Felix’s Old Singlet
Felix, Penn, and Ross
Summary: Felix finds his old wrestling singlet from high school and tries it on for the first time in nearly two years… and, when it (of course) doesn’t fit like it used to, he goes downstairs to ask his father if as bad as he thinks. Could he have possibly gained that much weight?
Words: 10.3k (Strap in. This is a long read. Also, if there are any typos, forgive me. Writing this was so fun… until it wasn’t anymore…)
!!!Before You Read!!! — This story includes some pretty intimate father-son action. Close intimacy. Partial nudity, slight groping, belly worship, navel play and licking, and things of that nature. I think it’s pretty hot… but, if that’s not your tea, I totally get it… and this isn’t a story you should read.
Felix's closet is a self-contained black hole. Things go in, and they do not come back out unless absolutely necessary.
The door creaks open with a slow, tired groan, revealing the familiar chaos within — a cramped, dimly lit space stuffed with balled up shirts, sweatpants, jackets, socks, and the occasional unidentified fabric mass that might once have been clothing but now exists in some ambiguous middle state between clean and not smelly enough to wash just yet.
Felix stands in the doorway for a moment with his hands on his hips, staring into the closet like a spaceman preparing to descend into a void of dark matter.
"Right," he mutters.
He has one simple goal. Shorts. Comfortable shorts. The kind that he can lounge around the house in without thinking about them. Something loose, something soft — something that doesn't cling, or squeeze, or make him aware of his own body while he's trying to relax.
Those shorts exist somewhere in this closet — he's sure of it. He just has to find them.
He rolls up the sleeves of his T-shirt and steps forward, prepared to get down and dig deep.
Immediately his foot lands on a wet, crumpled hoodie that he vaguely remembers taking off three days ago and tossing blindly over his shoulder. The hoodie squelches and slides underneath his sole, throwing off his balance.
He pinwheels, his hands flailing in search of something sturdy to grab, before catching himself in the doorframe.
"...Great start."
He kicks the hoodie aside and crouches down, beginning the slow excavation process.
He does not organize his closet. He never has.
His system — if it can even be called that — has always consisted of simply throwing clothes through the closet door and trusting that future Felix will eventually organize them all.
Sometimes that means shoving freshly washed clothes into the same pile as the dirty ones. Sometimes it means tossing something half-folded onto a hanger and calling it good enough.
Sometimes it means taking off a shirt, throwing it inside, and closing the door before gravity can reveal the consequences of his actions.
No matter how the deposits happen, he always trusts that he'll come back to sort everything out... or at least feel some level of shame each time he has to get down on the floor and dig for something specific.
Clearly, he hasn't been ashamed for quite some time.
The result of his carelessness is layers of fabric strewn about the floor. Strata.
Felix digs through them now — no longer a spaceman exploring a new frontier, but an archaeologist uncovering the fossilized remains of past outfits.
A pair of sweatpants. A flannel shirt. A gym tank top that smells faintly of old detergent and more strongly of festering perspiration and regret.
He tosses things over his shoulder as he searches... and the pile behind him grows in no time.
"Where are the good shorts..." he murmurs.
He finds three pairs of athletic shorts that he immediately rejects, because they're made of that weird slippery material that sticks to his legs. A pair with a hole in the pocket. A pair that definitely used to be comfortable but now feel suspiciously tight in the waistband.
"Not those." He grunts, digging deeper.
The farther he delves, the more the closet reeks of soggy cotton, detergent residue, and the unmistakable tang of sweaty, worn clothing that has spent too long in a confined space.
Eventually his fingers brush against something different. Not cotton... or fleece. Something smooth. Elastic. He pauses curiously... then pulls the fabric free from the pile.
It unfolds slowly in his hands. Dark blue. Yellow trim along the edges. The school logo printed across the chest — faded now, cracked from age and irreversible wrinkling, but still recognizable.
Felix stares at it, shocked by the pull.
"No fucking way..."
It's his wrestling singlet — the one he wore all through high school.
He holds it up by the straps, letting the full length dangle in front of him... and, for a moment, the rest of his closet disappears.
His brain fills with flashes of bright gymnasium lights, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the heavy rubber smell of wrestling mats, and the roar of a crowd when a match tipped in the final seconds.
He was good. Better than good, actually.
He was one of the best wrestlers on the team — something that surprised even him in the beginning.
When he joined, it was mostly because of his father. Penn always encouraged him to take advantage of his time in school, to go above and beyond and involve himself in any and everything that interested him. He had some extra time on his hands during the week... and the wrestling team was having tryouts... so he went for it.
The coaches took one look at his broad build, noticed his stubborn streak and determination on the mat, and marveled at the frankly absurd teenage stamina that he had, and thought yeah, we can work with that.
Felix discovered quickly that wrestling suited him.
It rewarded strength, endurance, and a certain willingness to throw your entire body into someone else's. He had plenty of that.
By the time he graduated, he'd become something of a star at his school — which, considering he'd been juggling his wrestling with class work, and the competitive eating competitions that he participated in on weekends, was impressive even by his own standards.
Felix snorts softly at the memory. God... those were weird years.
He shifts his grip on the singlet.
It's only been about a year and a half since he graduated — not long at all, in the grand scheme of things. Still, something about the way the singlet hangs in his hands feels... off.
He squints at it. "Why does this look smaller?" He asks out loud, as though the old singlet will miraculously give him an answer.
He lifts it higher, stretching the fabric between his hands. The elastic still has some give to it... hasn't turned brittle or stiff. But the proportions look different somehow.
The torso seems shorter. The leg openings seem narrower.
Felix frowns. "That's not... that's not possible."
Clothes don't just shrink while sitting in a closet. And even if they did—
He brings the singlet closer to his face and cautiously sniffs its crotch.
"Oh, good lord." He says, jerking his head back immediately, nearly gagging. His face twists unnaturally, like he just inhaled an experimental chemical weapon at point-blank range.
The smell is potent. Festering sweat. Filthy gym residue. Teenage hormones, still raging within the fabric's fibers.
It's the specific, pungent scent of athletic gear that has lived through countless grueling practices, hard fought matches, and hundreds of nasty farts, without receiving nearly enough washing cycles.
Felix coughs and holds the singlet at arm's length. The smell doesn't shrink at all.
"...Yeah, that's definitely the same one."
The same one. Which means it couldn't have shrunk in the dryer... because it very clearly has not been near a washer or dryer in quite some time.
With that explanation out of the question, he eyes it again, and his suspicion grows.
There is only one, very obvious way to test this.
Knowing what he has to do, he sighs. "Fine."
He stands up in the middle of the closet and begins stripping down.
His shirt goes first, up over his head and onto the floor. Then go his boxers — which he easily slips out of and kicks aside, leaving both articles of clothing in a crumpled heap beside the door.
"Let's see what the problem is." He mumbles, holding the singlet up to the ceiling as though it had come down from the sky and personally challenged him — as naked as the day he was born.
He steps into it easily enough... and, at first, everything seems normal.
The leg openings slide up over his calves and around his thighs easily enough. The elastic grips his skin the way he remembers — snug, but flexible.
"Okay," he mutters. "So far so good."
He pulls it higher.
The fabric glides up his hips... and then, it hesitates.
Felix freezes. "Fuck." He exhales. "Hold on."
He wiggles his hips, trying to guide the singlet upward... and, though it moves, it moves much slower than he'd like for it to.
The elastic stretches a little more than it used to... but it still stretches, so he tugs harder.
After another pull or two, the material finally slides over his hips, giving a faint snapping sound as the elastic resettles.
"...Huh."
That's new.
He doesn't remember needing to negotiate with the fabric back in high school... but he pulls the singlet the rest of the way up.
That's when the differences become impossible to ignore.
The torso panel stretches tight across his stomach. Not painfully tight, but firm. Constricting.
The material that once hugged him like a second skin now clings with a slightly desperate tension, as though it's doing its best to contain something it hadn't originally been designed for.
Felix freezes. "What the fuck?"
He grabs the straps and pulls them over his shoulders. They resist slightly.
The neckline tugs downward across his chest, and the elastic fabric stretches across his torso, smoothing itself over the shape of his body in a way that feels... different.
Back then, the singlet had fit like athletic compression. Snug, supportive, built for movement. Now it feels like it's choking him — invading every curve, crevice, and contour.
His shoulders feel broader. His back pulls the straps outward more than it used to. His chest presses hard against the front panel, the fabric practically adhering to the surface of muscles that have thickened since his wrestling days.
He turns sideways, toward the closet mirror... and stops moving altogether.
"...Oh. Shit."
There it is. His stomach. Not huge. Not dramatic. But undeniably rounder.
The singlet pulls tightly across the defined curve, the elastic drawing inward just beneath his ribs while the center panel distends, stretching thin over the seemingly bowling-ball-sized swell of his belly.
He pokes it experimentally, as though he's seeing a ghost... an apparition of something that isn't truly there. Only... it is there.
The belly gives — soft and warm against his fingertip.
"The fuck?" He frowns. "That wasn't there before."
Again, he turns, studying himself from another angle... and the curve becomes more obvious. Subtle, but real.
The singlet clings to it, outlining the shape in a way that leaves very little room for denial.
Felix presses both hands against his stomach and pushes inward. It compresses easily.
"...What the hell."
He turns completely around and looks at his reflection from the back.
The singlet hugs his hips more closely now, fabric dipping firmly between the curves of his butt — clinging to the moon-like shape of his plump glutes, sinking into the cleft between them, and cradling the bottoms of the muscles like the support wires of a perfectly fitted bra.
His thighs press against the leg openings, the elastic digging slightly into the flesh there.
"Okay," he blinks. At a loss for words, he turns toward the mirror again. Slowly. Carefully. Studying every angle.
The evidence accumulates piece by piece — the tighter fit, the over-stretched fabric, and the undeniable softness beneath his fingers.
He grabs the sides of the singlet and tugs outward, as though the added tension will somehow force it to grow a size or two. It snaps back immediately.
"This is not how this used to fit."
He pokes his stomach again. It jiggles.
"Have I... gained weight?"
Felix pinches the side of his belly between his fingers, catching thick skin under thin fabric. There's definitely more there than he remembers.
Not dramatically more. But... enough. Enough that the singlet notices.
He squints at his reflection. "Shit. How did I not notice this?"
He lifts the edge of the leg opening slightly and inspects his thigh. Also thicker.
"Okay." He exhales slowly, turning sideways again.
Nothing has changed. The curve of his stomach presses forward against the stretched fabric, just the same as it had merely a minute ago.
"Okay," he repeats. "This is... fucked."
Something about this situation feels deeply suspicious. It makes no sense at all.
He exits the closet with the singlet still stretched tight around his body, stepping carefully over the small mountain of soggy clothes he just unearthed. The singlet clings to him as he walks, the tight elastic shifting against his skin with every step. It's not painful, exactly, but it's pinching.
He's very aware of the fabric hugging him in places it had never hugged so tightly before.
Outside the closet, the temperature immediately changes. It feels cooler — a refreshing rush of circulating air against the exposed skin of his arms and thighs.
"...Okay," he mutters to himself again, as if saying the word enough times will miraculously unscramble his senses, and undo this strange illusion. Bring him back to reality. A reality where he's not this shapely.
The closet mirror is small. That's what it is. Too... narrow. Too flimsy, mounted on the inside of the door in a way that always makes his reflection look slightly strange and curvy.
Yeah. He was too close to the glass... and it was warped. That's the issue.
The mirror is weird. There's a better mirror in the bathroom. Much better lighting, too.
Felix's bathroom is only a few steps from the closet, situated along the same wall. He walks toward it with cautious determination, the singlet digging against the crevices of his thighs and shoulders as he moves.
The tile floor in the bathroom is cool beneath his soles.
He reaches out and flicks the light switch by the door. The overhead light snaps on with a bright, unforgiving glare.
For a moment, he squints, looking down at his feet as his eyes adjust. He can only see his toes... and they need some TLC.
He gives himself a few seconds to get acclimated, then he looks up.
The bathroom mirror is much larger than the one in the closet. It stretches nearly the full width of the sink counter, and nearly touches the ceiling, reflecting him clearly from head to knee, with none of the cramped distortion of the narrow closet glass.
Felix exhales slowly. "Okay."
He steps forward... and stops. His reflection stares back at him.... exactly the same as before.
The singlet still clings tightly across his torso. The elastic cups his chest like a bra that's too small, and pulls inward beneath his ribs. And his stomach... his stomach still curves outward beneath the stretched fabric.
He blinks, leaning closer to the mirror.
"...No."
He turns slightly sideways. The curve becomes even more obvious in profile.
Felix places both hands on his stomach. His palms spread slowly across the expanse of it. Warm. Soft. Full. The surface yields gently beneath his touch, the way a relaxed belly always does.
He rubs it slowly — almost absentmindedly — his thumbs tracing small arcs near his ribs while his fingers rest lower along the rounded slope. Even here, in better lighting, with the bigger mirror and the open space around him, it looks and feels exactly the same. Undeniable.
He exhales through his nose. "Okay," he murmurs for the dozenth time, sounding like a broken record as the reality finally sets in. "This is insane."
His brain begins searching for another explanation. There has to be one. Okay, maybe he's gained a ton of weight. He can be honest with himself. This shape, though... the roundness of his belly isn't normal. It came out of nowhere.
He thinks back through the day — breakfast, lunch, snacks. He did eat a lot today. Quite a lot, actually... even by his own standards.
That's probably it.
He nods to himself, the pieces of the explanation clicking into place.
"Right," he says. "That's what it is."
He's just full. Bloated. Packed with food... and maybe a little gas.
That happens. Totally normal.
"Yeah. That's definitely it."
The singlet only looks tighter because his stomach isn't empty. Once he lets out a good fart, or uses the bathroom, everything will settle down again, and his stomach will go back to normal.
The singlet will fit the way it used to. Problem solved.
Felix nods again, more confidently this time. Now he knows what's up.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The elastic edge of the singlet presses lightly into the underside of his belly as he moves, the fabric stretching just a little more as his stomach settles into its relaxed position.
He rubs it again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. His gaze lingers on the reflection in the mirror... and his brain takes a detour. To Ross. He doesn't mean to think about him, but the comparison slides into his mind automatically.
Ross is pregnant. Actually pregnant. There's a real-life baby growing inside him. Felix's sibling. It's still weird to think about.
Ross's belly is barely showing yet. He's early on in his second trimester — Felix doesn't know the exact week — and it's still just a gentle swell beneath his shirts. A soft curve that only really stands out if you know what you're looking for.
Felix has seen it plenty of times. Ross resting a hand there absentmindedly. His father doing the same thing without even thinking about it.
The small, quiet shape of something beginning.
Felix looks down at himself again. "I'm bigger than him." He mumbles to himself, the thought so absurd that it almost makes him laugh. "I'm not even pregnant, and I'm twice his size."
Ross is the one with an actual baby inside him. And yet—
Felix pokes the roundness of his stomach again.
"I look more pregnant." He squints at the mirror like it's personally offended him. Like it's laughing too — not with him, but at him. "This is a sick joke."
His hands settle more firmly on his abdomen. Not poking. Not testing. Just... resting there.
The warmth beneath his palms spreads slowly into his fingers. There's something oddly comforting about the motion, caressing his own gut.
"Well," he says. "If I'm bloated, I might as well commit."
He lets his stomach relax completely. Really relax. No holding it in. No tightening the muscles. Just letting gravity and digestion do their thing.
The result is immediate.
His belly expands outward, the soft fullness settling more heavily against the front panel of the singlet. The fabric pulls another fraction of an inch.
There. That's probably the full extent of it.
Just food. Just bloat. Totally temporary.
Felix's hands cradle the curve without really thinking about it, palms spread wide across the warm surface while his thumbs sweep small circles near the center.
The motion reminds him of something. Ross does this sometimes. Absentmindedly. Just resting his hands there.
Penn does it too.
Felix watches himself in the mirror. The shape of his body. The tight singlet. His hands rubbing his belly like... like there's a baby in there.
He snorts softly. He can't help it.
"Well hello there," he murmurs to his reflection in a joking voice, talking to it — the imaginary fetus. "Big guy."
The roundness jiggles faintly under the fabric, and he smiles at the mirror.
"Been eating well, cuz of you. But that's okay," he says in a soothing tone, leaning into the joke. "Nothing wrong with a little belly."
He shifts his stance and lets his stomach hang even lower, exaggerating his posture to mimic that of a more heavily pregnant person — something that Ross hasn't become yet.
"That's it. That's attractive," he continues, nodding proudly at his reflection. "Very—"
He stops. The words hang in the air.
The bathroom is suddenly quiet... and the image in the mirror warps into something very strange. All at once, the reality of what he's doing hits him like a speeding truck. What the fuck?
A grown man standing in an old wrestling singlet that smells like sewage and clearly doesn't fit the way it used to. Hands cradling a round stomach, talking to it.
Felix blinks. "What the actual fuck am I doing?"
The absurdity is simply too much. He can't even count all of the red flags that have just risen up in the forefront of his mind. It's ridiculous.
This is all Ross's fault. Felix knows it immediately.
What he's just done... that's the kind of thing that only someone who lives under the same roof as a pregnant person would do. The physical comparison. The pretending. The cringey belly-talk. The mimicry.
Felix cant help but to copy it. He's surrounded by it.
He drops his hands and starts to laugh. At first it's just a small chuckle. Then another. And another. Then, before he can stop himself, he's leaning against the sink, laughing openly... like a crazy person.
It's not entirely genuine laughter, but somewhere between acceptance and disbelief. Between humor and denial.
"Okay," he says through the laughter, "this is actually insane."
He pokes his stomach again. It jiggles. He laughs harder.
"You're disgusting," he tells himself, gesturing vaguely at the mirror. “Fuckin' pig. Look at you."
The laughter fades slowly, leaving behind a lingering grin.
Alright. Enough self-analysis.
Felix stares at himself for another long moment. Then, he mutters, "I need other eyes."
He needs someone else to see this... to see how awful he looks in his singlet. Someone who won't hesitate to tell him the truth.
Of course, he's bloated right now... but, even without the bloating, has he simply gotten fat? Is that why his singlet fits so much differently everywhere else?
He needs to hear from his father, who was there back in high school, when it fit him just right.
Penn knows how it's supposed to look — how and where it's supposed to hug his son's figure — in an objective way. He's not in Felix's head, and won't have his perception warped by any personal biases or unreliable body image.
Felix glances down at the singlet one more time. The tight fabric. The rounded belly. It's still unbelievable... still feels unreal.
"Yeah," he says, half smiling. "This needs witnesses."
He doesn't give himself time to second guess the decision. If he hesitates, he knows he'll end up back in the closet, peeling the singlet off his body, and pretending like none of this ever happened. That would be easier — less humiliating — but it wouldn't answer the question clawing at the back of his mind.
He flicks off the bathroom light on his way out and steps into his bedroom once again, the cooler air immediately brushing over his exposed skin. He can't help but to shiver as he marches toward his bedroom door.
He reaches for the doorknob, pausing when his fingers make contact with the cold handle. He's frozen in place, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this is going to look — not only for him, but for everyone else too. The singlet is... tight. Obscenely tight. There's no hiding anything in it. He's on full display... wrapped up like a thanksgiving turkey, and plump like one too.
He's not as self-conscious as he could be... but he doesn't feel good about this.
Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and steps out into the hallway, committing himself to the bit in a way that feels both bold and deeply, deeply stupid.
The carpet greets him with a soft, compressed creak beneath his weight — subtle, but there. It's not the loud groan of old wood, or anything dramatic... nothing that would make someone downstairs look up in alarm... but it's enough. Enough for him to feel it. Enough for him to hear it. Enough that, right now, when he's hyper-aware of his body in a way he hasn't been in a long time, it may as well be thunder.
He pauses mid-step.
"No," he mutters under his breath, glancing down at the floor as if it's just personally insulted him, and shifting his weight experimentally from one foot to the other.
The carpet responds again — faint, but consistent.
What the hell?
That didn't used to happen... or maybe it did, and he just never noticed it before.
Maybe it's one of those things — like the smell of the singlet — where the change isn't new, just newly observed. Re-noticed. It makes sense... but the thought doesn't comfort him nearly as much as it should.
He exhales through his nose and keeps walking. The hallway feels longer than usual. Narrower, too. Or maybe that's just him — his awareness of himself dialed up to an uncomfortable degree. The singlet clings to him with every step, the elastic shifting uncomfortably against his thighs, his hips, his torso. Chub rub — that's what they call it, right? He can feel it everywhere.
Felix frowns slightly as he moves, his steps slowing just enough for him to analyze the motion. Something feels... off. Awkward.
He's aware of his center of gravity in a way he normally isn't. His belly — his stomach, he corrects himself immediately, changing the word in his mind — is swaying. Not dramatically, or cartoonishly, but enough that he can feel the subtle shift with each step. A gentle side-to-side motion that pulls his hips into a compensating rhythm.
"Am I waddling?" he asks no one.
He takes another step, almost studying himself. Then another. The motion repeats.
His face twists. "No. No, I'm not. That's—no."
He knows a quick fix. Something Ross does whenever he catches himself walking bump-first... which is often.
He straightens up, adjusts his posture, and deliberately changes his stride — longer steps, squared shoulders, more controlled hips, less sway. Immediately, it feels forced. Artificial. Uncomfortable. Like he's overcorrecting something that might not even exist.
"Okay," he mutters, shaking his head. "I'm screwing with myself."
He forces himself to walk normally — whatever that means anymore — and continues down the hall. As he approaches the stairs, he glances down at his feet again — or rather, he tries to glance down at them — and pauses.
He can't really see them. His line of sight is obstructed by the rounded curve of his stomach, pushing outward and getting in the way. The tips of his toes peek out from beneath it, barely visible at all.
It's not dramatic. It's not like his feet have disappeared entirely. But the fact that he has to try to see them at all—
That's new. Weirdly new.
He shifts his weight again, as though it may reorient things, watching the slight movement of his stomach as it settles. The fabric catches the light in a way that makes the curve more obvious.
For a split second, it is funny. He could almost laugh, but—
He wrinkles his nose. "Oh, come on."
The smell hits him out of nowhere. Not overwhelming. Not aggressive. But noticeable. More familiar than he'd care to admit, even to himself.
His feet.
He hasn't thought about them in so long. Hasn't noticed them. They've just... existed, as feet do, quietly minding their business at the ends of his legs. Ten toes gripping the floor. But now that he can't see them properly... now that they're obscured... he can smell them.
He exhales sharply through his nose, half-laughing in disbelief. "That's—okay. That's just psychological."
It has to be. Some kind of pseudo pregnancy brain bullshit kicking in, now that he can hardly see anything below his midsection.
He knows that his feet don't smell the best. He's known since pre-school. But, after all these years, there's no way they suddenly got worse... not in the last five minutes. This is just his brain being weird. Overcompensating for the lack of visual confirmation. Switching out one sense for another... and choosing wrong.
He flexes his toes against the carpet, just to reassure himself they're still there. They are.
Finally, he reaches the stairs. They creak underneath him, too. Of course they do.
Felix descends carefully, one hand trailing along the banister, hyper-aware of every shift in his body as he moves downward. The singlet tightens across his thighs with every bend of his knee, the elastic digging slightly into the flesh there. His stomach pulls him forward, and for a brief, irritating moment, he has to account for it — like it's something separate from him that needs to be carried. His other hand cradles it as though it may fall in front of him.
Each stair produces a soft, wooden complaint beneath his weight — not loud, not dramatic, but present. Consistent.
He hates that.
By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he's thoroughly annoyed. With everything.
"This is stupid," he mutters to himself. "This is so stupid."
It feels like everything in this house is trying to humiliate him. The lights. The mirrors. The doors. The carpet. The staircase. And yet, he doesn't turn back. Because the question is still there. Still unresolved. Still loud in the back of his mind.
Am I fat now?
He waddles into the den, the familiar sounds of quiet conversation and shifting fabric growing clearer with each step. Penn and Ross are in there — he knows they are. Probably curled up together on the couch, like always, wrapped up in their own little world.
Felix slows as he enters the room. For half a second, he considers announcing himself. Making a joke. Giving them some kind of unexpected warning. He'd let out a loud fart if he could — blast them away with a good one, if his digestive system wasn't currently experiencing a traffic jam — but he's got nothing in the tank. Instead, he just... walks in. Rounds the couch.
And immediately, they notice.
Ross is the first to react. His head lifts from Penn's shoulder, his expression shifting from relaxed, to confused, to completely blindsided in the span of about five seconds.
"Oh my god," he blurts. And then... he starts laughing.
Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained reaction. Full, unfiltered, belly-bouncing laughter. The kind that hits fast and hard — before even he expects it to — bending him forward as his hand instinctively reaches for his stomach.
"Felix—what the fuck are you wearing?" He manages to say between laughs, his voice cracking.
Felix stops in the middle of the room, already regretting everything. "It's my old singlet," he says flatly, as though that explains it all.
"I can see that," Ross wheezes. "I just—why is it on your body right now?"
He's nearly on the floor with laughter. Penn, meanwhile, has hardly even reacted. He's just... looking. Really looking. His eyes move over Felix in a slow, deliberate sweep — taking in the details with a level of focus that feels almost judgmental, more than anything. The singlet. The fabric. The fit. The smell.
Even from several feet away, he catches a whiff of it. His nose twitches ever so slightly, the faintest hint of recognition crossing his face.
"Wow," he exhales, finally saying something — his voice measured, but undeniably entertained. "That's... nostalgic."
His gaze lingers on the faded logo, the worn stitching, the way the elastic has aged — not broken, or cracked, but tired. Overworked. And then... his eyes drop.
Felix feels it immediately. The shift in attention. The focus.
Penn's gaze settles lower, taking in the way the singlet stretches across his body — across his hips, his thighs, his torso... and his crotch.
There's a pause. A very specific pause.
"Son," Penn says carefully, staring shamelessly.
Felix already knows what he's going to say. He can feel himself shriveling up... turning into a raisin as his father looks directly at his groin.
"Dad?" he replies, anticipating.
"Are you wearing... anything... under that?"
There's a beat of silence between them — Ross continuing his fit of laughter in the background.
Felix doesn't answer right away... because the answer is obvious.
The singlet — old, stretched, slightly translucent in the areas under the most strain — does not leave much to the imagination. The faint blue tint of the fabric does just enough to obscure the details, but not enough to fully conceal them. If the lighting in the room were any brighter... If the fabric were any thinner... If Felix moves the wrong way... it'll be like there's nothing there at all. Like bits and pieces of the suit are completely missing. See-through.
Ross makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
"Oh my god," he says, covering his mouth. "Oh my god."
Felix's face burns.
"It's fine," he mutters. "You can't see anything."
Penn raises an eyebrow.
"We can see enough," he replies calmly.
"You're a lot like your dad, you know." Ross adds, somehow laughing even harder than before. "Those Chrysanthos genes... they're strong."
That does it.
Felix groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't wanna hear that from you. From anyone. Can you not—can you both not—"
But it's too late. The damage is done. The freak show is in full swing.
He's standing in the middle of the den, wearing a too-tight, see-through wrestling singlet from high school, smelling strongly of old sweat and swamp-ass, while his father and his father's pregnant, way-too-young boyfriend, who's basically his age, openly laughs at him.
He has no dignity left. There is no recovering from this. Still, he squares his shoulders, and stands as though he's not half as embarrassed as he really is... because he didn't come down here to preserve his dignity. He came down here for answers.
"Alright," he says, cutting through Ross's laughter with a surprising firmness. "Laugh it up, dickhead. Get it out of your system."
Ross tries. He really does. He inhales sharply, attempts to compose himself... and fails immediately, dissolving into another fit of laughter.
Felix rolls his eyes and turns to Penn.
"You," he says, pointing at him. "Can you be serious for like... thirty seconds?"
Penn's lips twitch. He's trying not to smile. Trying not to laugh. And failing... just a little. But he nods.
"Okay, son," he says. "I'm serious."
Felix gestures vaguely at his body. "This—" he says. "Explain this."
Penn leans into the couch, one arm draped along the backrest behind Ross, his gaze returning to Felix with renewed focus.
Felix feels himself getting nervous. Suddenly, he's very aware of everything again — the tightness of the fabric, the stretch across his stomach, the way the elastic presses into his thighs, the way his body feels inside the suit. It comes in waves. He can forget about it for a while — at least, physically — and then, for a while, it's all he can think about.
"I found it in my closet," he continues, pushing through the discomfort. "Tried it on. It doesn't fit the same."
He keeps his eyes on his father, waiting for his input.
"You were there, dad. You remember how it's supposed to look on me." He hesitates... and, then, clenching his hands into tight fists at his sides, he asks the question that's been on his mind for what already feels like an eternity. "Dad. Have I gotten fat?"
He swallows, glancing down briefly at his stomach before looking back up. "Or did it shrink?" he adds quickly, the words coming out before he can even think about them. "Because it smells like it hasn't been washed since... ever. So... I don't know. Maybe—"
He trails off, shutting himself up before he rambles too far, like a nervous, bloated idiot.
"Dad?"
Penn doesn't answer right away. He doesn't even try to find the right words to say. The right answer.
Instead, he leans forward slightly on the couch, clasping his hands together underneath his chin, studying Felix with a kind of quiet intensity that immediately makes the air between them feel... thicker. Tense.
He's gone somewhere else entirely — drifting into a headspace that Felix recognizes all too well.
Analysis mode.
It's like a film behind his father's eyes. It's in the way his eyebrows stiffen at their inner-corners. In the wrinkles that form at the sides of his mouth. The tension in his jaw.
It's the look he gets when the cogs in his head start turning out of control, at full steam. The look he gets when he's about to come up close and inspect something... because, of course, he always has to get a closer look.
Felix, knowing the implication of his father's inquisitive expression, stays exactly where he is, shoulders squared, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, like he's bracing for impact... or, rather, for evaluation.
Here he comes...
"Dad," he says again, a little warning in his tone. "Don't—"
But Penn is already moving.
He pushes himself up from the couch in one smooth, quick motion, crossing the floor without hesitation. He closes the distance between them with urgency, as though Felix is some kind of precious specimen that needs to be examined at point-blank range to be understood properly. There's no hesitation in him.
He comes in close. Close enough that the full extent of the many smells that are clinging to Felix's body hit him like a punch to the face. Sour, sweaty fabric, saturated and soggy with several years of rancid perspiration. Swampy, unwashed feet and jammy, barely-visible toes. Nervous farts that have gone unheard, but not unnoticed.
Penn doesn't react to the stench at all. There's no recoil. No visible disgust. If anything, there's a flicker of something else buried beneath his composure. Something subtle — almost imperceptible — like recognition. Like memory. Nostalgia. Curiosity. Maybe even enjoyment.
So, his son doesn't smell so pleasant right now. When does he ever? Penn is used to Felix's many, many odors. All of them.
"Wow," he murmurs under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
Felix overhears him and grimaces. "Yeah, yeah. I know, dad. This thing stinks. Can we focus?"
Penn reaches out, both hands inching closer to Felix's midsection.
He doesn't step back as his father's fingers make contact with his belly. He doesn't even flinch. He just stands there, letting it happen — because, at this point, he knows better than to try and fight it.
This isn't new... being inspected like this. It's just... what his father does.
"Hold still," Penn murmurs as he crouches to the floor, more out of habit than necessity.
Felix huffs lightly. "I'm literally not moving."
Penn's hands come up without ceremony, gliding over the curvature of Felix's midsection like they've done it a hundred times before — because they have.
Warm, simultaneously curious and concerned, palms pressing against warm skin, separated only by that thin, overstretched layer of fabric. Felix can't even begin to count the number of times that he and his father have been in this position, or situated in a similar way to this, in the last few months. In his life, really.
It seems like they always end up here — Penn down on bended knee, hand pressed to Felix's belly, and Felix just... letting it happen.
His father's fingers spread slowly across the surface of his gut, mapping it. He exhales through his nose again, his body reacting before his brain does — a slight drop in his shoulders, a subtle release of tension that he hadn't even realized he was holding.
The singlet shifts faintly under the pressure, the elastic stretching just a little more as Penn presses in.
"Yeah," he murmurs under his breath, talking to himself again.
Felix rolls his eyes. "Dad... speak up."
"I didn't say anything."
"Yes... you did. You mumbled."
"Just thinking out loud," Penn replies calmly, not looking up. "It's not important."
His hands begin to move again, slowly rubbing longitudinal lines across the curve of Felix's stomach, palms gliding over the surface with a measured, almost absentminded rhythm. There's weight there — not excessive, not shocking, but present. A fullness that settles naturally under his touch.
Felix feels it... more than he expects to. His gut is sensitive beneath his father's fingertips. Not in a sharp or uncomfortable way, but in that heightened-senses, overly aware kind of way — like every nerve is paying closer attention than usual.
The fabric amplifies it, the tension of the singlet pressing everything just slightly forward, making every pass of Penn's hands more noticeable.
"You're doing a lot right now," Felix mutters, but there's no real bite to it.
Penn hums softly, still focused. "I'm looking."
"You're touching," Felix corrects.
"I'm doing both."
Ross snorts quietly from the couch, watching the whole thing unfold with open amusement. "He's definitely touching."
Felix shoots him a look. "You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to," he replies easily, still smiling.
Penn's hands press a little firmer, feeling how the surface gives beneath the fabric. Testing how much pressure he can apply before Felix yells at him. He doesn't push hard enough to hurt him — just enough to gauge.
"Relax," he says absentmindedly.
Felix blinks. "I am relaxed."
"More," Penn adds.
Felix exhales, letting his stomach go fully — not holding anything in, not adjusting, just letting it settle naturally. The difference is subtle. But it's there.
Penn feels it immediately — the way the tension shifts, the way the fullness settles a little heavier into his palms, the way the singlet stretches just a fraction more across the curve.
"Okay," he murmurs again.
Felix glances down briefly, then back up. ““Okay” what?”
He doesn't answer. Instead, his attention shifts slightly upward, fingers brushing near the center of his son's stomach — toward the point where the fabric is pulled the tightest. The navel.
The singlet is strained there, the material thinned and slightly darkened from wear and tension, clinging close enough to outline the hollow beneath.
Penn's thumb presses lightly against it, tracing the indentation through the fabric.
Felix huffs a quiet breath, not pulling away. "That's weird," he mutters, trying to ignore the tingling sensation building up below his waist.
Penn's lips twitch faintly. "It's not weird."
He presses again, a little more deliberately this time, like he's testing how the fabric holds against the empty space behind it.
The response is immediate.
Felix's stomach tightens reflexively, a small twitch under his father's hand. "Hey—" he exhales, half laughing. "Okay, yeah, that—don't—"
He trails off before he can finish his sentence... his voice becoming lighter. More breathy.
"Sensitive?" Penn asks, glancing up briefly.
He shrugs, trying to play it off. "It's... yeah. A little."
"A little," Ross echoes, grinning. "You sounded like you were about to moan."
Felix rolls his eyes again, but he doesn't reply. Doesn't deny or admit to anything.
Penn's thumb circles once, slower now, more exploratory than probing. He knows how his son's body is reacting... what it's doing to him... in no small part thanks to Ross and his big mouth.
The fabric shifts slightly with the motion, dragging faintly against the skin beneath. Felix exhales through his nose, gaze drifting off for a second as he lets it happen.
It's... not bad. Annoying, maybe. Inconvenient. But not bad.
His body feels... full. That's the only word for it. Full, and aware, and just a little overstimulated, in a way he can't quite explain. Pleasure isn't the word for the sensation bubbling up within him... the tingling in his hips, and the butterflies fluttering their wings against the innermost depths of his navel... but it's not totally wrong either.
Being touched there... the teasing at the rim of his innie by someone who knows exactly how to push his buttons... does something to him. Something... nice. The singlet doesn't help — everything is compressed just enough to make each point of contact more noticeable.
Penn withdraws his hand from the center briefly, lifting his thumb to his nose. He inhales shamelessly, and the stench that coats his skin is exactly what he expected it to be. Old fabric. Pungent, festering sweat. Swampy skin. Something faintly sour, something faintly warm. Almost cheesy. A mix of everything that's been living within his son's wide, deep navel, completely unnoticed.
He exhales through his nose, thoughtful. "Yeah," he says again, in a quiet, husky voice.
Felix stares at him, incredulous. "Dad. Did you just sniff my belly button?"
Ross lets out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh my god, he did."
"What the hell, dad. You're just being greedy now."
Penn lowers his hand and rises to his feet, ignoring both of them. Felix notices the look in his eyes as he stands upright — the hungry-looking fire hiding behind his heavy-hanging eyelids.
He can only imagine what his father would do if the fabric wasn't in the way of his flesh, acting as a barrier between their skin — soaking up the sweat and the smells like a thin sponge. For sure, he would've zeroed in on his bellybutton... started sniffing and licking at it like some kind of animal — burying his nose and tongue as deep into the widened hole as they can reach, and hitting all of the sensitive spots that he's come to know so well, like an expert.
These days, Penn can't get this close to it without going feral. It's some kind of operant conditioning that Ross has trained him under. Ross and his seemingly irresistible outie.
Now, Penn's got a generalized thing for belly buttons... gets a strange kick from them... and Felix doesn't mind it. It feels nice when he shows it that kind of attention. Really nice.
Penn moves around him next. Circling him slowly. Methodically. Collecting data from all angles.
Felix turns his head slightly as he steps to the side, then behind him, then around again — a quiet orbit, eyes tracking every line, every stretch of fabric, every place where the singlet clings or pulls. Open palms gliding over every dip and curve.
Ross watches it like it's some kind of medical demonstration — like he's sitting in an auditorium, watching Penn perform some kind of physical exam. "He's doing a full inspection, dude," he comments. "You're being evaluated."
"I can feel that," Felix mutters.
Penn's hand pats lightly against his side as he moves past him — a casual, almost absent gesture — before trailing across his lower back. Then lower. A quick, firm pat to his ass, then a gentle cradling of a single cheek.
Felix doesn't even react. "Really, dad?" he says flatly, still wishing he could brew up a decent fart and blast them both away.
Penn shrugs. "Part of the assessment."
Ross laughs again. "Yeah, babe... very professional," he adds.
Felix shakes his head, but there's no real resistance in him anymore. The initial urgency has burned off, leaving behind something quieter. More patient.
He knows he'll get his answer, once this is all over. This is just how his dad is. Part of his process. Hands-on. Observant. Unfiltered in a way that somehow isn't invasive, or overly uncomfortable — just... direct.
Penn completes the circle, stepping back in front of him again, his gaze moving one last time from top to bottom.
The fuller chest. The broadened shoulders. The widened waist. The noticeable mound where his thighs meet, and the translucent fabric stretching thin, revealing everything. The plumper thighs. The way the singlet sits on him now, compared to then — memory layering over reality.
Ross leans forward from the couch, chiming in as the silence stretches. "I mean, I don't know if this helps," he says, gesturing loosely, "but... I know guys from high school who, like... really went off the rails after graduation."
Felix glances at him. "Yeah? How?"
"Like—they put on a full beer gut, started gobbling down a ton of fast food every day, and became a completely different person in, like, a year. Or they got pregnant and just... never bounced back." He shrugs. "It happens."
Felix huffs. "Comforting." He says, half sarcastically.
"I'm just saying. You're not like that. Could be way worse."
He pauses. That part lands.
Ross is right. He could be worse. A hundred extra pounds worse. A thousand fast food stops worse. Beer-drinking worse. Carrying a baby worse.
Ross leans back, showing off his own belly as if comparing the two — sizes and circumstances. "Yeah, dude. You're totally fine."
Felix looks back at Penn, waiting for him to agree... because, even if Ross is right, his father's is the only answer that really matters.
Penn's hands return to his belly — no longer as inspection procedure, but just... resting. Settling naturally against the bloated mass again, like they belong there.
He gives it a slow, absentminded rub, gaze still thoughtful.
"You've changed," he says finally.
Felix's stomach tightens slightly under his hands — not physically, but internally. Anticipation.
"Yeah," Felix replies. "That's what I'm asking about."
Penn looks him in the eyes. Then back down. Then up again. The expression on his face has changed, to something much softer. Less analytical. More affectionate.
"You've definitely filled out, son," he says.
Felix blinks. "That's—"
"That's not a bad thing," he cuts in calmly.
Felix exhales, looking away for a second. "That's not what I asked."
"I know."
Penn's hands don't move from where they are. Still resting. Still warm. Still grounding in a way Felix doesn't really question.
"You're not 'fat,'" he continues, voice even. "If that's what you're asking. You're just... different from how you were then."
Felix looks back at him. "I know. I'm—"
"Bigger," Penn says simply, using the word with care.
"Dad. That's not—"
"In a normal way," he clarifies immediately. "In a grown way."
He gives Felix's stomach a light, absent pat, then reaches around and does the same to his butt.
"You're not seventeen anymore."
Felix exhales slowly, like he's just been told a bit of devastating news. "So it is me," he says.
"Sure." Penn hums. "It's you. But it's the suit too. Two separate things just so happened to change. That's all."
Felix frowns. "Well... that's not helpful."
"The singlet's old," Penn says frankly, not entertaining the pity party that he knows Felix is seeking to throw for himself. "The elastic's worn and tired. Been sitting in your closet for who knows how long. It's not going to fit the same, no matter what."
Felix nods faintly.
"And you've changed," Penn adds. His hands move again — slow, steady, circling once more over the curve of his son's stomach, like he's emphasizing the point without quite saying it outright. "But that's not a problem."
Felix just stares at him, trying to decide if that's a real answer... or just another one of Penn's vague, all-encompassing reassurances.
If it's an answer, it's certainly not the one he was hoping for.
"So what you're saying," he grumbles, "is that I came down here for nothing."
Ross snorts. "Yeah, dude... pretty much."
Penn's lips curve just slightly. "No," he answers. "You came down here for reassurance. Reassurance that you really didn't need."
Felix huffs a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "Right. I don't need this."
Suddenly, he feels like an idiot again. Here he is, standing in the living room like an animal at a petting zoo, being felt up by his father, and gawked at by his father's boyfriend... all because he wanted them both to tell him that he's not fat.
Thinking about it now, he can't help but to shake his head. How stupid. This whole situation is just... stupid. Really stupid.
"I'm going back upstairs," he sighs, in disbelief of his own silly actions.
"Wait." Penn's hands remain on his belly. Still rubbing. Still clinging. Still absentminded.
Felix notices. Of course he does. He's so aware of his body right now that even the smallest touch feels like a hundred pounds of pressure. But he doesn't move. Doesn't push his father away. Because, inconvenient or not... it's familiar. Grounding. And right now, with his body feeling just a little unfamiliar to him, that familiarity settles something he didn't realize was unsettled.
"You're gonna keep doing that, aren't you," he mutters, pretending he doesn't appreciate it.
Penn glances up briefly. "Honestly... probably."
He exhales, somewhere between annoyed and resigned. "Yeah," he says. "Figured."
His father hums faintly, unable to remove himself from his swollen abdomen.
His hands freeze on either side of it, adjusting their hold, thumbs pressing in just enough to feel the slight give beneath the surface. He lingers there for a moment, then exhales softly, as if coming to a quiet conclusion of his own — not about Felix's weight, not about the condition of the singlet, but about something more immediate.
"Come here," he says.
His fingers tug at the blue fabric, guiding Felix forward before he even finishes the words, drawing him the short distance to the couch.
Felix lets himself be pulled along without resistance, stepping in automatically as Penn sits down and pulls him into place between his knees. He stands close — belly-first — bracketed by his father's legs.
His body settles into place instinctively.
The tension that had been sitting in his chest since he walked out of his room, since he caught himself listening to the floor creak beneath his weight, since he started overanalyzing every step and every shift and every unfamiliar sensation... it's gone. Or at least, it's faded into something softer. Less sharp. Less loud.
Ross shifts slightly on the couch to make room, dodging Penn's leg as it swings open. He watches with a quiet sort of interest — the laughter gone.
Penn doesn't look at him. His attention is entirely on his son.
Without much ceremony, he reaches up and hooks his fingers beneath the straps of the singlet, tugging them down from Felix's shoulders. The fabric resists at first — tight, clinging — before finally giving way, sliding down his arms and collapsing around his waist and hips in a stiff, bunched ring of overstretched material.
For Felix, the difference is immediate. Relief.
He exhales sharply through his mouth as the pressure disappears from his upper body, the tight pull across his torso finally releasing. His stomach settles more naturally now, no longer compressed upward and inward by the strained fabric. It can hang down, all on its own.
"Yeah," he breathes, speaking involuntarily. "That feels so much better."
Penn notices the change in his posture. Of course he does.
His hands return instantly, now against bare skin — warm, slightly damp from being trapped under the singlet for too long. The texture is different now. Softer. Almost like slick rubber. More direct. No barrier between his palms and the fleshy surface beneath.
He rubs slowly, deliberately, reacquainting himself with the feel of it.
Felix's head tilts back just slightly, eyes unfocusing for a moment as the sensation shifts — a lot nicer now, more pronounced without the fabric muting it.
"That's it," Penn murmurs, his voice low and gravelly.
He takes in a deep breath, and the air around him changes. The swampy aroma of his son's open navel.
Without the singlet covering it, the smell becomes more noticeable — not overwhelming, but present in a way it hadn't been before. Perspiring skin, festering sweat... something deeper, musky, hidden away in the very depths of the hole, that he simply can't place.
His gaze drops almost immediately, honing in on the exposed center — now fully visible, no longer just an outline strained beneath thin fabric.
There's a pause. A small one.
Felix notices the shift in his father's focus — glancing down briefly before looking away again, already knowing.
"Go ahead, Dad," he mutters.
Penn doesn't respond. Not verbally.
His thumb moves first. A light press just above the hole... testing the waters. Feeling the ring of heat that surrounds it, the warmth of the skin there, the dampness leaking from just inside. Then, it moves lower, brushing the outer edge of it, tracing the wide rim shape with quiet curiosity.
Felix exhales through his nose, shoulders staying loose. God, that feels good. Already, he doesn't want it to stop.
Penn leans in, getting closer — his focus narrowing further, and the tip of his nose prying into the hole.
He inhales. Deeply. Breathing in the odor directly from the source.
Felix lets out a short breath. "How's it smell?" He asks unashamedly, knowing the answer.
"Normal." Penn hums, unbothered. "Just like I expected."
Bad is what he means to say. Awful. Foul. Stomach-turning. Sickening, even. But he keeps it simple.
There's no embarrassment in him. No hesitation. Just that same quiet fascination — the kind that takes pleasure in the odor... that doesn't ask for permission, because it's never needed to.
His thumb presses again, this time just inside the rim — a gentle, exploratory motion that makes Felix's stomach twitch faintly in response.
"Sensitive," Penn notes.
Felix shrugs loosely. "It's always like that when I'm... like this."
"Full," he supplies, filling in the empty space where that word should be.
"Yeah."
He nods faintly, more to himself than to Felix. Then, he leans in further.
Felix knows exactly what's coming. The tasting. He doesn't stop it.
Penn's lips press against the center of his stomach, right over the widened navel, covering the smelly orifice and sealing themselves there.
The contact is warm. Firm. Grounding.
Felix exhales sharply, his hands twitching at his sides before settling again. His head falls back, eyes closing as the sensation spreads outward. Intense. Overwhelming. Hot. Wet. Relieving. Everything, all at once.
"Holy fuck," he groans, unable to stop himself. "That's so good."
Penn stays there for a moment — just with his lips — letting the sensation simmer. And when the initial wave of pleasure finally washes away, he flicks out his tongue, adjusting the angle of his mouth, the force behind his tastebuds.
He knows just how much pressure to apply, and where to apply it... where all of the most sensitive spots are situated. He knows how to make Felix cry out, and squirm, and turn away... how to puppet him, and derive the exact reactions that he wants to bring about.
Felix lets out a quiet breath through his mouth, trying not to moan again.
"Oh, yeah," he mumbles, in pure bliss.
Penn pulls back just enough to speak, his hands still resting firmly at Felix's sides. "What did you eat today?" he asks. The question comes easily, like it's the most natural follow-up in the world.
Felix blinks, coming back to himself. "What?"
Penn glances up at him briefly. "Today. What did you eat?"
"Why?"
His gaze drops back down, his thumb idly tracing the curve of his son's stomach again. "Because you're full," he says simply. "Tight as a drum"
Felix pauses. Then shrugs. "I guess I did eat a lot."
"And what's "a lot?""
Ross shifts on the couch, propping his head up on his hand, watching with a faint smile. "This should be good," he says.
Felix ignores him.
"I had, like—" he starts, thinking back. "Breakfast was whatever. I made a couple sandwiches. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Cheese. Mayo. I had coffee too."
Penn hums. "Coffee should've made you go."
"I held it." Felix quickly replies. "And then I didn't need to anymore."
Ross shakes his head. "Dude. What?"
"I ate last night's leftovers too." he continues, gesturing vaguely. "Then later I had—okay, I had a lot later."
Penn's hands pause briefly, then resume their slow movement. "Again, how much is "a lot?"" He asks for a second time.
Felix exhales, tilting his head back slightly as he thinks. The feeling of his father's soft fingertips gliding over his navel makes it hard to really recall. "I don't know. I was just kinda... eating." he admits. "Cleared out some of the pantry. Some of the fridge. Other stuff."
Ross lets out a quiet laugh. "Other stuff." He mocks.
Felix shoots him a look. "Shut up."
Penn's thumb presses lightly into Felix's side, grounding his attention again. "And?" He prompts.
"And... and snacks." Felix concludes, glancing down at him. "But... if I'd known I was gonna find this stupid thing in my closet," he says, nudging the bunched singlet at his hips, "I would've just... not eaten. Or waited. Or something."
Penn's hands still... just for a second... then resume — slower this time.
"No," he says, flat.
Felix blinks. "What?"
"No," he repeats, more firmly.
Felix frowns slightly, not getting it. "I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying," he cuts in.
His tone isn't harsh. But it's final. Felix quiets.
Penn's hand moves back to the center of his stomach, resting there — not pressing, not probing, just present.
"You don't change how you eat just to fit into some clothes... especially not because of how something old fits."
Felix exhales slowly, looking away. "I wasn't gonna, like, starve myself," he mutters.
"I know. But still."
He doesn't argue. He just stands there, letting his father's hands continue their slow, grounding motion across his stomach.
Penn leans in again, not as deliberate this time — more instinctive, drawn back to the center point of his focus without really thinking about it. His attention settles once more on Felix's navel, his thumb tracing around it before he lowers his head slightly.
Felix doesn't even comment this time. He just lets it happen, his body settling further into the sensation as his father licks the swampy hole — settling into the familiarity of it, into the quiet rhythm of his attention.
Fuck... that's good.
The question from earlier — the one that dragged him out of his room, down the hallway, down the stairs — feels distant now. Somewhat resolved... or at least... quiet.
This isn't about that anymore. It's just this. Standing here. Letting himself be held in place, grounded by something familiar, something steady. Allowing his belly to be loved and cared for... his navel to be stimulated in such a wonderful way.
Penn's hands don't stop moving. His tongue doesn't slow. And Felix doesn't ask him to stop. He doesn't want him to.
