave they’d dug for someone else but had come back to fill themselves.

You reached for the necklace, fingers closing around the chain like it might burn you, and pulled it free from the nail with one clean, decisive tug. The weight of it in your palm was heavier than it should’ve been—years heavier, grief heavier, betrayal heavier. This wasn’t just a necklace. It was everything that had been taken, dismissed, buried beneath someone else’s mess and handed back to you only now, in a place that reeked of dust and stone.

It had been the only thing you asked for. Not money, not the house—just the necklace. A gold sunburst locket, warm-toned and delicate, that your mother wore every day of her life, save for the few months she spent in hospice. She used to say it was her armour, her anchor, her little sun when things got too dark. You’d watched her fingers drift to it absently in every photo, every memory, every fading hour. And when she was dying, when the weight of her breath grew heavier than her body, it was you she reached for. You were the one who held the bucket, who changed the sheets, who caught the bile under her chin. And when it was all over—when grief was just ash and paperwork—you came to collect the only piece of her you wanted, only to find out Negan had lost it in a poker game three months earlier-around the time the doctors confirmed she wouldn't see the next year. You’d spent nearly every waking hour at your mother’s bedside, clinging to what little time you had left, while Negan was already out there dividing up her legacy like she was gone before she’d even stopped breathing. You didn’t speak to him for nearly a year after that. Not just because of the necklace itself, but because of what it confirmed: that no matter how deeply you loved her, no matter how much of yourself you gave to the end of her life, he’d still found a way to make her loss about him.

“You told me you lost this,” you said, voice low but steady, the words pushing their way out of you like heat from a cracked-open furnace. “You looked me in the eye and you said it was gone.”

Still, he said nothing; just watched. And still, you felt that old ache twist deeper—not because he was about to lie, but because, for once, it looked like he wasn’t going to try.

The chain dangled from your hand like it weighed a hundred pounds, the cool metal slipping through your fingers as your gaze remained fixed on it, mute, unmoving. Without noticing, you sank to the ground, gravity suddenly feeling too much to bear. You barely registered the scrape of boots on concrete before his voice finally cracked through the quiet.

“I found it… two years after everything went to shit,” Negan said, low and careful, like the wrong note might send you shattering again. “Some busted house outside Lynchburg. Was diggin’ through drawers for medicine. Thought I was seein’ things when I pulled it outta the dust. Couldn’t believe it.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not with the necklace glinting in your palm like a ghost.

“You can say all you want about me,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges. “Hell, most of it will probably be true. But I loved Mom. I loved you… I still do. And I know—” his breath caught, “I know you don’t believe that. I wouldn’t either, not in your shoes. But I never wanted to hurt you. Not ever.”

You shook your head, not in disagreement, just trying to clear the noise. “Don’t,” you whispered, fingers curling around the pendant. 

And for once, he obeyed.

You sat there, breathing in the stillness, letting the quiet settle where shouting once lived. The necklace rested against your palm like an old heartbeat, and your mind pulled you back to those too-few good months—your mother humming by the sink, her fingers threading the chain through her collar, her warm laugh when she caught you trying it on. She had been soft-spoken but impossible to forget. Nothing like Negan, and nothing like you.

She’d loved you with a patience Negan had never learned, and you had clung to her in those final months like a lifeline, swearing you could hold her together if you just stayed strong enough. The grief never really left - watching her fade away like that; it just dulled, buried under everything the world threw at you.

You blinked, and your throat tightened. She would’ve been so happy to be a grandmother. She would’ve cried, without a doubt—held your hand, brushed your hair back from your face, whispered that you were brave and strong until you finally, finally believed her. The weight of it pressed hard in your chest, the kind of ache that felt too old to name and too young to let go of.

But then something shifted. The fury burned out of you all at once, leaving space for something colder, deeper, and far more terrifying to rise in its place. A tension curled deep in your abdomen, sharp and tight, like someone winding a rope inside you and pulling it taut without warning. You inhaled sharply, a fractured breath that caught halfway and never made it out. Your hand dropped instinctively to your stomach as the pressure deepened and panic hit before reason. What if something was wrong?

Your fingers splaying protectively across your bump, heart thudding in your throat, your ribs, your spine. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was new. Deep. Wrong in the way anything unfamiliar is when you’re carrying more than just your own life.

Negan was already in front of you crouching where you sat. “Hey. What the hell’s going on? What is that? What’s happening—shit, are you—?”

His eyes were glued to your now very obvious baby bump. You didn’t answer at first. You couldn’t. The wave still held you, pulling tight through your lower belly and back like a rubber band stretched to its limit. Your eyes stung, and your voice came out hoarse, breathless.

“ I-I don’t know,” you managed, the words shaking in your throat as your other hand braced against the wall. “I think—maybe—fuck, maybe something’s wrong—”

Negan’s face drained of colour. “Wait, you’re pre-“

A door being swung open and hitting the wall stopped him from finishing the sentence. Here comes the baby daddy.

_________________________________________________________________________

Daryl’s boots hit the gravel harder than he meant to. He’d only gone for a short walk—a few quiet minutes to let the sun and silence work through the knots in his chest—but by the time he circled back and saw the porch still empty, the kettle untouched, your mug cold on the railing, something in him snapped taut.

You should’ve been back by now.

He moved fast. Past the rows of flowerbeds, the hammering at the church frame, the annoyingly chirppy people of Alexandria. But all he could think about was the way you had rubbed your back before you left, the way you winced without realising, the way you probably hadn’t eaten enough that morning. He hadn’t wanted you to go alone. Had almost said no. Should’ve said no.

And when the basement door swung open and hit the wall with a loud bang, he froze at the sight he was met with.

The second he saw you, crumpled on the floor, arms wrapped around your bump, cheeks wet with tears and pain, something snapped. Your back was pressed against the cold brick, body trembling as you tried to steady your breathing. Everything in you screamed to stay calm—for your sake, for the baby’s—but your limbs felt locked in place. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

His boots hit the ground in a blur. Negan barely had time to blink before Daryl was on him, slamming him into the wall with enough force to shake dust from the rafters.

“Piece of shit!” Daryl growled, voice rough with fury.

His fist cracked across Negan’s jaw before he could answer. The hit was savage, brutal. Negan’s head snapped to the side, body slamming back against the brick, stunned for half a breath—but only half.

“The fuck—” Negan spat blood, shaking the daze from his eyes. “You serious right now?!”

You tried to call out. Tried to say his name. But your throat felt raw, and your voice came out as a whisper, lost in the roar of rage echoing between the two men. All you could do was stay where you were, hands clenched over your belly, trying to shield it, trying not to cry out again.

Daryl grabbed the front of his shirt, shoving him back again, breath coming hard. “She’s on the floor, cryin’, in pain, and you’re just standin’ there— the hell did you do?”

Negan’s hands came up, not just defensively, but also with fury. “What did I—Are you outta your damn mind?!”

He shoved Daryl off hard, the two of them stumbling, chests heaving, barely a foot apart. “You think I’d hurt her?! That I’d let anything happen to my baby sister? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Dixon—”

You flinched at your brother mentioning you, my baby sister, too afraid to move, heart hammering behind your ribs. You wanted them to stop—wanted them gone, both of them—but you couldn’t find your voice. You were too focused on not panicking, not hyperventilating, not making the tightening worse.

His voice caught. And then it shifted, sharper, rawer, angrier.

“But you?” Negan barked a laugh—sharp, bitter, disbelieving. “You really expect me to swallow that load of shit? That you’d never lose it with her? I mean, you already knocked her up, how much worse can it get?” He stepped forward, shoulders squared. “C’mon, violence is kinda your common tongue, ain’t it? Growlin’ and glarin’ and throwin’ fists at anything that looks at ya funny".

Don't go there, don't go there. For the love of God don't go there.

"First, a baby, what's next? A black eye?"

Oh shit, he went there. Negan saw the punch coming a mile off, but whether it was guilt or pride, he didn’t move fast enough to stop it.

Daryl’s fist cracked across his jaw with enough force to whip his head sideways, and the sound echoed off the cinderblock like a gunshot. You winced, curling in tighter against the wall, every instinct in your body flaring with the urge to disappear. To protect yourself and your baby. To not be the reason blood was hitting the concrete.

The second punch drove into Negan’s ribs like a piston, and he buckled, catching himself against the bars with a ragged breath. His hands flew up—reflex, desperation—but Daryl was already on him again, grabbing the collar of his shirt and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

Negan barely got an arm up in time. The blow hit anyway—less direct but still solid, knocking the breath out of him. He swung back wild, more insult than threat, and Daryl caught it, twisting his arm and shoving him harder into the brick.

“You knocked my baby sister up,” he rasped, spit and blood flying. “And I’m the one getting my ass kicked?”

The next hit went straight for the stomach, folding Negan with a wheeze. He dropped to one knee before Daryl hauled him back up by the collar, slamming him again into the bars—once. Twice.

You pressed both hands to your stomach, rocking slightly as a new wave of pressure rolled through your abdomen. You breathed through it, teeth clenched, willing the world to stop spinning, willing them both to just shut up before something worse happened.You hated the helplessness clawing at your chest, but no matter how fiercely you begged your body to move, it refused—numb, heavy, like it had stopped answering to you altogether.

Voices erupted behind them—Michonne’s boots pounding down the stairs, Aaron shouting—but Daryl didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with the image burned into his skull—you, crumpled on the floor, cradling your belly, face soaked in tears, while Negan stood there like it meant nothing.

It took three people to pull him off.

Michonne grabbed his arm, Aaron wrapped an arm around his chest, and Gabriel wedged himself between the two men like a shield.

Negan collapsed against the wall, panting, one eye already swelling shut, blood dripping from his split lip. He coughed and spat, glaring through the mess.

“This guy—” he looked to you, still hunched against the wall, eyes wide and shining. “Really?!”

Daryl lunged again, and it took all three of them to hold him back.

Gabriel stepped in, breath steady but eyes darting between the two men. “He needs to be seen to,” he said quietly to Aaron, like Negan wasn’t right there with blood in his teeth and an eye swelling shut. “Siddiq should take a look at him. Check for a concussion.”

Negan snorted, then winced, his knuckles brushing against his busted lip as he muttered, “that's sweet, guys.”

But when his gaze landed on you, everything shifted. The sarcasm drained out of him in an instant.

“She’s the one carryin’ a kid,” he said, louder now. “Jesus, y’all got me bleedin’ out like a stuck pig, but the pregnant one’s sittin’ on the floor white as a sheet—what the hell kinda triage is this?”

Daryl didn’t even spare him a glance.

“Ain’t your business.” The words came low, tight, clipped like he was chewing down the rest of what he wanted to say. “She’s got nothin’ to do with you no more.”

How he still managed to mouth off with a busted lip, you didn’t know. “It is my business. That’s my sister sittin’ there like she’s about to black out, and I’m the only one in this damn room sayin’ it.”

Negan wiped the blood from his jaw, his breath ragged as he nodded toward you.

“She’s the one doubled over in pain,” he muttered, voice hoarse but sharp. “I’ll walk it off. She needs the damn doctor.”

But by then, no one was listening to him. 

Every set of eyes had already turned toward you, still crumpled on the floor like a bird stunned mid-flight, one arm locked around your middle while the other braced your weight, trembling faintly where your fingers curled against the cold stone. Your breathing was shallow, lips parted as if that alone could steady the rhythm, but your chest felt like it was closing in from the inside. You couldn’t hear the voices—at least not clearly—not with the static in your head and the echo of fear pounding in your blood. The pain had faded, pulling back like the tide at dusk—still present, but distant now, no longer crashing over you, but the terror it left behind clung to you harder than anything else ever had.

You weren’t crying anymore, not really, but your cheeks were damp, and the trembling wouldn’t stop.

Michonne was the first to reach you. She knelt slowly, careful not to startle you, and laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, her voice low and steady as she said your name in that soft, anchoring way of hers. But even that didn’t quite pull you back—not until the sound of boots scuffing across the floor gave way to Daryl dropping to his knees in front of you, his breath coming fast and uneven, his expression tight with something close to fear. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if any sudden motion might make things worse. Who was he kidding? Negan was now out of the room, so the possibility of things escalating dropped exponentially.

He didn’t touch you at first. His hands hovered in the space between you, unsure and shaking with restraint, as if he were afraid even a brush of skin might hurt you further. “Hey,” he said, and it came out raw and broken at the edges, a whisper with too much weight behind it, as if he didn’t say something quickly, he might fall apart right there beside you. “Hey, baby, look at me. Just look at me.”

When your eyes finally met his, it hit him like a punch to the chest. You looked scared—really scared—and that was what undid him more than anything. Your voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, brittle and cracked like thin ice. “I don’t know what that was. It hurt. I didn’t know if it was normal or if—” Your breath hitched again, catching on the thought you couldn’t finish. “I thought something was wrong.”

Michonne crouched beside you, her hand sliding into yours with practised ease. “Hey,” she said softly, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “It can happen, alright? Braxton Hicks, stress—hell, they can scare the shit out of you but it’s perfectly normal. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

Daryl’s palm found your cheek, thumb brushing over the dried tracks of your tears—just like earlier, only now his hand lingered, trembling slightly.

His voice broke the silence, rough but soft, almost a whisper. “Can’t keep findin’ you like this, baby… It’s startin’ to feel like the norm.”

Not accusatory - not even teasing. Just weary concern laced with something deeper—like he hated that he was getting used to seeing you like this, that he didn’t know how to stop it, only how to hold on tighter.

He tried for a smirk, something small to soften the fear he still hadn’t shaken. But his eyes gave him away—wide, flicking between your face and the bump you cradled like a lifeline, searching for reassurance you didn’t yet have. His thumb lingered at your cheekbone as if the warmth of your skin might anchor him, might tell him everything was okay even when nothing felt certain.

But the reassurance didn’t sink in right away. You were still trembling, your heart still galloping in your chest, the memory of that sudden tightening in your belly burning too fresh to ignore. He moved closer, carefully pulling you against him, wrapping his arms around you with enough gentleness to keep from hurting you but with enough desperation to betray how terrified he really was. “I got you,” he breathed into your hair, lips brushing the crown of your head. “Just breathe, alrigh'. Just breathe for me, baby.”

You clung to him like a lifeline, pressing your face against the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of leather, sweat, and something warm and familiar that always reminded you of safety. Slowly, your breathing began to match his, anchored by the steady rise and fall of his chest and the rhythm of his voice murmuring quietly against your skin. “I thought I lost them,” you whispered, the words finally breaking free, and when he pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes, his own were wide with worry.

“Hey, stop that", he said quietly. "We'll getcha to Siddiq's n' he'll check ya out alrigh'? M' sure everythin' is fine.”

He was honestly surprised by how sure he sounded, but he was glad of it. Michonne nodded from where she stood nearby, her voice calm and clear. “I’ll go ahead and let him know.”

Without another word, Daryl crouched beside you, his hand curling gently around your arm as the other settled against your lower back, anchoring you with quiet strength. He didn’t scoop you up — just shifted his weight closer, letting you lean into him as much as you needed. You gripped his shirt, weakly at first, then tighter when the pain flared again. His head dipped low, forehead brushing yours as he whispered, “Let me do the worryin’, alright?” His voice was rough but steady. “You just hold on.”

And you did — knees trembling, breath unsteady, body weighed down by the echo of pain — still clutching the necklace in your other hand as if it might vanish, the cold metal pressing into your palm with every beat of your heart.

______________________________________________________________

The light in the infirmary was soft and golden, cast from lanterns draped in old linen, their glow pooling over metal gurneys and folded linens like spilled honey. Everything in the room felt hushed, blurred at the edges, like the world had slowed down out of respect—or exhaustion. Probably both.

You sat hunched over on the cot, your body a knot of tension slowly coming undone. Every muscle ached in small, inconvenient ways: your back, your thighs, the base of your neck. The faint ghost of that earlier pain still lingered, like your body hadn’t quite forgotten how it felt to panic.

You had spent the day being strong, being furious, being devastated. But now? Now you just felt frayed.

Siddiq moved with gentle certainty, his hands smooth and precise as they checked your pulse, traced careful pressure across your belly. His voice was soft, always soft, but threaded with something dry beneath it—like if he didn’t keep his tone warm, the truth might come out too sharp. Daryl stood idly by while Siddiq worked.

“Heart rate’s steady. Baby’s moving well. Blood pressure’s a little on the high side but I’m not too worried. No signs of labour, which is the important thing.” He pressed the side of his hand to your belly and nodded slightly. “What you experienced today was likely a false alarm. Braxton Hicks. Can be scary but they’re not uncommon.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It felt like dropping weight you’d been dragging for hours.

“Still kinda hurts,” you murmured, a little guilty for saying it out loud.

“That’s ‘cause you’re human,” Siddiq said, peeling off his gloves with a flick of his wrist. “And pregnant.”

You gave a weak smile. He raised an eyebrow at you in that way only doctors and tired friends could pull off simultaneously.

“Today that was your body waving a white flag. I’m pulling the doctor card,” he added. “You need to slow down. Drink more water. And maybe lay off the dramatic showdowns with ex-warlord siblings.”

“She will,” Daryl said for you. Well with hillbilly here you didnt really have much of a say in the matter.

He didn’t press. Just handed you a glass, touched your shoulder, and lingered for one more heartbeat. His presence was like pressure on a wound—not painful, but stabilizing. Reassuring.

You sipped the water slowly, then rested it on the crate beside your cot. The mattress dipped suddenly beside you, and you didn’t even have to look—you knew it was Daryl.

He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned forward, forearms on his knees, his presence heavy with unspoken worry. You watched him from the corner of your eye—his jaw still set, one knuckle scraped, his whole frame coiled like he hadn’t exhaled in hours.

“I really gotcha goin’ back there, didn’t I?” you joked. This was going to be an uncomfortable discussion, and like hell were you going to be a serious adult about it.

His head turned, gaze locking with yours, full of something tight and unnameable.

“Yeah, ye did,” he said. No hesitation.

You reached for his hand, and he took it like it was the only thing tethering him.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just… I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what the pain meant. And for a second, I really thought—”

Your voice faltered. You looked down at your belly, your shirt no longer hiding it. Daryl’s hand covered yours. His palm was warm, calloused, grounding.

“What happened before I got there?” he asked, low and careful.

You blinked slowly. The images rose before you—Negan’s voice, the necklace hanging like a branch, your lungs locking up, your legs giving out.

“Stop,” he said. It was a demand, sure, but it was spoken with such tenderness that it felt more like a plea.

You took a moment, looking back, filtering through the bits and pieces of what happened, sorting them into things you would tell him and things you’d gloss over. The last thing you needed was him stomping back down there for a round two.

You felt his thumb rub gently against the back of your hand.

“What happened?” he asked again—quietly. No pressure, just patience. Just care.

You stared at the lantern’s glow bleeding across the curtain seams. At first, you didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t even know where to begin.

“It was strange,” you said finally, your voice soft. “Seeing him again. I thought I’d be angry right away. But mostly… it felt like I was staring into a mirror someone cracked years ago and never bothered to fix. Familiar, but all the wrong pieces.”

Daryl didn’t speak. He just shifted closer, his body heat coiling around yours like something steady.

“He tried to act like it meant something,” you continued, almost like thinking aloud. “Like me showing up was a sign. That I still cared. That he mattered enough to drag me down there.” You scoffed faintly, wiping beneath your eye. “He even did the whole victim act—pretending he was the one left behind. That I was cruel for walking away, like I hadn’t spent years scraping my life together out of the fallout he left behind.”

You felt your throat tighten, the memory bubbling up sharper now. “And the thing is… for a second, I almost bought it. Just for a second. Because he was still my brother. Still the person who used to carry me on his shoulders when I was little. Still the voice I remembered yelling at some of the douchebags I dated back then. But then—he smirked. That same old smirk. And it all came rushing back.”

Daryl’s hand rose to your shoulder, rubbing a slow, grounding circle with his thumb. 

“I snapped. All that crap from before came rushing back to the surface. All of it—the colleges, the boyfriends, the rent money, the way he made everything orbit him. And then Lucille…” Your voice faltered. “When I brought her up, it wasn’t even calculated. It just came out. And I wanted him to hurt. I think I needed him to.”

You turned toward Daryl more fully now, needing to see his face, to feel his weight in the room. “It all just… came flooding out. Everything I wanted to say to him before came out like it was practised. I didn't bother wasting my breath back then, but he actually listened. And when I finally stopped talking, I looked at him and—I didn’t feel stronger. I didn’t feel better. I just felt… tired. Tired of everything.”

You still clutched the necklace, fiddling with the chain like you did when you were a little girl. “What’s that?” Daryl asked softly, pulling you from your thoughts.

You blinked hard, trying to steady your breath as the weight of the necklace curled into your palm. Daryl’s hand was still on your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles, his silence as present as the warmth of his body next to yours. You felt safe here—just enough to let yourself crack.

“She used to wear it every day,” you said quietly. “My mom, even when she got sick, she wouldn’t take it off until she was sent off to the hospice.”

Daryl shifted slightly, giving you more of his shoulder, more of his attention, like he knew you needed the space to fall into this memory. You let your head rest against him, your voice growing softer with each word.

“She told me once—” your breath hitched, and you smiled through it, a little wet at the edges— “she said I needed to stop fussing over her. That I was driving her crazy. Told me to go live my life. Said she didn’t need a nurse, she needed a grandbaby.”

Daryl let out a soft huff through his nose, but he didn’t speak. You could feel the affection radiating off him, the way his arm curved tighter around you like he could feel her words echoing down through time.

“She said…” You wiped your cheek quickly, eyes stinging. “She said if I didn’t go out and meet someone soon, she’d rise from the grave and pick a man herself. Probably some poor gas station clerk she thought was ‘sweet.’”

That made Daryl laugh, a low, fond sound against your ear. “Sounds like she was stubborn.”

“She was,” you whispered. “In the best way.”

You looked down at your belly, your hand resting protectively over its curve. The locket still glinted faintly between your fingers—heavy, but no longer cold.

“She would’ve loved you,” you said, looking up at him. He only shrugged, but you pushed anyway, stubborn as ever. “She would! Always had a thing for Southern guys. Guess the apple didn’t fall far.”

Daryl scoffed under his breath, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice a gravel-soft murmur. “She’d be proud of ya.”

You closed your eyes at that, letting the tears fall—not from pain, not from anger, but from aching love. Grief and joy tangled together like roots in your chest, and Daryl held you through it, steady as ever, never letting go.

Your fingers brushed the necklace again, and Daryl’s eyes followed the movement. He didn’t ask—not directly—but you felt the question settle between you anyway, quiet and patient. He was giving you space. He always did.

You swallowed hard. “It was the only thing I asked for after she died.”

You didn’t look at him. Just traced the ridged edge of the locket, your eyes unfocused, your voice barely a breath.

“Everything of hers got left to him. Legal default, I guess. But when I asked for the necklace, just this one thing—he said he didn’t even know what I was talking about.”

A bitter huff escaped you. “Turns out he lost it in a poker game. Didn’t even have the balls to tell me that at first. Had to ring it out of him.”

Daryl said nothing, but his arm curled tighter around you, warm and steady.

“I think I spent years trying not to think about what it meant,” you murmured. “What it confirmed. That I loved her more than he ever could understand… and it still didn’t matter. He still walked away with the last piece of her.”

Your throat tightened. You stared down at the pendant.

“And then to find it, just hanging there like it was nothing. Like... I hadn’t lost a piece of myself watching her fade to nothing while he was off being a peice of shit.”

You let out a laugh, sharp and tired. “It’s stupid. I’m getting worked up over a piece of jewellery.”

Daryl rubbed your arm, slow and sure. “Ain’t stupid.”

You rested your head against his chest, voice muffled against his shirt. “It just brought everything back. All the ways he twisted things. Made me question if I even had the right to be hurt.”

His lips found the top of your head, warm and grounding, whispering comfort while your thoughts drifted somewhere darker. You didn’t speak again for a while. Just stared down at your hands, fingers trembling slightly over your bump. And then, so soft it barely qualified as a breath, you said:

“I hate him.”

It slipped out raw and clumsy, like something torn straight from your chest. Daryl’s hand stilled where it moved against your back. “Yeah,” he said simply. “He’s a prick.”

You almost laughed at that—just a shaky puff of air—but he didn’t leave it there. After a beat, his voice dropped low again.

“Still your brother, though... He's yur family.”

You nodded slowly, a sniff catching in your throat. “That’s the worst part.”

He turned slightly to look down at you from where you were slumped against him, his fingers brushing your hair back behind your ear, tender and unhurried. “Ain’t sayin’ you gotta forgive him.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to hate him either. It’s just…” Your voice cracked. “It’s so exhausting.”

Daryl leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a soft anchor. “Then don’t do it for him. Do it for you.”

You closed your eyes, tears trailing down your cheeks. “I see him, and I’m twelve again. Trying to hold everything together. Pretending it didn’t matter. Like I’m made of all the things I’ve survived and nothing else.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and steady.

“I don’t want to live back there anymore,” you whispered. “I want to focus on what’s next. On this.”

Your hand found his where it still rested on your belly. He turned his palm and laced your fingers together without hesitation. You leaned into him fully now, the weight of his chest beneath your cheek, his warmth holding you steady.

“You’re my family,” you whispered. “You, this baby, Dog. Not him.”

Daryl huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “That mutt’s more loyal than most o' the people I ever met.”

You shifted just enough to look up at him. “You’re the reason I still believe in any of this, you know. Being with you…” You looked down, face all of a sudden growing hot.. “ I get to be me.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to; just smiled down at you. God how the hell were you his? 

“I love ya,” he said without any warning, soaking in your features. Damn, he always made you feel like a little school girl when he got all sappy like this. Like a dork, your smile grew as big as Georgia, and you kissed him, cupping his face, pressing your mouth to his. What was he expecting when he confessed his love for you? You would never tire of hearing it, even if he didn't say it often, you knew in everything else. It just meant these moments were all the more special. You hummed 'I love you too' in between kisses, his lips moving against yours as the calm washed over you both.

And in that moment, there was no past. Just you and him, and the heartbeat between you.

Eventually, he pulled away to lean his forehead against yours. “Alright,” he murmured eventually, breaking the silence so gently it didn’t feel like breaking at all. “Let’s get ya home. Dog’s probably wonderin’ where ya are.”

_____________________________________________________________

The room had settled into that thick, velvety quiet that only came in the dead of night. The air was still and slightly chilly, broken only by the soft, steady rhythm of your sleeping exhale.

Daryl lay still for a long moment, one arm curled protectively around your waist, your back pressed against his chest. Though your breathing had evened out, it took a while before he really believed you were asleep. It was around midnight that he confirmed you were deep in slumber when you muttered something about frozen yoghurt in a sleep haze.

He learned early on that you were a light sleeper. Always had been. Shift too suddenly and your eyes would flutter open, bleary and confused, heartbeat already halfway to panic. He hated that—how on edge you always seemed to be, even in your rest. Like your body didn’t trust the world to leave you alone.

So he moved slow. He let his hand fall gently away from your stomach and eased his weight off the bed inch by inch, careful not to let the springs creak. Even then, you shifted, murmuring something barely audible as you tucked the blanket closer to your chest. His breath caught, watching you.

“Shhh,” he whispered—more to the room than to you. Just a hush to keep the peace intact.

Dog blinked up at him from the foot of the cot, thumping his tail once against the wood. Daryl crouched down and scratched behind his ear, murmuring low: “Stay.”

Dog gave a quiet huff and set his chin back down, ears alert even in rest.

Daryl stood and tugged his shirt and vest on from the back of the chair without a sound. He cast one last glance over his shoulder. You looked small like that, curled around your own warmth, the locket still clutched loosely in your palm. He knew he shouldn’t go. He’d told you it was over—told himself, too—but the weight of what had happened hadn’t settled in him yet. It buzzed low and sharp, like a splinter under the skin. No way was he getting a wink until he settled things.

He stepped out into he cold hallway and left the house, making a beeline for Negan's cell.

When Daryl entered, he found Negan sitting on the cot inside, back against the wall, one foot planted on the floor and the other bent up to rest his arm on his knee. He looked up, hardly surprised to see him, his mouth already twitching like he was trying to decide whether to smirk or spit.

“Well,” Negan drawled, voice scratchy from sleep but still coated in that same syrupy condescension. “Ain’t you a little overdressed for a midnight cuddle?”

Negan’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, measuring, baiting. There was a bruise blooming over his cheekbone now, angry and mottled where Daryl’s fist had landed earlier. He touched it with a slow drag of his knuckles, like he was admiring a souvenir. "Guessing you waited till she was asleep before you snuck out like a thief in the night."

Daryl’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice, when it came, was low and quiet but edged with steel. “Aint here ta chat.”

Daryl took a moment before he spoke again. "She thought she was losin' the baby," Daryl spat. "All that stress you put on her - the fuck were you tryna' do?"

Negan’s expression shifted—just a flicker, but enough. Some of the bravado slipped, replaced by something tired, maybe even guilty.

“I didn’t know,” he said after a beat. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I ain’t trying to hurt her. You think I wanted today to go like that?”

"Yeah," Daryl said, a little louder than he meant "That's what you do. You start shit by runnin' your mouth."

Negan looked down for a second, jaw tight. “Look… she’s my sister-”

"Shut up;" Dary said, his grip tighteninging on the bars. "Shut up and listen ta me. You ain't gonna bother her no more. You do and there ain't no one savin' you this time - i'll kill ye."

The sureness in his voice would make any man shiver. But apparently it wasn't good enough for Negan.

Negan’s shoulders lifted in a quiet scoff. He stood then—slowly, deliberately—walking to the bars, hands loose at his sides. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, quieter now. “I was here before you. I know what she’s been through. Hell, I’m part of it. And I promise you this, Dixon… I’ll still be here long after you’re not.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even sharp. But it landed like a threat, soft-edged and passive, meant to slide beneath the skin. Daryl didn’t blink.

"That so huh?" Daryl leaned back, essentially taunting the man. “You gonna kill me before I meet my kid?” he asked, voice ice. “Like you did, Glenn?”

Negan froze. Just for a second. But it was enough. A silence stretched between them, thick and mean. Then Negan stepped back from the bars, hands raised slightly.

“I ain’t that man anymore.”

"Bullshit."

He wasn't gonna deny that him bringing up Glenn - that stung. Oh, so that's how it is. Fuck if he was gonna take the high road. He was gonna limbo this shit and go low.

"You think this baby changes anything?" he teased, raising his eyebrows as if the notion was ridiculous. "You won't last. And like always, she'll come running back to her big bro ; it's not an if it's when. I almost feel sorry for how bad she has you wrapped around her little finger."

His voice was cold, deadly certain.

"That's why I was so hard back at the Sanctuary-" he explained. The mention of that place had Daryl struggling to keep his cool, but somehow he did. "Sure i got a lil carried away when i found out you were together, but someone had to tell you that you werent good enough for her."

"Just cause she is having your baby doesn't mean you're irresponsible, Dixon. She'll always be a Smith."

....Nah.

He gave it his best efforts, Daryl would give him that, but it wasn't enough. He was tryning to start shit, that much was obvious. It worked before, but not this time. Making his way to the door, he hollered, "ya won't be bothering her no more. That's final."

Negan watched him walk away, a sly grin growing on his face.

Aw shit.

______________________________________________________________

Part 3

[sportyphile]

A Lovely Night

summary: You meet Joe for the first time at the movies. Set during the off season of 2024 after the Chiefs won the Super Bowl against the 49ers.

paring: Joe Burrow x shy anxious reader

warnings: fluff, anxious thoughts, social anxiety.

words: 1,502

a/n: sat down and cranked this out all at once. I don't know if I like it. Eyes hurt from proofreading multiple times so apologies if I missed something. For now this the only part. But it could have potential to be multiple parts depending if people like it or not? Maybe? Happy reading y'all!

Solo movie dates had become your thing, but it hadn't always been this way. There had been a time when you had struggled to leave the house for work. Sometimes those days still happened, but for the most part, you were proud of yourself for your newfound sense of freedom. It had taken a lot to get to this point. Watching movies and acting out movies with your friends had always been one of your favorite things to do growing up. As an adult, Saturday Night became a designated 'movie night' as a way to de-stress from the week. Whether it was at home, or at the cinema, depended on what was playing.

The one positive about Covid had been the shift to being able to get tickets online and pick your seat ahead of time so you could get your snacks, and head to your seat to look at your phone without anyone bothering you until the movie started. Or so you thought.

The first time you had seen the handsome tall man was in March during a showing of Dune: Part 2. He'd shown up with two other men after the lights dimmed for the preview trailers and you hated when people showed up late. It was pet peeve as yours, your anxiety often caused you to arrive at least 15 minutes early anywhere you went.

You tried your best to not watch the group as they made their way to their seats, which was in the same row as yours, but a few seats away. You caught glimpses of their faces, the tall one putting his hand up in apology before he sat down. You gave a polite smile before you looked away. Giving a small annoyed huff through your nose, you decided to take a small handful of popcorn and focus on the trailers until the movie started.

You had mentally prepared for the 2 hour and 46 minute run time of the movie, but as the credits rolled and you looked at your watch, you were shocked to see how much time had gone by already. You had been gripped by the movie from start to finish and as you stretched, you noticed the three men were gone which confused you. You hadn't noticed them leave. Did they leave early? Why did they come see Dune if they didn't like Sci-Fi? You brushed it from your mind, figuring you'd never see them again. Especially not the tall one.

The next time you went on a solo date to the movies was only a month later in April. Bill Skarsgård was one of your favorite actors and the movie also happened to release near your birthday so you had decided to see it. Yes you were spending your birthday weekend alone but at this point in your life, you had gotten used to it. You were planning on being a spinster for the rest of your life.

As you made your way to your seat, you had to go by a guy who had his hood up. Thankfully the aisle was large enough where you didn't have to get too close to him, but he was man spreading and had his phone in front of his face. You were more focused on not hitting his foot then tripping and spilling your popcorn everywhere. "G6...G6..."

You had been repeating your seat number quietly to yourself once you had to put your phone in your pocket to carry your drink and popcorn. You always got the same seat in the very back if you could, it was easier to remember. The last thing you wanted to do was sit in someone's spot and embarrass yourself. Little did you know, the man was grinnng as he heard you.

Once you were sitting and set your popcorn bucket carefully on your lap, you triple checked you were in the right seat on the app and breathed a sigh of relief as you get comfortable.

"You okay over there?" You heard a voice to your right.

You looked over, your cheeks turning pink. He looked familiar.....

Then it hit you that it was the same guy who had arrived during the trailers last month when you had gone to the movies to see Dune Part 2. But his friends weren't with him this time.

"Oh, yes." You smiled at the man, meeting his eyes before quickly looking down and away and back at your phone. Great, now he was going to think you are crazy. You glanced over at him to see him looking at his phone. Then you looked around the theatre. There wasn't many people here yet. He was early for once.

"A-are you excited for the movie?" Your heart was pounding as you tried to make small talk. Had he even heard you? It was a bad habit of yours to mumble when you were nervous.

He set his phone down when he heard you and looked over at you. "Ehhh not excited, but it's something to do, gets me out of the house." He smiled at you. You were struck by his smile, his teeth were so white. Suddenly you were self conscious of your smile. "You?"

It took a second for you to process that he was keeping the conversation going. "Me? Oh a little bit. I'm a Skarsgård fan, I promise I won't giggle too much. I just find him an excellent actor. I'm just doing something fun for my birthday." It had slipped out before you knew it. The last thing you wanted was sympathy. What was so bad about spending time alone? Nothing, you thought.

Your heart sank as you noticed the frown appear almost instantly on his face. "You are spending your birthday alone? Your friends aren't taking you out? That's no good. Well happy birthday." He smiled again, and you felt your cheeks get warm.

"Thank you. My birthday isn't today but it is the birthday weekend, as they say. I don't have many friends here besides my co workers." You weren't even sure if you could count co workers as friends as you were strict about keeping work separate from your personal life. "I haven't been in Cincinnati long."

His eyebrows raised slightly. "Oh really? Where did you move from?"

"Boston." Should you be telling a stranger this? Probably should have said a different city.

"Ahh beantown." he grinned and you wanted to roll your eyes.

"Yes, but locals don't call it that." But you'd like it slide, he was cute.

"Oh I'm sorry. I'm Joe by the way. He was only a few seats away from you and reached over to extend his hand out so you could shake it. You moved your popcorn off your lap to the free seat next to you so you could reach out and shake his hand back. His grip wasn't too strong which you appreciated it, but it was still strong, he was respectful.

"I'm-" The lights dimmed and that quieted you before you could introduce yourself. The first trailer started quickly and you and Joe settled into your seats to watch the screen. But a dim light to your right caught your attention as you saw Joe texting. It was a thing that often happened during movies now, which ground your gears. But Joe didn't text long thankfully and you saw him putting his phone in his pocket out of the corner of your eye.

The lights brightened in the theatre as the movie was over and Joe looked over at you. "What did you think?" He asked as he stood up. It was then you realized how tall he was. You were quite short compared to him.

"It was funnier than I expected it to be for a revenge movie." You said as you got up and gathered your things. It was late and you wanted to get home to eat the cupcake you had bought yourself as a birthday treat.

"I felt the same, not sure how well it will do at the box office though."

You couldn't help but smile, it was refreshing meeting someone who also also appeared to have a deep passion for movies.

Joe walked side by side with you out of the theatre and into the evening air. "I'm meeting my friends Tee and Ja'Marr for dinner, you can come if you like so you aren't spending your birthday alone. Just throwing it out there. I can give you the directions to the place. They came with me when I first saw you at Dune 2."

He remembered! You were floored. Should you be creeped out? No you had made eye contact at Dune and you hadn't seen him again before tonight so he couldn't be stalking you.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you had been holding. You hadn't liked the thought of being in a strangers car so suddenly, you were relived that you could take your own car and escape when you wanted to. New friends couldn't hurt in this new city either. It was time to get even more out of your shell.

"Sure, I'd like that, thank you." You smiled before you handed your phone over so he could find it on the maps app for you.

...little did you know, he was also putting his number in your phone.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Pie Contest

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Summary: A fair contest? And it involves pie? This was yours and Deans time to shine.

Warning: None!

It was the perfect day out today. The sun was shining down on the earth as a slight breeze blew once in a while. A perfect 75 degrees out in the summer season. And you know what happens in the summer? The county fair! It was you first time ever going to one of these since you never really had the time before you and your brothers found the bunker.

You and Dean decided to go while Sam and Eileen went on a date. You were happy for Sam. Eileen was great and you loved her but you couldn't help but wonder how Sam was feeling about getting into a relationship. A relationship that could actually last and he didn't have to hide about being a hunter. You wondered if he still thought about Jessica.

So you went to the fair to distract yourself and to have some bonding time with Dean.

"Holy shit that ride is insane!" Dean stumbled as he got out of the cage first. You both were brutally tossed around by a little ride called The Zipper.

You followed behind him, gripping his shoulder for stability as you laughed so hard, your stomach ached. "You were screaming your ass off!"

"Could you blame me?!" Dean gasped dramatically, "Don't even get me started on the part where it went backwards."

You breathed out through your mouth to calm yourself down. You were holding everything back from replaying the moment in your head and sending you into another fit. Dean just shook his head, smiling as he watched you struggle to calm down.

You put your hands into the pockets of your jeans. "Okay what's-"

"Hi! Exuse me, sorry to bother you two! But we're doing a pie contest and need another two people. Whoever wins gets a $50 to the diner in town!" A worker spoke so fast it sounded like she was rapping.

"Wha-" Dean started to ask a question but again was cut off.

"Yes? Perfect! Right this way!" The girl grabbed your arm gently but enough force to pull you by surprise. You instinctively latched onto Dean, dragging him with you.

The both of you followed this worker to the food area where there was a stage, some chairs and many food trucks surrounding the area. The girl brought you both up on the stage where two other people were waiting being a table covered with a cloth.

You shot Dean a look. Are we really doing this?

He just shrugged and smiled like he was just going with the flow. You rolled your eyes at the response and looked back in front of you when the girl let go.

"You guys can go join the people at the table. The pies will be right out." And off she went in a hurry back down the stairs.

"I didn't even get to ask what kind of pie it was." Dean pouted as he confidently walked over to the table to sit down. Oh you could tell he wanted to do this.

"Like that matters to you," you teased as you followed him and sat at the end of the table so you could be furthest from the two random men. There was a good amount of space between each person. Everyone had three plates in front of them that were lined up in a row, a napkin, and one glass of water.

Oh this was going to be fun.

You glanced out at the fairgrounds, taking in the mix of delicious smells—fried dough, grilled meat, fresh popcorn. Each inhale made you hungrier. Meanwhile, Dean was side eyeing the other contestants like they were about to rob him.

A few moments later, the same woman returned, this time with a few workers carrying stacks of pies. She grabbed a microphone from a stand on the side of the platform and addressed the growing crowd. "Hello folks! Come grab a seat if you'd like to watch the pie contest while you eat!" She started off with.

People started filling in the vacant seats catching you by surprised. Who wanted to see people inhaling pie at an alarming rate? Dean, on the other hand, looked thrilled as the workers placed three full pies in front of him.

"The rules are simple: Eat all three pies faster than the others and you'll win a $50 gift card to the downtown diner! These pies are exclusively from them."

The worker put down three pies on your plates. Apple, pumpkin and cherry were the lucky three pies going in your stomach.

"Okay, contestants! Are you ready?" The woman asked as if she's an announcer at a race track. You just shrugged while the boys nodded confidentially. The other local contestants were stretching their jaws like they were about to run a marathon.

"Alright, baby sis," Dean said, cracking his knuckles. "Try to keep up, yeah?"

"Oh, please. You’re old, Dean. I have youth on my side."

He scoffed.

"Three… two… one… EAT!"

You started on the apple and the first bite was heaven. Sweet, flaky crust, perfectly spiced - it was everything you had dreamed of. You powered through, determined to prove that Dean wasn’t the only Winchester who could put away ungodly amounts of food.

Dean was in the zone, shoveling pie into his mouth like a man possessed. He threw you a glance, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s, and you glared back, determined to beat him.

Halfway through, the two of you were neck and neck. The other contestants never stood a chance. The crowd cheered as you each devoured pie after pie, but then you glanced over at Dean. You smirked, taking a second to watch your big brother in his natural habitat-face full of pie, eyes gleaming with pure joy. It was rare to see Dean so carefree. No monsters, no hunts, no looming threats. Just good food and a challenge he could actually win.

Well… maybe.

Feeling generous, you slowed just a little as you finished the last of your cherry pie, letting Dean take the lead. He shoved the last bite into his mouth, raising his arms in victory before he even swallowed.

"AND THE WINNER IS - DEAN WINCHESTER!" the announcer declared, and the crowd clapped and laughed at the spectacle you both had made of yourselves.

Dean swallowed dramatically and slammed his hands on the table. "Hell yes!"

You rolled your eyes, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Aw man. I thought I had it!"

"Better luck next time, princess!" Dean grinned, accepting the $50 gift card like it was a championship belt.

As the crowd began to disperse and the contestants stood from their chairs, you stretched, feeling uncomfortably full but satisfied. The fair had been a perfect distraction. You looked out over the fairgrounds, the flashing lights from the rides, the sounds of laughter, the smell of fried food still filling the air.

Dean waltzed over to you and slung an arm around your shoulder to pull you close. "I know where we're going for dinner tonight," he smirked as he admired the card in his hand.

"Don't you want to save it for when you want to leave the bunker?" You asked as you walked off the stage.

"Why would I want to go spend it alone when I could go with my favorite girl right now?" Dean squeezed your shoulder a little bit. Your heart warmed. Sometimes, Dean had a way with words when he actually wanted to be sweet.

"Then I guess we don't have a choice!" You smiled wrapping an arm around his waist. It looked like you both were about to skip together while an old 50's song was playing. You felt like it with how perfect this day was.

[taintandviolent]

Harlem Nocturne ; Jimmy Darling x Reader

summary: When Elsa decides to host auditions for new acts, Jimmy Darling gets a front row seat to a free burlesque show.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.1K | female reader, burlesque/stripper reader, mentions of boners, teasing/flirting, no smut.

a/n: I was listening to spotify on shuffle and this idea absolutely VIOLATED my brain when the song Harlem Nocturne came on. besides, its' been a minute since I've written for my beloved boy. happy valentine's day! enjoy this short lil' somethin'!! banners by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

When Elsa had boldly told the troupe that she was going to be accepting auditions and wanted everyone to sit in on them, Jimmy Darling didn’t picture that he’d be front row for this. Not that he’s complaining. He isn’t. Not at all. His eyes are glued to you as you shimmy and float across the stage to the music that comes from the small record player in the corner. It's big band, and your movements are perfectly in sync with the instruments. Jimmy swallows, and reaches for the paper box of popcorn in his lap, taking a careful handful before bringing it to his mouth. He looks to his left to see Elsa with her arms crossed, languidly taking a draw of her cigarette. She seems pensive, but only because he knows her. Otherwise, her impassive face gives nothing away. His attention quickly returns to you, snapping back like a fresh rubber band. 

The sun is beating down on the fabric of the tent, warming it from the outside in. It’s warmed even further by all the bodies that now sit in front of you, watching your every move. Sweat dots your forehead, but you suspect that’s from the nerves. Maybe an unfortunate mixture of both. 

Despite wanting to focus on the handsome man in the front row, you smile and do your best to keep your attention on everyone in the crowd, even the women. Carefully angling your gloved hands to obscure your scantily-clad body, you flutter your fans in front of your body, dipping them down just enough to reveal a slice of bare collarbone, revealing that beneath those feathers, there was hardly anything. Bra straps were nowhere to be seen. 

In two sweeping motions, one arm after another, you bring the fans up above your head; the grand reveal. Your rhinestone-studded corset glitters in the modest show lights of the tent, all the little gems flickering like little stars. Even your nylons seem to shimmer – and Jimmy is starstruck. He feels heat blossoming in his crotch, and clears his throat. Next to him, Eve is watching, equally as interested, and she leans over, whispering. 

“This is really something, huh? She’s got talent.” 

“You can say that again.” 

You drop the fans beneath you, striding confidently towards the edge of the stage, with the gloved tip of your middle finger between your teeth. You yank once, twice, three times before the glove falls free, hanging lifelessly from your red-painted lips. You repeat the motion with your other hand, and toss it into the crowd. It lands on Jimmy’s leg, and he feels like he’s going to pass out. It’s still warm on his thigh. 

Your fingertips trail down the front of your body, raking over the rhinestones and the clasps. Quickly, you open the front of the corset, revealing all that delightful skin, and a pair of perfectly placed rhinestone pasties. The visual only lasts a second, and you shrug innocently at the man as if to coyly apologize. Jimmy’s fighting to keep his jaw off the floor, and he shifts awkwardly in the wooden chair, which creaks loudly in protest. His mind is whirring like a machine, well-oiled gears cranking with the thoughts of what’s in front of him. 

He swallows hard as you reveal your midsection to the crowd again, this time, opening it fully, exposing yourself to the troupe. As you dip down slightly, letting the corset drop to the floor, Jimmy leans forward and your eyes meet. You flash him a winning smile and a wink, straightening back up with a snap. Arms crossed above your head, you bump your hips to the left, then the right. 

Jimmy angles the popcorn box on his groin perfectly to hide his cock which is starting to swell within his dark jeans. His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but that doesn’t deter him from watching the rest of your act, which, from the looks of it, is drawing to a close.

As the music turns to static, you step to the front of the stage, waiting.

“Tell me, Mäuschen,” Elsa starts. “You think this… is worthy of my show? You’re taking your clothes off for the world to see.” 

With your chest heaving slightly, you clasp your hands in front of yourself and look out to the audience. You had all the confidence in the world a few moments ago, but now, standing nearly naked in front of these people, you feel like a fool. You frown slightly, but muster up the courage to respond to the heavily accented woman. “Fraulein Elsa,” you said, as you’d been instructed to do. “It’s an artform… it’s burlesque. It would bring in the crowds, that’s for sure!” 

She takes a long drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the stage. You withhold the urge to wave it away as the cloud travels in your direction. “This isn’t a peep show. It will only cheapen it. You may leave.”

The floor drops out from beneath you and takes your stomach with it. Hot tears of embarrassment prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away. For a moment, you stand there, completely dejected. Before anyone can notice it, you pick yourself back up emotionally and nod once, dipping forward. 

“Th-thank you for your time.” You give a graceful bow before scurrying around the stage to collect your items and quickly make your way down the set of steps. You hear the woman shout for the next audition, and you round the corner, finding a secluded area of the tent to redo your corset. Disappointment bubbles in your stomach, and you fight off the burning desire to cry, to beg for her to reconsider. But, she was right. You weren’t like the other members of the show, you were just some broad taking her clothes off – it didn’t matter how pretty you were. Or weren’t. 

“I thought it was great. Your show, I mean.”

You jump slightly, freezing at the sound of someone’s voice. When you turn, you’re met with the guy from the front row. He’s holding your glove out to you, and looks sweeter than cherry pie, all brown eyes and soft smiles. You smile back at him, somewhat timidly, and take the glove, folding it up carefully with the other one and tossing them into the suitcase that you’ve brought. One of the caramel locks falls into his forehead as he nods, and he reaches up to push it back up with the rest of them. His fingers are long, and conjoined – something you’ve never seen before. You avert your eyes shyly, and finish doing up your corset.

“It’s a real shame she didn’t… I would’ve loved to have you.” 

He swallows hard. Another awkward moment fills the space between you two. “In the show. With us.” 

“Thanks,” you murmur quietly, as though you’re not to alert anyone that you’re talking. “It’s alright, you know. That’s show business.” 

Jimmy kicks at the dirt beneath his foot, and takes a step back. “I’m sure you get this all the time, with what you do n’ all, but I was wonderin’... maybe you’d like to get some food? There’s a diner real close and I – “ 

You cut him off with a nod. He lights up, in a different way than before, and you like that. Men always look at you a certain way, but the way he’s looking at you now sends a wave of joy through your core. 

“I’d love that.” 

[gay-wh0re-slut]

HEYYY

Can you write rhea x fem!reader where they are at the movies and they decide to sit all they way in the back away from everyone because reader doesn’t like being near anyone and rhea gets the idea to fool around while they watch the movie (smut please)

heyyyyyyy thank you for your request hehehe i’ve always wanted to do this

this is so cheeky oooooo let’s see how this goes

Two Tickets

rhea x fem!reader

content: sexy fun times with your hot buff wrestler gf in a movie theater. def some touching and teasing, def some kissing

“Thank you, baby,” you say as you walk through door held open for you. You insisted on bringing a blanket because you always go too cold in the theaters, she loved cuddling up to you anyway.

The buff woman chuckles behind you, letting the door close behind the two of you. She quickly walks in front of you to the ticket counter.

Rhea saw online that they were doing a special showing of Friday the 13th. If you wore merch, you’d get fifty percent off the tickets, so of course you had to go. Half of her closet was horror movie merch.

“Two tickets for Friday the 13th, please,” her accent echoed a bit.

The worker looked intimidated by her, which was funny to you and almost immediately rang you up for the tickets. “Uh..anything else?”

She turned towards you, “popcorn?” she shrugged her large shoulders.

“Sure,” you chirped.

“Medium popcorn plea-”

“And a large lemonade!” you added on.

She rolled her eyes playfully, “and a large lemonade please.”

“Y-you got it,” he pushed buttons on the screen. As the card reader loaded, he scooped the popcorn and got the lemonade, placing both on the counter in front of your girlfriend. The tickets printed after she removed her card and he handed them to her.

“Thank you,” she handed the drink to you, then took the popcorn and tickets.

“Enjoy your movie,” he said quietly as you walked away.

“We will,” she winked towards him.

His knees almost buckled right then. It was fun having her around you thought, you almost got everything you wanted.

Walking into the theater, there was more people than you thought there would be. You froze for a second before Rhea looked at you with a soft smile, letting you know that everything will be okay. You followed her to the very back, right under the projector. Both of you sat down and situated yourselves under the blanket. This theater had the seats that could move so that you were basically laying down.

The previews played as more people trickled in. To your surprise, no one else sat in the back row. Was it Rhea's aura or did they want to be scared? Either way, you didn't mind.

The movie finally started. The wrestler hit your leg playfully out of excitement. She told you earlier that she has always wanted to see the movie on the big screen, "I was born too late," she would say.

As the movie went on, you finally realized that her hand was resting on your thigh, luckily under the blanket. Which wasn't any different than normal but what was different was that she was slowly moving it...up your leg.

"Baby," you whispered.

"What?" she whispered back teasingly.

"We're in pub-"

"The movie is loud and we're the only ones back here," her accent tingled in your ear as it sent chills down your spine.

She leaned over to start kissing on your neck, "c'mon baby," her whispering got more sensual as she talked.

"I thought you wanted to watch it on the big screen."

"Well, yes..." her hand was insanely close to your center now, "but you are much more intriguing." Her other hand reached to your chin and gently pulled you towards her. She glanced into your eyes then flicked her gaze down to your lips then back to your eyes, "be a good girl for me, yeah?"

You bit your lip trying to silence the whimper that was pushing its way out. Nodding your head in desperation, you scoot yourself closer to her wishing that the arm of the chair could fold up, but unfortunately it couldn't.

The movie played as her teasing went on. The more suspense in the movie, the more pressure she put on your center, and the more you struggled to keep yourself together. Every so often she would kiss your neck holding your face away from her for better access. Her tattooed hand massaged its way to your core as the people in front of you cowered in fear. The jump scare got closer and closer as her hand added more and more pressure.

"SHIT!" you screamed in arousal as the rest of the crowd screamed in fear at the jump.

She chuckled in your ear as the crowd died down and removed her hand, but only slightly.

Finally the movie ended, "get your ass in the car," she growled as she ripped the blanket away from the two of you. You quickly grabbed the half full drink, barely eaten popcorn and basically ran out to her big truck. She followed close behind you lazily folding the blanket.

Squirming all the way home, you jumped out of the car, dropped the popcorn and the drink on the counter and before you could make it to the bedroom-

"Uh uh, princess," as she caught you from behind, engulfing you in her big arms. She carried you back to the couch and threw you down.

You giggled as you plopped down.

"You did so well, my love," she kneeled in front of you landing her hands on the outside of your thighs.

You relaxed the muscles you didn't know you were holding tense. Letting out a long breath as you did, you let your head fall back, resting on the back of the couch. Your hands tangled themselves in her raven dark hair as she kissed along your thighs. Her hands toyed with your waistband, tugging on them hoping you get the hint.

Of course you did, but you loved the feeling of her teasing you, "not yet," you breathed.

"Correct answer," she grinned. She continued to kiss up your thighs and grazing her hands all over you. They trailed up to your sides, to your stomach, to your tits then finally back down to your legs. She slowly pushed them open causing her to kiss the inside of your thighs.

A small moan fell out of you as you readjusted yourself to move closer to the edge of the couch. You heard a faint giggle come from below you, sending a shock through you straight to your core.

Instead of tugging this time, Rhea purposely pulled harder on your waistband, silently telling you to lift your hips. So you did, allowing her to pull your pants off and thrown to the side as you helped.

"Look at you," she sat back holding your legs open staring at the arousal that soaked your underwear, "all for me?" she cooed.

"Mhmm," you whined, "please baby..."

"So desperate," she mocked. Her devilish smile dove back down to kiss on your now bare skin. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she trailed the kisses up to your core. Planting her soft lips right above where you need them most.

You shifted your hips closer to her but she backed away in perfect timing, "uh uh, you know the rules babygirl."

You sigh loudly, "hmph," as you drop your hands from her shoulders.

"Aw, a lil frustrated are we?"

"No," you lie.

"Right, so me doing this," she carefully grazed her thumb over your clit, "doesn't do anything?"

Your hips jerked as you grunted in frustration, "n-no."

"Right...and this?" she did the same motion but added slightly more pressure.

"Fuck," you said under your breath. You took a short but deep breath, "no," you growled.

"Uh huh," the devilish grin grew back. Her icy blue eyes flicked over your body, watching you writhe in front of her. It didn't take her long to figure out what to do next. She stood, then bent at her waist, placing a hand under your chin, lifting your head up to match her gaze. "Stand up," she whispered sternly.

You followed orders and stood as your legs shook, but only slightly. Her hand was on your chin the whole way up. She grabbed you more aggressively, then pulled you in for a long deep kiss before pushing you to the side. She took your seat, manspreading in front of you. You watched in awe as if she's never done this before. She draped her arms on the back cushions. Once more, her eyes danced over your body before she patted her thigh to tell you to sit down.

You followed her command and straddled her waist, resting your arms on her large shoulders.

"Hmm," she hummed in content, "I love making you like this."

"Like what?"

"Sooo... desperate," she trails a finger down your neck, to your chest, "sooo needy," the finger continues to the elastic of your underwear, playing with it.

"I can't help it," you moan at her touch.

"I know," she whispered in her husky voice. She grabbed your face with her free hand and pulled you in for a sloppy kiss, quickly followed by her other hand diving underneath the cotton and straight to where you needed her most.

You were moaning loudly at her touch, as she held your head in place, not letting you go. Her skilled hand was forming small circles on your clit. Your hands flew to her hair gripping at anything you can.

She finally lets go of her death grip, "that's it, baby," as she pushed some stray hairs out of your face before cupping your jaw.

"Holy fuck," you whined. Her hand was going full force now, giving everything you wanted. The pressure and pace was perfect. You didn't realize you were grinding on her hand until she placed her other hand on your ass helping you through it. You moaned and whined into her neck, resting your head on her shoulder.

"Look at me," she said quietly, but you didn't listen. She immediately stopped her working hand.

"No please don-"

"Then look at me," she said harsher.

So you did.

"Good girl," her eyes were dark and hungry. "Now, I can tell you're close," she slowly starts again, causing you to ache for a release, "I need you to look at me when you come...undone," her pace quickens a bit, "can you do that for me, love?"

"Mhm, yes, yes I can, y-yes," you pleaded hoping she would stop teasing.

"Good," finally, she quickens her pace and adds more pressure perfectly as her other hand supports your back.

You almost immediately drop your chin to your chest before picking it back up again. One of your hands grip onto to her neck and the other is braced on the back of the couch. Your breath becomes more shallow, your hips are moving back and forth quicker than you thought possible. Moans and whines continue spilling out of you. You rest your forehead on hers.

"Oh shit, Rhea," you were basically whimpering now.

"C'mon baby," her voice was deep but breathy.

The knot that had been forming in your stomach since before you left the theater finally snapped, "FUCK," you cried out, throwing your head back. Loud moans filled the room as you rode out your high on her hand, slowly calming down as she followed suit in slowing down her pace.

As you caught your breath, you laid your head on her shoulder. She took back her hand and wrapped her arms around you letting you rest.

You finally lifted your head, "you're so fucking hot when you're mean to me by the way."

"Yeah? Should I call you a slut next time then?" she giggled, half joking.

"God, yes," you groaned.

"Well, then," she easily picked you up and began carrying you, "let's see what happens when I do," as she took you to the bedroom.