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skzdarlings · 2 years ago

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08. sharing a bed series ; skz ; i.n.

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 8/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN. -

pairing: yang jeongin/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers(&friends2lovers?), sharing a bed trope. reader is older than him but exact age difference is not mentioned. reader was previously married and the ex-husband is described as bad to her, though there are no detailed specifications of exactly what went on. reader going thru some growth, being rude to jeongin, resolving it. the sex is playfully rough, reader mentions "mafia" style romance novels for inspo lmao but it stays pretty tame considering that.

last chapter of the series :)

Of course it’s raining. On top of everything else that went wrong, of course a torrential downpour would hit your party.

There is a large expanse of wood on the vast acreage behind your house. To break some of the social tension, someone suggested playing hide and seek in the woods on the property. It wasn’t part of your plan but seeing as the party’s awkward tension was your fault, you agreed that an outside game sounded like fun. With the springtime sun beaming down on you and your friends, it seemed like a fine afternoon diversion.

You were already deep into the woods when the storm started. You strayed farther from the main path, confident in your familiarity with the terrain. It did you little good when the weather took a turn. The rain was not slow-coming but an immediate sheet slamming into the ground like blocks of solid concrete. You could barely see in front of you and the uneven earth quickly turned to a muddy sludge. Unsurprisingly, you slipped and twisted your ankle.

Now you are stranded, alone in the forest and far away from everyone else, shivering in the pouring rain as your wispy white dress was not designed for such fickle weather.

You seldom let your emotions get the better of you but today you let yourself cry. The tears come as rapidly as the rain, leaving you gasping and shuddering. You stumble towards a tree and slouch against it, trying to take the weight off your hurt ankle. You doubt anyone would hear you screaming over the storm and from this far away, and you don’t have a phone because this stupid dress doesn’t have pockets so you left it behind.

You are crying against the tree when rescue comes in the form of the last person you want to see.

You lift your head to Jeongin. He is also drenched but the thick denim of his overalls covers most of his body and his heavy-duty sneakers are marginally better than your flats. His glasses are streaked with raindrops and his black hair is a mop on his head. Still, he sees through the foggy glass and the messy bangs, his expression one of surprise and concern.

“Are you hurt?” he asks without hesitation, because of course he does. Jeongin is a good person. You have never met anyone as genuinely sweet as him. The guy is all dimple, his eyes constantly scrunched up with glee, always ready with a humorous comment and a steady hand on a friend’s shoulder.

He also has every reason in the world to hate you. You have done everything in your power to push him away, treating him like an enemy, no doubt convincing him of it.

He never stooped to your level. You are older by a few good years but you have undoubtedly been the immature one. You wouldn’t blame him for abandoning you now.

He doesn’t do that. He rushes toward you, leading with his hand outstretched.

“Where does it hurt?” he asks loudly over the rain.

The emotional parts of you are especially vulnerable right now. When he asks that, you stupidly want to gesture to your heart. Ridiculous and sentimental, you know, you know, but true regardless.

You point to your ankle and he dutifully looks down.

His bangs split unevenly when his long, ringed fingers push through his hair. He shakes his head like it will clear his vision.

“Okay,” he says. He opens his arms. “Come on.”

You hesitate. You have no reason to distrust him but he should distrust you. He should hate you. You want him to hate you. You know what to do when someone hates you. You know what to do when someone treats you badly. You do not know what to do with Jeongin, someone so sincerely himself, sincerely kind, sincerely good. He looks at you with nothing but concern, his arms open with a desire to help.

You suck in another unsteady breath.

“Come on,” he says again, a little more forcefully but not unkindly. He seems more perplexed than angry.

You make a slight motion towards him, still hesitant. He accepts it as an invitation and crosses that last step to swing his arms around you. Your hands find his shoulders as his arm slides under your legs. He hoists you into a bridal hold, so secure that you choke on more tears.

You want to apologize. You want to say so many things. You just hide your face as he carries you away from the tree.

There is a moment of shared panic when he stumbles in the mud, but he finds his footing again. He stops for a second under some thicker foliage, looking around, out of breath.

Your tears have subsided. With the pain alleviated from your ankle, your senses are slowly returning to you. You recognize where you are in the woods: far from the main path and even farther from home, but close to the old hunting lodge. You don’t hunt but your ex-husband did. When you took over the property after the divorce, you turned the little lodge into a cozy getaway. You haven’t visited in a while but it will provide a roof over your head until the rain subsides.

“Turn up past those bushes there,” you say, pointing ahead. “We can get out of the rain until the storm passes.”

You can’t raise your voice too loud, still blocked by residual tears, but you are close to his face. He hears you and does as told.

You crest a small hill and the single-room cabin comes into view. You swear it has never looked so warm and cozy.

He puts you on your feet once you are under the awning. Only when you are at the door do you remember you don’t have any keys on you.

“Fuck,” you say, welling up with exasperation. You slouch against the doorframe. “I don’t have the key. What was I thinking?”

Jeongin takes off his glasses and wipes his forehead. He blinks at the door.

“Um.” He looks at you sheepishly, raking his fingers through his messy hair again. “Do you mind if I—” He gestures with his shoulder to the door. “I don’t want to break it but you’re hurt and—”

“Yes,” you say, cutting him off and looking away. Those dark eyes are brimming with concern and you think your guilt might overflow. You don’t want to cry again. You wipe your nose on the back of your arm. “That’s fine,” you say, steady as you can. “I can get the locks fixed after. Just get us inside.”

He nods and folds up his glasses then awkwardly looks around. He gives you another sheepish look before handing them to you. You take them and hold them against your chest while hopping back on your good foot. You get out of his way, watching him roll up his wet sleeves and mutter something encouraging to himself. He cringes when he thumps into the door and it doesn’t give.

Much as you want to get inside, you don’t want him to hurt himself. After the second heavy thud, you reach out. Before you can stop him, he determinedly throws himself against it.

The lock finally gives. It takes one more shove for the door to fly open. He kicks the broken pieces of the shattered lock aside, too focussed on his task to notice how startled you are by the display. You are still processing it when he scoops you up again. He carries you across the threshold and kicks the door closed behind himself.

It is blessedly dry inside the little lodge but it is also freezing cold from lack of use. You are both soaking wet and the chill wastes no time stabbing its way to your bones.

There is a small couch that folds out into a bed and Jeongin sits you on it. He goes down on one knee as he gently places you down, mindful of your shivering. You look at him, his face not far in this position.

He ducks down, taking your hurt ankle carefully in hand. You hiss, instinctively withdrawing, but he holds you in place.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“Not too bad,” you say. “Just sore.”

“Are you sure?”

You would say yes even if it wasn’t true. Jeongin kneeling in front of you, holding your foot in his lap, looking so attentive and concerned – it’s all a bit much.

You nod. Satisfied, he moves onto the next thing and reaches past you to hit a light switch. The room stays grey, lit only by the overcast light outside the windows.

“Of course,” you say bitterly, groaning. “Oh, of course the power’s out. Why wouldn’t it be?”

He snorts, his dimples deepening as he looks at you. Your gut instinct is to recoil from the flicker of heat under your skin, to look away from his smile. You let yourself hold his gaze a little longer than usual.

“You’re funny,” he says with another smile. He looks over his shoulder at the same time a shiver crawls up his spine. He shakes his shoulders and looks back at you. “Is that electric or will it work?” he asks, pointing over his shoulder to the unlit fireplace.

“It will work,” you say. You are about to explain how it works when he gets up and goes over without further preamble. You are watching him work when you realize you still have his glasses. “Jeongin,” you say.

He looks back at you, those silver-ringed fingers once more raking through his hair. His face is open as always, attentive, brows lifted. He really is very handsome.

“Yes?” he asks when you are quiet for too long.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” you say and hold out his glasses. “You probably need these.”

He smiles, his eyes crinkling up in that delighted way.

“Thank you. They’re just for distance,” he says. “I can see everything in here.”

He turns back to the fireplace and resumes his work. It only takes another second for the flames to sparkle then roar, an orange glow flooding the room. He smiles and claps his hands with satisfaction.

“Not bad,” he says. He is still smiling but his eyes look glassy with faraway thought. His breath of a laugh is not very humorous, smile softer when he says, “I’m not totally useless, I guess, right?”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to see his face. You don’t want to know if he feels good about throwing that at you. You definitely don’t want to know if he feels bad for saying it, because he shouldn’t feel bad. He did nothing wrong.

Jeongin has been nothing but kind to you from the day you met him. You have a mutual friend in common so at first you only saw him in other people’s company. Then your husband hired a team to do some renovations in the kitchen and, by sheer coincidence, Jeongin was one of the crewmen. You started seeing him a lot more often, and in your own home at that.

He was respectful and distant, at first, as was appropriate. Jeongin is nothing if not polite.

Jeongin is also undoubtedly a young man with a strict internal code. The better he knew you, the better he knew your husband. Your husband’s moral compass skewed considerably contrary to the kind-hearted Jeongin. You had thus far survived a bad marriage by pretending the worst of it away. Jeongin’s sudden affection and sympathy – his sudden acknowledgement of your situation being bad – was too much for you to handle.

You reacted badly. He only ever tried to help you but you were not good at accepting help; it meant admitting something was wrong. Even when you finally got around that stage, you still recoiled from his kind eyes and gentle words.

Jeongin likes you as more than a friend. He liked you from the start, when he was puttering around the worksite and you brought him lemonades and laughed with him about nothing.

You liked him too. You still like him. But Jeongin is young and sweet and hopeful and you…

You know it’s silly, but your heart feels used up. Someone like him should be with someone younger and full of equal hope, not you with your mess and baggage and nonsense.

You resented his kindness, his youth, his hope. You didn’t know what to do with his love.

You tried to convince yourself you actually hated him. When that didn’t work, you tried to convince him and everyone else. If you couldn’t hate him, maybe you could make him hate you. Maybe if he hated you, you could both move on. But Jeongin isn’t like that. He just kept moving along, just kept smiling, just kept looking at you like he could see right through your nonsense.

Today you went on a little tirade to your friend. You complained about feeling obligated to invite Jeongin to your party because you shared a friend group. You complained about Jeongin in general, describing things that weren’t true. You claimed he was naïve and annoying and always in your face, but that for all his pestering he never actually did anything useful.

You weren’t exactly careful about who was listening. Apparently, most of the party overheard you.

It was that foolish, twisted feeling: you wanted to be heard because you were bursting inside, but then you realized that was the wrong release. It brought no satisfaction, only shame. You embarrassed him and yourself, and for what?

“Jeongin,” you say in a small voice, already knowing that any and all words will fall woefully short of rectifying the situation. Still, you have to say something. With your eyes still closed and arms still crossed, you sigh and say, “I’m so sorry. You know you’re not— You know I didn’t— You know I don’t—”

You open your eyes. He is illuminated by the fire, all traces of his smile dissolved. He shivers and it seems to pull him out of his trance. He rubs his forehead, then he turns to you and smiles politely.

“It’s okay,” he says with a forced smile. “I’m sorry. Um. Miss. I shouldn’t have said—”

“Don’t apologize,” you say as firmly as you can. “Or speak formally. It’s fine. Jeongin, you— Me— I mean—”

Your stammering is half emotion, half the cold. His expression changes as he seems to recognize that. You are shivering so much your teeth start to chatter. You haven’t even dropped his glasses because it would mean uncrossing your arms.

He gets to his feet so quickly that he almost falls, slipping in the puddle caused by his own dripping clothes.

“D-do you have a phone?” you ask, to which he nods and retrieves it from the front pocket of his overalls. “C-can you call or t-text one of the boys and t-tell them we’re okay? We just need to w-wait out the st-storm. Sometimes th-they last a while.” You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, your gaze on the middle of his chest, but you can see he is shivering too. “We n-need to w-warm up so we don’t get s-sick. There’s sh-sheets— there—can we m-make a bed—” You nod your head vaguely in the right direction.

You close your eyes and rock a little, trying to warm up. It’s useless with your soaking heap of a dress clinging to every wet inch of you.

You can hear Jeongin bustling around, doing everything you asked. When you open your eyes, you see he has made a makeshift bed out of blankets and pillows near the fire.

He is facing away from you. A proper little burst of heat sparks inside you when he takes a breath and starts unclipping his overalls. He kicks off his shoes at the same time. You look away as he strips down his outer layers, sensibly removing his soaking wet things and laying them out by the fire. You open your eyes at the same time he turns to look at you, his hands on the waistband of his briefs. His ears are very red, chest and cheeks likewise dusted pink.

You think your mutual shyness might be providing more heat than the fire.

“Sorry,” he says, grabbing a blanket and covering himself. “It’s just—we should probably take off—” His voice squeaks and he clears his throat.

You find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. You nod.

“No, you’re right,” you say. “S-sorry for, um, looking.”

“That’s okay,” he says with a relieved laugh. He smiles and says, “You can look if you want.”

Jeongin has a remarkable ability to flicker between shyness and confidence. The sparkle in his eyes tells you that his comment was not a thoughtless blunder. Especially because he doesn’t wait for you to look away before tying the blanket around his hips and reaching under to shuffle out of his last article of clothing.

You look away and back again. You suppose he works a fairly laborious job and is in good enough shape to haul you up a small hill, but still. You find your breath stolen by his lean, subtle musculature, an effortless elegance to the long lines of his body.

He smooths down his hair. Your eyes are on his hands when you realize he is looking at you. You look away quickly.

“Haha, um, here,” Jeongin says. He holds up a sheet in offering and turns his face away, eyes closed. “You should change too.”

You stand slowly, arms still crossed though you finally drop the glasses on the seat.

“Thank you,” you say. “For everything.”

He looks at you, probably supposing it is appropriate because you are still dressed, but your thin white dress has soaked completely through. It is plastered to every inch of skin, the vaguest sheen of translucent white pulled over every dip and curve from your neck down.

His gaze jumps, surprised, dark brows lifting as he looks down the whole length of you. His mouth falls open and he looks away with the tips of his ears flaming red. He holds up the sheet again.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you say.

“No, sorry,” he says again. “I know you don’t… always like me…”

You lower the sheet but he still doesn’t look at you. You say his name and he replies with a hum.

“Jeongin,” you say again, heart pounding. “You can look too.”

He fumbles and drops the sheet. He leaves it on the floor and looks at you with surprised eyes.

Despite your words, he awkwardly covers his eyes when you reach for the straps of your dress. Your laughter is breathless from the cold, but he still paints a charming sight with his red ears and hand over his eyes, contrasted to just how lovely those big hands are, to the shape of him, to the flattering shadows cast by the fire.

You peel the dress down and let it hit the floor with a splat. You feel better to have it gone but you are still cold. You instinctively cross your arms again, rubbing your biceps.

“Jeongin,” you say.

“Hello,” he replies, eyes still covered.

“C-can you help me?”

“Oh.” He pauses for a second. “Help you… get undressed?”

You really are too old to act like a little girl with a crush, but you feel that way. You don’t remember the last time you felt like this, if you ever have. It’s nice, a little scary. You feel vulnerable and it has nothing to do with the amount of skin showing.

“Yes please,” you say. “I can’t reach behind me to unclasp my bra.”

“Oh,” he says again. “Oh. Okay.”

You turn around. You give in to your smile, helplessly charmed by his sincerity. Then he is touching you, his proximity radiating warmth, and the next shiver feels like the cold leaving your body all at once. He fumbles a little with the clasp but that might be because his fingers are still stiff, but he gets it undone. He steps back while you remove it. When you turn around, he is already holding the sheet in offering. He doesn’t cover his eyes though he does make a point of only looking at your face.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the sheet.

Despite his undoubted gentlemanly politeness, you catch him sneaking a peek before you wrap the sheet around your body. You tuck it under your arms and tie a little knot. Like him, you shuffle out of your underwear from under the sheet.

He gathers your wet clothes and lays them beside the fire with his own. With a little limp, you approach the nest of blankets and pillows, all arranged cozily on the thick, fluffy rug not far from the heat. Even though it is obvious you will have to share the makeshift bed, you still hesitate just outside it. Jeongin is kneeling in the centre, stretching out the clothes so they will dry faster. He looks up when he sees you waiting.

He holds out his hand.

“You should rest your ankle. And warm up,” he says. “You’ll get sick.”

With only a little struggle, you manage to overcome your hesitation. You take his hand and step onto the rug.

You swear more heat alights under his gaze than from the fire.

He shuffles back, making room for you between him and the fire. You would try and argue, to offer him the warmer space, but you doubt he would let you and you are still so cold. You sit down gingerly, minding the sheet. Your movements are mutually stilted and awkward, but then you smile at each other and relax a little. You lay down so you are stretched in front of the fire, Jeongin sitting upright behind you. You gaze up at him, watching him look around the room.

“This place looks different,” he says, an understatement. The ugly little lodge has been redone, stripped of the hunting gear and tables and replaced with a little library and reading nook. There are plants under the window and little paintings on the mantlepiece. It is a lot more welcoming than before.

Perhaps it is that gentle coziness that makes you suddenly braver. This space feels safe. You do not hesitate in raising your hand, in stroking a few fingers softly down his arm. His skin does not feel cold anymore so when he shivers, you don’t think it’s from a chill.

He looks down, blinking those dark eyes at you.

“It’s still a little cold,” you say. You already know your next words are going to be so blatant and so cheesy, so you have to bite your lip to stifle your own amusement at them. “Maybe we should cuddle up for warmth?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He smiles, dimples deep again. “Good idea.”

There is some embarrassed, breathless laughter as you shuffle around. He pulls up a thicker blanket to cover you both. Even with your explicit invitation, he is clearly still uncertain about what you want. You show him, taking his arm and pulling it around you, laying down with your back to him, pressed close and separated only by your individual sheets.

You look into the fire, taking a few deep breaths. You feel him settle around you.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Mhm,” you say. “Definitely.”

“Good. Good.”

You smile, biting your bottom lip again.

You lay there for a while, listening to the fire crackle, letting the heat wash over you. He doesn’t budge an inch, as if scared jostling you will disrupt the peace. His arm is slung over your middle and you touch his hand. You trace your fingers over a ring. He exhales.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, his voice low. “It’s a little serious.”

Your heart races as you know there are a million serious questions he could ask you, but you nod. “Of course,” you say.

There is a breath of a moment. His hand turns under yours, fingertips brushing yours.

“Why,” he says slowly, “would you ever pick that wallpaper?” He points to the far wall. “It’s dark in here and it’s still so ugly it’s hurting my eyes.”

You burst out laughing, caught off guard. Your laughter makes him laugh, his hand catching yours when you lightly slap at him.

“Jeongin,” you say with a little whine, “don’t torture me.”

“I’m not!” he says. “It’s a serious question!”

“Ahh!” You laugh some more, rolling onto your back and covering your face with both hands.

He laughs, tugging at your wrist to uncover your face. You pout at him and he just smiles back. He lays on his side and props his head in his hand, grinning down at you. You take his free hand and trace the shape of his ring again, looking up as his goofy expression softens.

“You’re funny too,” you say. “I’m sorry for being an idiot to you. I was wrong and you didn’t deserve it.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he says softly, looking down at where you are fiddling with his ring. “You were going through a lot.”

“Still,” you say. “I’m a grown woman and I’ve been acting like a child, bullying the nice boy I like because I don’t know what to do with my emotions.”

You thought that would be hard to say out loud, but once it’s out there you feel a lightness in your chest. You take in a deep breath.

“That’s not being an idiot,” Jeongin says after a moment. He curls his fingers around yours and squeezes lightly. “Maybe just a little stupid,” he adds.

You laugh again, rolling to face him and his silly grin.

“I really am sorry,” you say. “I know it’s not enough to say it, but—”

“It’s enough,” he says. “You know, I followed you when you came this way because I wanted to tell you that.” When you cover your face with your hand, he moves it. “Also,” he says, “you were running too far away from everyone else. They wouldn’t have found you if you hid so far out here, you know.”

“That’s the point of the game,” you say. “It’s hide and seek.”

“Yeah, but…” His free hand finds yours again. He looks into your eyes. “I don’t think winning like that is actually fun? If you’re alone, and never let anyone find you again.”

Oh. Of course Jeongin would ask ‘a serious question’ to spring a joke on you, then sneak the truly serious topic in a discussion of hide-and-seek.

You drop your gaze to your joined hands.

“I guess,” you say. “I guess also it’s… um, well.” You figure you might as well drop the metaphor as it isn’t fooling anyone. “You don’t get hurt when you’re alone, Jeongin. And the happier something makes you, the worse it feels when it hurts you.”

“I would never hurt you,” he says, completely serious. He squeezes your hand.

You look at him, smiling gently. You know that promise is a big one, and nearly impossible as people can hurt each other without trying. The declaration is innocent but also heartfelt. You understand what he means.

He seeks your gaze to ensure you understand him, so you look at him and nod. You feel a bit watery again.

“I know you would try,” you say. “Is it stupid how that scares me even more?”

“Oh,” he says, separating his hand from yours so he can cup your face. You think he is going to say something tender when he just smiles and nods and says, “Yeah, probably.”

You snort with laughter, grabbing his hand and moving it off your face.

“You’re terrible,” you say.

“Maybe,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “But… you’re the one who likes me, or so you said…”

“I take it back,” you say, starting to roll away.

He grabs your shoulder and pulls you back, giggling. “You can’t take it back,” he says. “We’re sharing a bed so… that’s the rules.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

You find yourself endlessly charmed by him. His cocky smile is cute, especially because the tips of his ears are still red. You find yourself tracing the curve of that ear, his blush darkening with your attention. His smile turns affectionate, his eyes creased with happiness. The unremitted pleasure draws you in and grants you access to the more confident parts of yourself. You let your body lead you, experience fueling instinct as you guide him onto his back and lean over him.

You touch the side of his face, fingertips tracing his jaw. His mouth opens and he blinks away his surprise.

“What?” you say.

“Nothing.” His smiles widens. He raises a hand to touch the side of your face too, surprising you in turn. “You’re pretty.”

The simplicity of the compliment makes you a little shy. You smile, leaning into his touch.

“You’re cute,” you say, only for his face to scrunch up with theatrical displeasure. “What?” you say, laughing. “You are!”

“Puppies are cute,” he says dryly. “Babies are cute. I’m not cute.”

“You are.” You can’t help but tease, his smile encouraging you. You poke his dimple. “Soooo cute. The cutest.”

You laugh until he slides one hand around the back of your neck. With his hand protectively cradling the back of your head, he flips you over so it’s you laying under him. You find yourself looking down the length of him, his chest and abdomen, the place the blanket parts. You look up when his nose nudges your chin, tilting your head back. You realize you were holding a breath and swallow one down, shaky.

He laughs but gently.

“You’re cute,” he says, voice barely louder than the crackling fire.

“I’m not cute,” you say, tipping your chin up. “I’m older than you.”

“Sooo cute,” he copies you. “The cutest.”

You realize this game of one-upping each other could quickly turn into a torturous teasing session – each of you just looking, daring, goading the other into more without fully surrendering.

You smile and tip your head, sighing in a feathery-soft voice and wetting your lips.

“Am I?” you ask, lifting a leg so it separates your sheet. You can see his breath catch.

You have butterflies inside you, fluttering away like never before.

You undo the knot of the sheet. You watch his eyes lower as you slowly peel the whole sheet open. All the playfulness leaves his face, his jaw gone slack, surprise once again taking over as he stares.

“Wow,” he finally says. “Wow. You’re— wow.” His expression shows he means it.

“You’re exaggerating.” You turn your face aside.

“I’m not,” he says. His hands move to either side of your head as he holds himself over you. It draws your gaze back to him. “Stop hiding, okay?” he says softly.

“I think I’m doing the opposite of hiding right now,” you say, a gentle joke that he answers with utmost seriousness: swooping down and kissing you.

It is not a soft kiss, burning and wanting, his mouth a hungry thing against your own. It feels like a kiss he has thought about, a kiss he can’t help but hurry towards.

Just as desirous, you fall too, the kiss so hard that you find it hard to slow down. He eventually guides you to a gentler press, closing his lips against yours, letting them linger.

A breath passes between you.

“Remember when you hated me,” he says, smiling, “and you tried to convince me we were incompatible?” He kisses you softly. “I think you were wrong.”

He doesn’t leave room for a reply. He kisses you again, just as hotly as before. This time he rests more of his body against yours and you can feel where he is already hard beneath the blanket. You can also feel it is more than substantial, drawing a gasp from your lips as he presses against you.

“Jeongin,” your voice comes out breathless. It is still more coherent than his reply, which is just a grunt as he starts kissing down your throat.

It is dizzyingly hot. You have to close your eyes to stay grounded, arching against him, running your fingers through his already messy hair.

You are still able to giggle when he struggles to remove the blanket. He laughs back. You can’t remember the last time you laughed during sex. It makes you feel like you are floating, light and carefree, driven by pleasure and nothing else.

He gets the blanket off but before you can look down, he is sliding his hand between your bodies. Your eyes close again, head falling back as his fingers stroke your inner thigh. He teases there for a long time, making you strain and buck and chase his fingers. Finally you whimper and grab some of his hair, pulling his face close to yours.

“Are you trying to make me hate you again?” you tease.

He smiles against your lips, his fingers just barely brushing between your legs. Your thighs part, making room, but he waits.

“You never hated me,” he says.

Your reply gets caught in your throat when he finally slides one finger against you. It is torturously not enough.

“Jeongin,” you say again, running your fingers to the back of his neck. “Please.”

“Tell me you hated me,” he says, even while proving you very much do not hate him: gathering so much wetness on his fingertips, lightly circling them up and over the most sensitive part of you. “Can’t you?” he asks. “Let me hear you say it.”

“I—I—”

“Hate me?”

You shake your head, opening your eyes to look at him imploringly. You gasp against his lips when he slides that finger inside you. There is a ring on the one beside it, the smooth ridge gliding against you. You cant your hips up, wanting more while he teases you.

“You don’t hate me,” he says, to which you shake your head again. He kisses you, licking into your mouth at the same time his fingers sink deep inside you. He is good with his hand, his fingers long and steady, working you up until you are soaking him and clawing at his shoulder.

“Please,” you say, dizzy from the stars bursting in every place his fingers reach. They curl inside you as if telling you to come. Your head falls back and his lips go down your throat as he brings you over the edge with his touch.

He doesn’t stop when you come, drawing the whole thing out so the peak seems to last minutes. Tears of pleasure spring to your eyes. Only when you are gasping does he carefully withdraw his hand.

He looks at you with a smile then kisses your cheek. With a smile, you lean in to kiss him, then he suddenly ducks. His hands dive under your thighs and then his face is right there, tongue taking a swipe at your still distended clit, making your whole body shudder. You dig your fingers into his hair, holding on and closing your eyes. It feels so good but you are still sensitive and not good at coming multiple times in a row, so after enjoying his very adept movements, you tug on his hair to lead him back up your body.

You grab his face and kiss him hard, tasting yourself all over his wet mouth. He moans into your mouth and presses hard against you. His hands cradle your hips. You spread your legs around him.

You feel lighter after coming. Relaxed, not just physically. Suddenly words are easier too, spoken thoughtlessly in such close proximity to his lips.

“I wanted you so much,” you admit. “For so long. Even when I was pretending to hate you.”

“I was here,” he says, kissing along your jaw. “I’m still here.”

“I know.” You tug on his hair, tipping his head back so you can kiss his face too. You nip under his jaw, his neck, luxuriating in the sound he makes. “This is going to sound silly, but I used to fantasize—no, never mind.”

“Wha—”

You roll him over before he can ask, taking a turn to work your mouth down his body now too. It sufficiently distracts him as your mouth dives down, down, down. You pause for a moment just to look at him, your gaze one of admiration and maybe slight intimidation. You haven’t slept with anyone since before the divorce and that was a while ago. Jeongin is bigger than most of your toys. When you put your mouth on him, you barely get past the head before you have to use your hand for the rest of him. You try to take a little more but you are very out of practice, choking a little and drooling all over him.

It used to confuse you: the idea anyone would enjoying giving pleasure this way. For the recipient, it made enough sense, but not as the giver. You realize now that difference in desire was partner. When Jeongin moans and curls his fingers into the rug, thighs parting to make room for you to comfortably sit there, you understand. Messy as it is, you eagerly dive back down, wetting him with your mouth and working him in your hand.

When he closes his eyes and drops his head back, he misses the pillow. The rug is plush and softens his landing, but you still hear a very heavy thump when his head hits the ground. He hisses, his face scrunching up in pain as he reaches to cup the back of his head.

“Oh my god,” you say, sitting up and wiping your mouth. You try not to laugh. “Jeongin, are you okay?”

He gives you a thumbs up with his free hand. Then he curses and sighs in exasperation.

“My hand is stuck,” he says, jerking the arm that is folded under his head. “My ring—is in my hair—”

“Oh nooo…” You are laughing properly now, in a fit of giggles as you climb up beside him to look behind his head. You help untangle the hair from the ring, though a few strands still get yanked out of his head. The sudden swing makes his head bounce, thunking into yours. You both groan in pain. You grasp your forehead and sit back on your heels.

“This is not how I pictured this going,” he mumbles.

“Which part? The storm, the threat of hypothermia, or the multiple injuries?” you ask.

He grins at you, then moves to kneel in front of you. He kneels upright while you are sitting back, putting you close to eye level with your previous task. You look there, reaching, but he takes your hands in his and holds them.

“Actually,” he says, “the part that surprised me most was you saying you thought about us,” he smiles here, “and it was so bad you couldn’t even admit it.”

You try to cover your face but he holds your hands, still grinning. You throw back your head and groan.

“It’s not bad,” you say.

His hand runs up your arm to your neck, thumb stroking your chin as he gently pulls you forward. You go up on your knees too, following his angle for a kiss. He leans close but doesn’t seal it, saying, “You know if you don’t tell me, I’m going to imagine the worst.”

“It’s nothing,” you say, hiding your face in the crook of his shoulder. He pats the back of your head, still giggling to himself. You lean back to look at him again, pouting just a bit, then reaching between your bodies to take him in hand. You smile sweetly at him. “Can we fuck?” you ask, watching the flicker of surprise and desire cross his face. “Birth control, so I’m good if you’re good. Come on.”

You go to lay down but he catches the back of your neck, pulling you back to him. He lifts one eyebrow.

“You’re not gonna let this go,” you say dryly.

“I would never force it out of you,” he says, “but the curiosity is killing me.”

“Well,” you say, tingling under the attention of his intense gaze, of his hand so strongly holding your neck, of his nonchalance. He isn’t even trying. You take a deep breath. “It’s sort of what you just said.”

“What… killing me? You wanted to kill me?”

“No!” You smack his chest. “I hate you again. No. I just… Not that I wanted to the truth forced out of me but…” You look at his face, his expression curious but not judgemental yet. “You know all those cheesy romance novels? Like… mafia leader stuff? That.”

“You wanted me to be Italian?”

“Genuinely gonna kill you.”

“I’m kidding, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, continue.”

“You know what I mean! The button popping and bodice ripping stuff.” You mime tearing his nonexistent shirt open. “I liked you and I wanted to do something about it, but I also didn’t want to do something about it. So I wanted you to do something about it. No one needs to tell me what it’s like for a shitty guy to take advantage of you, so that’s not what it was— I just—” You sigh. “I wanted it to be easy. I wanted it to be you. Because you aren’t a shitty guy. You’re the best guy I know. So I would’ve let you have anything, because you would be taking what I wanted to give. And there would be no need to talk about it or work it out. It would just be… easy.”

“I like talking,” he says, tipping his head as if studying you. “But I think I get it.”

“Mhm?” you ask, a little dryly. You quirk an eyebrow at his cheesy, dimpled grin. “Sure about that?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling so bright it goes right up to his eyes. “I’m sure.”

His grip tightens on the back of your neck, pulling you right up against him. Your chests press together and you gasp, shivering when his lips graze your ear.

“Like this, right?” he speaks lowly. He threads his fingers into your hair, close to your scalp so there is a controlled, gentle burn when he tugs. “Just take.”

“Yes,” you say, rasping. “It’s already yours.”

“You’re mine?” he asks. His other hand is suddenly between your legs and this time he doesn’t tease, his knuckle parting your wet folds. Two fingers curl inside you. “Or this is mine?”

He tugs your head back, looking in your eye as he finger-fucks you, all the playfulness gone from his expression. His sharp features look suddenly more severe: the cut of his jaw, his cheekbones, his brow. You swallow hard.

“I can’t say,” you speak in a husky voice. “My husband would be angry. You should go before he finds you.”

His fingers move out of you, your thighs shaking in their withdrawal. The hand in your hair stays steady. Then he squints, looking almost cartoonishly fierce when he says, “I’m in the… mafia. I killed your husband?”

“Oh.” You bite back a laugh. “You don’t literally need to be in the mafia.”

“You did say—”

“That was just, like, a genre example—”

“Oh, okay, I get it now.” He nods his head. “I’ll stop if you say stop.” He clears his throat. “You don’t want a guy like that. And you don’t want your husband.” He puts a hand on your lower back and tugs, sweeping you over. His arms hold you safe as he spills you onto your back. One hand skims your body, hooking under your knee to bring it up around his hips. “You want me,” he says.

The gleam in his eye seems very genuine.

“That would be inappropriate,” you say, not needing to fake your breathy voice when he moves against you, the length of him hot and hard and close to where you want him. You clench around nothing, your heart picking up in speed with anticipation.

He smiles, not quite his usual smile.

“It would be very inappropriate,” he says.

Then his hands are on your hips and he is turning you onto your front. You sprawl with some genuine surprise, getting your arms under you only seconds before his hand is back in your hair. You lift when he pulls, his grip careful but strong. He holds you there, up on your hands and knees. He goes up on one knee behind you, careful when pushing inside you, then sliding in all the way and staying there.

Oh, you feel him. Not just because it’s been a while. You let yourself enjoy it, happily sinking into pleasure with the secure knowledge he will listen if you ask to stop, that his pleasure is tied to yours. So you let your mouth fall open and eyes close, let the heat of the flames brush over you, let him hold you how he wants. You take as much as he does, soaking in all that sensation. He fills you up and fucks you deep – fast then faster. You squeeze around him, practically singing with how you moan and sigh.

“Yes,” he says, pulling you back into his arms as he moves to lay on his side. He stays inside you, drawing your leg up and fucking you like that.

You look back at him and don’t mind at all when he breaks character, yet again, this time to kiss you sweetly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” he asks in a whisper, slowing down. “You’re so… small.”

“I’m not,” you say with a little laugh. “You’re just big, baby.”

“Baby—okay. That’s good. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know, Jeongin,” you say, hiccupping a little because he is still fucking you hard despite his gentle words. It makes you feel a little insane in a good way, him so very nonplussed as he screws your brain out. “Thank you,” you say.

“For what?” he asks.

“I don’t knooow,” you say, reaching behind you to hold onto him. “Just thaaank you, auugh, it’s good.”

“Oh, I get it,” he says. “For this. Okay.”

How he’s simultaneously cute and insanely sexy, your brain will just never compute. But he wraps an arm around you and puts his hips to use, fucking you until you can feel an orgasm building without even rubbing your clit. You think to try but all you can do is cling to him, letting your worries fly away as he pants and groans and holds you steady in his arms.

“Like that, like that,” you say, your last coherent sentence until you fall apart, repeating his name as he follows you over the edge.

He holds you tight, kissing whatever he finds first. He rocks you through the end of it, easing you into rest. When he pulls out, you shiver, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

You roll over in his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. He kisses your cheek and temple, then rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m not cold anymore,” you say, making him laugh lightly.

“Me too,” he says.

“Thank you,” you say, leaning back to look at him. “For everything.”

He smiles that smile you love, cupping your face.

“Thank you,” he says, “for showing me your hiding place. Can I come here again with you?”

Joking right after sex was never a habit before, but you find yourself bursting into a silly grin and saying, “Baby, you already know you can come wherever you want—”

It makes him laugh too, the unexpectedness sending him over. You laugh at him laughing so much, curling up close to him with the heat of the fire at your back.

The cabin is warm. Your clothes are probably long since dry. The storm stopped a while ago and you only notice now.

#skz smut #stray kids smut #yang jeongin smut #yang jeongin x reader #IN x reader #skz x reader

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httpserb · 3 months ago

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sharing my favorite kageyama headcannons that ill probably put into the series im writing abt him:

he's autisic

i like to think he is actually smart but in a really weird way like literature & history doesn't stick but i like to think he oddly likes science (physics in particular bc he'd learn how much easier it is to set)

i think with the interview there is a chance that his parents work overseas alot with miwa in tokyo

due to the headcannon above i think he has really good hygiene & routine

he can cook really well (i like to think pro-bazil hinata was forced to learn to cook so they take turns)

bonds with natsu after he awkward decided to give her a pedicure and show her how to take care of her nails & hands (she'll forever love him as a big brother)

has a certain diet but also has a small sweet tooth

him and hinata are big eyebrows and long eyelashes and i wont explain myself

i saw a headcannon that kags was half-chinese, half-japanese thats why japanese was hard for him to understand but he was good with kanji so i like that one

he is unironically babied by most people around him but he doesn't realize

i plan on having miwa & alisa get together so thru that lev & kags are gonna be surprising besties (lev is gonna claim their brothers trough transitive property)

he has dimples (i will not explain myself) theyre small so you have to make him really smile or laugh to see it

loves spring & summer but doesnt do well in winter despite being born in winter

once karasuno found out he was alone in that big house theyd come over whenever they wanted bringing their own snacks, blankets, and homework

i like to think kags finds a cat that looks very similar to hinata while he is at brazil (the cat only likes him and for some reason kenma)

kags being really nervous and kenma realizing he isnt scary just really awkward and they become friends with kags finally becoming friends with akaashi through kenma

kuroo insisting on being friends bc their best friends are friends

ushiwaka watcing over kags when he was on the olympic team at 19 and at the alders

osamu sometimes giving him discounts or freebies if he wins agains atsumu

iwazumi babying him once he becomes the olympic trainer

there is more but the post is getting really long

#haikyuu #hq #kageyama tobio #tobio kageyama #haikyuu shoyo #haikyuu tobio #haikyuu manga #kagehina #shobio

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princessbrunette · 10 months ago

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love ur blog SO much could scroll thru it for hours and hours <3

for jj (if you want!): dealer!jj and reader who has a crush on him comes to buy weed for the first time? in my head she smokes by herself, gets super high & then panics and comes back to jj’s and confesses LOL bc that would be some shit I would do!!!

thank u so much !! and yes,, i love this idea hehe ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ ‹𝟹

⊹ . ⁺ 🐰🎀⋅˚₊𐙚

the first half of your weed purchasing experience went fairly smoothly, well — as smoothly as it can for someone who has no idea what they’re talking about.

you’d shown up just a little after 4 in the prettiest skirt and your lashes extra long, coated in black. you couldn’t believe you’d worked up the courage to wind up buying weed from the guy you’d had a crush on since you were little (who seemed too chaotic to ever pay attention to little old you!) but it was soon you were stood in his house, having him talk you through each strain — and you had to try extra hard to focus because he looked so good and his hands were so big and —

“i’mma take a shot in the dark and say you’re fairly new to this right? in that case i’d prooobably suggest this, s’on the milder side, just chills you out a bunch.” he slides a packet towards you, eyes flickering up to you to catch you already looking at him.

“how’d you know i’m new to this?” you start digging in your purse for the wad of cash you brought to avoid looking at him.

“oh jus’ vibes.” he shrugs, smiling when you look back up at him, cash in hand. “its cute though, i dig it anyway.” he takes the notes from you and you swallow a love confession. “want me to roll it for you?”

he rolls the joints for you, and you try not to stare like a creep before you’re out the door in no time, breathing in the balmy late afternoon air and riding off on your bike to your empty house, family away for the weekend, to smoke your maybank special.

the second half of your experience, not so smooth.

you chaotically steer your little bike with a basket up to his house not even two hours later, paranoid and practically crashing the vehicle onto the grass as you hop off it, hands shaking at your side. jj, embarrassingly is already on the porch, stroking a stray cat with a cigarette in his mouth.

when he spots you frantically moving towards him he stands slowly, tossing the end of his cigarette aside. “ohhhh boy.” he speaks to himself like he knew what was coming.

“hey, hi, uhm.” you pant, violently struggling for breath as you clench and unclench your hands at your sides.

“you good?” he frowns, stepping towards you.

“i just— i’m so sorry to bother you but i — i smoked it alone for my first time and i don’t think i did it right or maybe it’s just reacting with me super bad and now i’m shaking and i feel really weird and i didn’t know who to go to — i— i just was wondering if there was a way to become un-high, cos i — i didn’t really wanna do it in the first place i just came to buy weed from you because i have this ridiculously huge crush on you and i thought hey what the hell—”

“heeeey, hey. breathe, okay? deep breath in girlie, look at me, right here.” he places his hands on your shoulders, face right infront of yours and for a moment you’re stunned. not only because you said all of that out loud, but because his hands were on you. “thats right, now breathe out.” he puffs his cheeks out, blowing out himself like he was encouraging a baby and you copy him, wide glassy eyes fixated on him like he was your life line.

“sorry.” you whisper and he smiles, adorable dimples indenting his cheeks.

“for what? come in, you look like you need some water.” he guides you inside his house, closing the door behind you as you try your best to stay calm. your brain felt slow and fast at the same time and all your nerve endings felt alight, constantly on the verge of a panic attack. “here, sit down— yeah? mi casa es su casa, or whatever. i never took french.” he ushers you to the couch, clumsily tripping over an empty beer can before kicking it aside and skidding off to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

“you ride your bike here?” he realises, sitting beside you as he hands you your drink.

“y—yeah.” you release a shaky exhale, bringing the glass to your lips.

“drink that nice n’slow, atta girl. see? you’re alright!” he makes an effort to keep his voice gentle, looking like he was going to reach out to put a hand on your arm but decided against it. you put the glass aside, palm coming to rub uncomfortably over the skin on your chest where your heart was. “heart feel a little fast?”

“mhm.” you mewl pathetically, mortified. you must have fumbled it, there was nothing sexy about winding up on your crushes couch having a panic attack.

“thats pretty normal, yeah. just gotta breathe n’shit.” he nods, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you. “it’ll feel better when you just let it do what it needs to do, trust me.”

you try and follow his advice, sitting quietly for a few minutes as you lean back and relax into his couch, taking deep breaths and letting the high run its natural course. after a little while, you feel a giggle bubble up.

“uh-oh, there she is.” you hear the smile in his voice and he’s already looking at you.

“i totally freaked, m’sorry.” you’re all blissed out now, finally relaxed.

“oh you’re good— uh, yeah. what even happened? like—how much did you smoke?”

“the whole joint.” you shrug, snickering again.

“yeah that… probably was a lot for your first time, huh?” he grins, shaking his head. “if i knew you were this clueless about this shit, no offence, i would have offered to smoke with you, ‘ya know? be your guide. your ganja guru, if you will.”

“maybe you can teach me the right way to do it next time?” you try, feeling braver under the influence. his eyes flutter with something unrecognisable in your state and he nods.

“y—yeah. yeah for sure. totally.”

“unless i kinda ruined the vibes with that whole embarrassing confession outside.” you groan, lifting a hand to smush against your warm cheek. his eyes widen and he shakes his head.

“no! no, it was cute… i had no idea man, i would’ve closed. you crushing on me? c’mon man i’d be all over that.” he chuckles awkwardly, watching your face melt into the softest and sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

“really? you mean that?”

“hey, it’s not everyday i got a pretty girl on my couch needing me to save her, okay— this is big for me.” he teases.

you spend the rest of the evening riding out your high, before sleepily riding out your dealer beneath the glow of the television. he’ll consider it payment.

⊹ . ⁺ 🐰🎀⋅˚₊𐙚

#anon #dealer!jj #jj maybank prompt

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isa-ah · 10 months ago

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yup! so about that au... what's mob's feelings about teru? does he care about him? does he try to give him the benefit of the doubt? does he hate everything about him but thinks he's attractive? would love to know lol

so to answer that I'm gunna explain that the au is structured like this:

canonically, mogami wants to teach mob to be selfish, and to draw from negative emotions. he uses minori to do it; she bullies him until he snaps and mogami lets him reawaken to his powers in a violent context.

in this au, teruki comes with to the exorcism and ends up possessed to bait mob. except once mogamis in his head he's like oh YOU get it. that's exactly how teru was living as a kid. so you're going to teach him what you already knew how to do.

so mob wakes up in the mirror world freshly transferred to black vinegar and is immediately latched on to by edano and other boys in his gang. this draws terus attention to mob after a few weeks and he starts isolating him to bully himself (terus pretty obsessed w mob anyway, so that thread gets pulled, but also 🏳️‍🌈❓).

it builds until mob awakens to his powers to get teru off his back and teru pounces on it for a hierarchy fight immediately. he's ELATED to find another esper (in the show he says he has so many questions / stop rejecting me / don't leave me) so they throw down but mobs powers are tuned to lose the fight, so teru snaps him up to be his guard dog.

from terus perspective he's just found the perfect disciple. they're two of a kind. and he becomes VERY possessive of mob, and in turn, mob has the traits easily influenced & deeply loyal, so even if he feels prickly about terus attitude, he sucks like a magnet to his hip anyway bc hes the closest thing mob has to a friend.

they're both very lonely and ultimately scared kids right. so the enmeshment is pretty immediate and they start spending about all their time together bc the alternative is an empty grey city. mob fights most of terus fights for him, and thru it develops a much more physical outlet for his emotions (as opposed to verbal gentleness that is largely taught by reigen).

which.. leads to rubs when teru does stupid shit to get mobs attention and it works Too Well bc mob has no idea how to communicate it so he gets In terus personal space, pushes him around, gives him these autistic Stares but ultimately neither of them actually know how to wrangle the like oh God he's a life raft to me and I want to kiss him emotions so they act out stupid instead.

it's like.. idk I want to see their traits laid out in a more toxic light but also they're still obsessed with each other. and ultimately yeah mob does learn to be a lot more selfish and to use his powers for personal gain and teruki has to experience what his life would have been like if mob didn't check him. for fun. and flavor.

and boy does it make for the most awkward post arc reunion ever bc they get back to reality and reigen and dimple are like OH THANK GOD and then they look at each other and it's like. uhm. where do I even start lmfao

I have a lot of specific scenes in mind but mostly that's the gist. pls feel free to talk to me about it tho it's my pet project

#icmhwau #i can make him worse au tag i guess #ill go back and tag the art

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bonkobarnes · 7 months ago

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ok so i think you've established their strap position preferences but is there a scenario where becca gets bent over?

my brain sounds like a jar of bees

- the first time it happens was all Becca’s doing and she didn’t realize until after that she had miscalculated

- her shirt was cropped and her jeans were low on her hips and all cam could focus on were the dimples in becca’s back

- becca would say it was an accident. That cam’s kitchen was tiny and really what was she to do

- cam is leaned back against the island when becca’s ass brushes against the front of her work pants, reaching for something in the cupboard

- Becca does it again, firmer this time

- Cam’s breaking point comes when Becca leans, just slightly, on the counter directly in front of cam, under the pretense of making the both of them a drink

- all cam can see are those stupid dimples in her back and the curve of her ass and space where denim gaps away from skin

- cam all but rushes forward, closes the already small gap, and presses into Becca

- Cam braces both arms on the counter engulfing Becca. Becca groans at the contact falls forward onto her elbows, and grinds against cam purposefully

- cam whispers in her ear, hot and wet and asks Becca what she’s doing

-“want you to fuck me like this. Been thinking about it all day.”

- Becca rolls her hips again and this time cam matches. Starts up a slow grind that is doing nothing but driving them insane

- cam tells Becca to stay there and drink her drink and disappears into the bedroom. Cam comes back looking the exact same except this time when she presses into Becca, Becca can feel the hardness of her strap thru Cam’s work pants

- as she wished Becca gets taken right there, bent over and fucked at a blistering pace with her forehead pressed against the cool countertop

- all that buildup and she cums embarrassingly fast

- Becca tries again, in the bedroom and cam presses between her shoulder blades and fucks her into the mattress. It ends the same, her cumming before cam even really gets started

- Becca realizes quickly she can’t last when cam takes her like that. Something about how unintentionally rough cam gets and the angle pressing inside her and she’s close to tears five minutes in

- so they never really talk about it but sometimes if cam has been edging her for a while and she’s so close but can’t quite get there cam will whisper in her ear I know you wanna cum, baby, do you need me to bend you over

#this was more than I intended it to be sorry #don’t ask me how I’m doing the answer is not well #hope u enjoy xoxo #under the bridge #cam x rebecca #asks

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hitlikehammers · 1 year ago

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For @embersonfiredeux, who wanted a little coffee shop AU.

Steddie 🦇 Modern Coffee Shop!AU ☕️

✨🦇✨☕️✨

It was actually almost the reason he lost a shot at the job in the first place.

(‘We almost lost a shot at the job, Dingus,’ as Robin never fails to remind him, and while he appreciates the fact of it—they’re a package deal, ride or die, hell or high water—he still believes he’s in the right.)

Know why he’s in the right?

Because he fucking counted, took over Robin’s not-so-secret mini whiteboard swiped when they left the ice cream place years ago, that last summer of high school, and made fucking notes, and he can say with absolute certainty: 9 out of 10 customers, whether grabbing a seat or hitting the drive-thru, get their coffee orders in to-go cups. Disposable, reusable: doesn’t matter. Either way, they’ve got a goddamn lid on them.

So: you know what’s entirely superfluous?

Latte art.

Because you can’t fucking see latte art under a goddamn lid. Flat out idiocy. And hell, since they’re cogs in the capitalist monstrosity: it’s also inefficient, which is probably the greater sin.

Also, if they’re driving? Not contributing to a distraction which requires dismantling a hot beverage and operating a motor vehicle at the same time is a goddamn public service and Steve should honestly be commended, gold star, at least employee of the month for like three consecutive months on that account.

Definitely should not have almost been told to hang up his apron in the first week when he refused to learn how to make the foam just right, to dribble it onto the espresso in the shape of a wobbly looking leaf.

They’re desperate though, and short staffed with the start of a new semester at the university he and Robin are both slogging through grad programs at, so where Robs makes flawless hearts for all the pretty girls, Steve gets the stink eye from his manager for three whole weeks before it’s largely forgotten.

And honestly, that’s the only thing he sees anyone use the fucking skillset for. Showing off—with varied levels of success—in the interest of flirting.

Steve doesn’t need milk drawings to help him fucking flirt Jesus.

And he still does not need little lactose doodles on his side to let someone know he’s interested, thanks very much; he just…starts to consider the benefits of it, when the hot fucking mess of chains and ink with the wild curls and dimples starts showing up.

First, Steve thinks the guys might be the bane of his existence. He comes in every morning—mid-morning, doesn’t seem like a morning person and orders something different every day, and does it in the most annoying fucking way: a flat black with milk foam; a flat white with extra milk and ‘superfluous levels of foam on top, if you’d be so kind’; a latte, ‘please, but if the amounts of milk and foam and foam could be, like, measured totally equal that’d be swell’.

Steve’s tempted to fuck up his latest request on purpose—‘just a macchiato but can you add some chocolate, maybe, and like a little extra foam?’—when Robin elbows him in the ribs and almost makes him spill what was gonna be a plain fucking americano, not ‘hey, would it be possible to make an americano but like almost no extra water and whipped cream on top?’, no matter how big this douchecanoe stretches his eyes all wide and pleading and shit, but then Robin’s hissing at him:

‘He’s trying to flirt with your dumb ass, open your eyes to the doe ones staring at your every goddamn move!’

Steve stills. Chances a glance out the corner of his eye and: oh.

Oh, douchecanoe is staring. Like, staring staring.

And Steve…feels. A way. About it.

Because douchecanoe is…watching—staring—like he’s trying a little bit, but not too hard, to be surreptitious about the whole affair and it’s overcast, probably like mid-60s outside; no reason for the little flush under the fluorescents save for…what he’s not being particularly surreptitious about.

So Steve changes tactics.

Turns out the inventive ways of ordering that had been driving Steve nuts for weeks were attempts he was too oblivious to notice at creating extra moments for chit-chat. And now that Steve’s paying attention? When they’re slammed and the guy comes in, he orders like a normal person. Quick, painless, sits in the same corner by the window and scribbles for a couple hours.

Huh.

But when it’s dead in the store, the guy makes small talk, and Steve learns he’s in the band who plays Fridays at the bar Steve likes just off-campus, too far for most undergrads and enough of a vibe that Steve’s willing to branch out in his musical repertoire as a trade off—he wishes he’d been paying attention to the metal gig he and Robin always talked over to decompress their weeks, to see if the guitarist’s dimples were visible from the shitty little stage set up every week.

Steve’s definitely going to look this Friday. Start paying attention.

But by day, when he comes here to caffeinate, and before and after too, the guy’s doing his own grad work in composition—Steve sometimes forgets their school has a conservatory—but for all the guy looks a little too into wearing a lot of metal and black everything to fit the mold? He talks about mastering the ‘totality of his field so he can shatter the rules with both expertise and total glee’.

Steve grins and makes an intentional note of the actual name on the order: Eddie.

Eddie’s…endearing. Whip-smart, in weird little ways. Funny. Cute as fuck. More than cute, really. Kinda…like…

Okay, when he comes in early enough, which is rare but: when he comes in when the sun’s behind him? Guy goddamn glows.

Sue Steve for being kinda blindsided now that he’s paying fucking attention.

And also, screw Robin for choke-laughing at him when she catches him taking longer on all his orders the next morning, and comes over to investigate.

‘What are you trying to make?’ she points at the latte he’s trying to draw a little shape on top of.

‘Clouds,’ which isn’t what he was trying for but it’s the closest thing he can think of on the fly that looks like he didn’t fuck it up.

‘They’ll look like better clouds by accident, like, without you trying to help,’ Robin deadpans but doesn’t push; doesn’t have to. She see through the lie, just doesn’t know the specific truth.

Fucking…latte art.

But Steve…Steve likes Eddie. He really likes Eddie, from his smile to his snide humor to the way he talks about the real rock opera he’s writing, gonna send everywhere and anywhere when he’s got his degree in hand as clout, the concentration on his face when he bites his tongue and scribbles notes from his booth by the window.

But then, when he asks about Steve. How he slept, how he’s doing like he cares to hear the answer Steve gives because he always follows up. Compliments Steve’s shirt, or almost seems like he tries to make Steve laugh for how he lights up when he succeeds and…

‘You could just write your number on his cup,’ Robin points out, but Steve scoffs immediately.

‘That’s skeevy as shit.’

‘It absolutely is not.’

‘Trite. Unimaginative.’

‘Ah,’ Robin smirks, a little smug; ‘you really like him.’

Steve feels himself flush and glances at the door; too early for the root cause of her words actually having any effect.

Small mercies.

Because Steve’s…making progress.

But they still get hidden under the lids of the cups.

So what if he writes a little neater, with a little bit of flourish when he labels Eddie’s cup, in the meantime. So what.

Eddie’s the only person who even looks, like he’s enjoys seeing Steve’s handwriting just because, and if Steve’s just projecting on that point?

Fuck you.

It’s end of October, which means he’s only just shy of losing the shred of thematic excuse for the whole thing but honestly? It’s a paper thin excuse.

Much like ‘Oh shit, out of lids, just a second’ when he goes to cap Eddie’s order—when Steve specifically moved them an hour ago—so that the drink is left open-topped while he grabs the strategically-displaced stack of lids and when he returns he’s not sure Eddie will even have thought about looking at the—

‘Is this a bat?’

Eddie’s bent down level to the counter, head tipped and breath held, studying the…shit, probably a total mess of an attempt at a shape that was maybe a bat, probably more like a vaguely grinning fanged blob, definitely wanted to be a bat though, and Steve can feel his cheeks heating up before Eddie’s eyes flick away from the coffee cup for first time—

To lock onto Steve’s.

‘It tried to be,’ Steve sighs, accepting failure at both the art—which is neither all that important or at all surprising, he’s shit at art; it’s the failure at trying to, who knows, maybe woo, the pretty nerdy boy who makes his pulse tick up just walking through the door? That part’s the failure he’s gonna mourn.

‘But y’know. Like your,’ and Steve gestures at Eddie’s ink peeking from his shirt sleeves, because that was what initially sparked the idea, then he clocks his betrayer-mouth and tries to save the confession, knowing it’s useless: ‘and then it’s October so—‘ he starts to shrug, to hide his hands in his apron pocket and stare meaningfully at the tile floor, probably needs mopping, but then—

‘It’s amazing,’ Eddie says, a little breathless, and Steve looks up immediately to catch the awe in his tiny grin, the kind Steve’s never seen on him before, so soft it makes Steve’s pulse jump a little into the hug of his collar

‘I didn’t know you could do that. Have you been putting them under,’ Eddie’s face turns mildly horrified as he gestures to the cup, and the lid in Steve’s hand—which is honestly kinda adorable; ‘all this time and I missed it?’

‘God no,’ Steve snorts, reassures; ‘I actually almost lost my job because I thought it was dumb to put all the work in just to cover it up.’

And Eddie’s grin comes back, with an added bite of his top teeth against his bottom lip, and a length of his curls dragged to try—and fail—to hide it.

‘I’m really glad you didn’t lose your job,’ he says quietly, and Steve’s chest feels warmer than a fresh fucking shot of espresso.

Which reminds him:

‘It’s gonna get cold,’ Steve holds out the lid and nods at the slowly-melting bat-blob, and Eddie takes it but doesn’t put it on, still chewing at his bottom lip before he raises those big dark eyes Steve’s way again and confesses, sounding a little lost, maybe just shy of heartbroken:

‘I don’t wanna ruin it.’

And Steve’s heart doesn’t break for any of it; fucking swells and soars and hopes because this man is…he’s…

Steve grabs the lid back, lets his fingers brush with intent against Eddie’s and tells himself he knows he reads the almost inaudible—but only almost—gasp from Eddie at the contact right before he gets to work on the same drink with a normal, boring non-flourish on the top, though he does add the caramel sprinkles he knows Eddie likes even if they don’t match the standard recipe, before popping the lid on this cup and sliding it next to the now-unrecognizable bat.

‘On the house,’ Steve says softly, and he thinks it might be too much to wink but Eddie lights up like a Christmas tree and so he gives it a shot, and then Eddie’s just looks giddy as he tries to balance the two cups on his way to his normal seat.

Steve’s gonna fucking write his number on the cup tomorrow.

(In the end, though: he doesn’t get a chance.

He walks in, second shift, and he’s barely apron’d up before Robin, who opened hours ago, slides him a large to-go cup with a pointed ‘Might want to open the lid, it got too hot’ before slipping away.

And Steve’s not a moron, so he opens the lid.

It’s a pile of foam and maybe whipped cream with a cocoa-and-possibly-chocolate-sprinkle heart drawn on top, and Steve’s almost too charmed by it to notice what else is waiting under the lid.

But like, under the lid, in the tiniest possible letters:

‘I had to make a stencil out of a postcard to try and do this at home so I’m sorry if this is the actual worst. But I’d really like to take you out for something you don’t make for yourself all day. I have some ideas, but I’d meet you wherever. Text me, or even call—I swear I’d make a point to answer if it’s you.’

And the biggest thing written, and traced over to be BOLD, is a phone number.

But then, more teeny tiny words:

‘Also: please DO NOT drink this—I just wanted it to look decent, not taste good. Plus the main flavor profile might be sharpie by now, anyway.’

And Steve snorts to himself, sniffs the drink and oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s an aroma of permanent-marker, for sure.

‘Though the lid is clean, I didn’t reuse an old one,’ the note goes on: ‘though maybe, if you text (or call!), we’ll end the evening where swapping spit’s kind of the point ~’

There’s a little heart that barely fits but is as recognizable as the one on the undrinkable-drink and Steve barely feel Robin’s hand push his shoulder toward the back corner by the window where a certain curly-haired composer’s leg is bouncing fast enough to hear against the floor on approach, Reeboks squeaking against the tile; where a man’s sitting who Steve would really like to close the week out—or even the day, if he’s real lucky—as being able to just call ‘boyfriend’, instead of anything else.

✨🦇✨☕️✨

Originally from Twitter, where you can totally ask for a fic-me-up when you’re having A DAY, too;

Also on Ao3.

#steddie #tooth rotting fluff #coffee shop au #shit i write #gift fic #fic-me-up #embersonfiredeux #steddie fluff

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mylevisdontfitanymore · 2 years ago

Note

This samstevebucky concept just popped into my head:

A college!AU where the three of them are all dorm-mates. Maybe Steve and Bucky were friends all their lives or maybe they met at college, same with Sam.

Anyway, Steve and Sam notice Bucky put on that ‘freshman fifteen’ pretty quickly into fall semester. Maybe more than fifteen. Individually and without communicating about it, Steve and Sam both encourage Bucky’s eating habits with trips to the dining hall and using Sam’s truck to drive out to get fast food. And, like a cat who tricks their owners into feeding them twice, Bucky starts gaining quicker

Eventually, this all comes to a head in some messy, wonderful way 🤤

Yes.

I love this idea. This is fucking great.

I specifically love the “and, like a cat who tricks their owners into feeding them twice, Bucky starts gaining quicker” because YES!

Warning for unbeta'd sambuckysteve belly kink nonsense. Lots of stuffing, weight gain, teasing and encouragement, mentioned of immobility, EXPLICIT descriptions of fucking, etc.

Modern Bucky, to me, feels like he would be the closest to pre-war Bucky in the MCU. Like, completely charming. Well-kept hair. Pretty eyes with lashes like a girl. A smile with dimples. Knowingly dressing well. He can charm anyone do to anything; he could tilt his head and smile and sweet talk an angel into falling from Heaven for him at the same time he might turn around and fix a devil with a heavily-lidded gaze, smirk, and get them to rise from the ashes of Hell. It just depends on what he wants.

With Steve, Bucky doesn’t even have to try - he can just put on his puppy-dog eyes and pout the tiniest amount and Steve is automatically like, yes, yes, whatever you want. Whatever you need. Of course, I’ll walk with you to the dining hall to get more food. And while we’re out, why don’t we go to the dining hall in the dorms all the way across campus, they have the good food there. C’mon, I don’t mind the walk! I needed a break from studying anyway.

Eventually, when they get there, Steve helps Bucky by carrying an extra plate or two for him. He also helps Bucky by pointing out all the dishes that he knows are Bucky’s favorites. They’ve been friends since they were little kids after all, Steve should know what gets Bucky’s mouth watering. While they eat (or, usually, while Bucky eats because Steve has a reasonably sized-meal that he polishes off pretty quickly) Steve lets Bucky off the hook of talking. Steve either talks about his most recent art project, bouncing ideas off of Bucky or verbally painting him an image of what he finished or whatever. Steve is a spitfire, he can go on and on and on without Bucky’s help. Once Bucky is finally done, he’ll sometimes look longing at the food, as if he wants more. Steve always tells him he deserves more and if he’s still hungry, he should eat. He’s gotta feed his brain after all! Learning his hard work!

Bucky is feeding more than his brain… he’s feeding his slowly softening belly and his widening hips and thighs and his rounding butt.

With Sam, Bucky has to try a little harder. He has to work for it more. Partly because they’ve just met - Sam is the wild card in their dorm arrangement, not having known Steve or Bucky before freshman week when they all moved in. Partly though, Sam likes to play hard to get. He likes to tease. He’s not as easy to wear down as Steve (which is fair, Steve is exceptionally soft for Bucky, so soft it’s laughable). Sam likes to play hard to get as if he doesn’t enjoy all the late-night drives he and Bucky go on even though once they’re out of the dorm - in his truck together - Sam is all for it.

It’s just in the beginning that Bucky has to work for it because Sam does get a thrill out of going through Drive-Thrus and ordering for Bucky. Sam orders for Bucky because Bucky smirks at him and says that because he put in all the effort to drive him here, he can have the pleasure of ordering anything for Bucky he wants. Like doing more work for Bucky, thinking about what he should shovel down next, is a pleasure. An honor. And it is.

Sam, almost without realizing it, begins ordering more and more for Bucky. It’s not just a late-night milkshake or two McDonald’s apple pies. It’s sandwiches. It’s burgers and fries. It’s a drink to wash down the real, actual food he’s getting only hours after going to the dining hall with Steve which… a burger, fries, and a drink?

That’s an entire meal.

A whole extra meal that… when Sam looks over from the driver’s seat, his eyes looking Bucky over from head to toe, catching the way his stomach is becoming a thing under his clothes… he can’t totally justify. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be making Bucky’s gain worse. He should be a good, new friend, and he should tell him to take it easy before his health is sacrificed.

(Sam would love to say that he’s concerned for Bucky’s ability to use his charms to get whatever he wants, whoever he wants, but embarrassingly, he’s not. Sam doesn’t think the puffy little double chin that’s starting to show hurts Bucky’s prettiness any. He also doesn’t think, in the semi-privacy of the shared showers that more puffiness would hurt Bucky’s prettiness. It might make it better.)

It’s not just Bucky that becomes friends with Sam though. Sam and Steve become tight too. They go off and do their own adventures together. Now that Steve has finally grown out of his health problems in his youth (thanks to some very helpful drugs and an odd surgery or two), he’s able to play sports. Sam, with the help of the people in the college’s clubs, teaches him football and baseball and laughs his ass off at Steve when he does something spectacularly wrong or clumsy but also whoops and hollers and hypes him up when he gets something right or makes a good play. They have some deep conversations… they both apparently share the trait of having their soul set on fire by injustices.

Yeah, they get along just fine.

They just don’t really realize how much they’re both feeding Bucky.

Until…

Steve meets Natasha, Steve and Natasha run into Sam, they get introduced, and then Bucky bumps into them as well.

Steve and Natasha meet because they share a painting class and Steve could not help but let his mouth drop open and his eyes widen as he saw what painting Natasha was working on. A beautiful, snowy landscape that was both cold and threatening but also so stunning he couldn’t help but want to walk right into it. She also paints on a large scale with these little, tiny brushes. Steve doesn’t know how she gets anything done so quickly with those detail brushes. It’s magical. Natasha laughs at him, saying he’s going to catch flies or some accidentally flicked paint in his mouth if he isn’t careful. They go out to lunch as friends eventually.

Sam sees them but doesn’t interrupt. Not the first time.

The second or third time he introduces himself obnoxiously, barging in, because why wouldn’t he be annoying to his friend when the opportunity presents itself?

Sam and Natasha get along well. And all their schedules this term line up on Mondays well enough that they can get lunch together. So, they do.

Once, while at the food court, chatting and eating, Bucky wanders in. One of his classes was let out early, so he came for food early. He spots Sam and Steve and comes over. Thus he meets Natasha too.

Later, Natasha asks Steve, “so, your friends Sam and…”

Steve is distracted so he doesn’t answer right away, giving her Bucky’s name.

She continues, snapping her fingers, “B-b…” she gives up on the name, “the one who’s your other roommate. He’s white, brown hair, kinda chunky?”

Chunky?

Steve’s heart skips a beat. Bucky? Chunky? The Bucky that comes to his mind is the Bucky from the summer after high school graduation. Soaking in the sun. Slim but a little soft. The way he’s always been since Steve can remember. Broad shoulders and fit but never with abs. Always a little softness around his waist. Comfortable.

“Bucky?” He answers finally.

“Yeah, Bucky,” she rolls her eyes though, “took you long enough. Did you forget his name? Jeez, I thought you two had been friends since you were kids.”

Steve scoffs. “No, no, I’m just,” he waves his hand toward his drawing, “in the zone.”

“Sure,” she says then carries on…

Steve can’t stop thinking about Bucky being chunky. So much so that he blurts out to Sam, “do you think Bucky is getting chubby?”

Sam gives him a weird look, “I don’t fucking know, man, you tell me. You’ve known him your whole life.”

Steve sighs, “yeah, but…”

After a moment of silence, Sam answers, “now that you mention it… probably. Freshy fifteen?”

“More than fifteen,” Steve replies before he can think anything of it.

That’s the end of the first conversation they have about it. But. More conversations happen. All the while, Steve keeps accompanying Bucky to his dining hall binges. He keeps telling him he deserves whatever he craves. He even transitions into getting more plates for Bucky when Bucky says his first few plates aren’t gonna be enough to fill him up. Steve doesn’t want him to run out of food. Steve… Steve is starting to want Bucky to stay put, so he can always bring him his food. So he can see his belly come closer and closer to kissing the edge of the table they’re sitting at.

Also, Sam keeps driving Bucky to Drive-Thurs, sometimes even to grocery stores or real restaurants. He stops having the same ability to deny Bucky whatever he wants. He can still pretend to deny Bucky what he wants though - bantering. It’s like Steve’s weakness is rubbing off on him that the same time that Bucky wears him down. Every night, Sam gives Bucky a look, up and down, and tries to decide if he looks bigger than yesterday. The answer is yes every night.

Sam and Steve talk about it. Steve sounds worshipful when he talks about having watched Bucky take his shirt off to change in their dorm room. He’s got stretch marks apparently. He looks soft all over. Sam imagines it. He also imagines squishing Bucky into the tiny middle seat of his truck with Steve sitting in the passenger seat while he drives and shivers.

Sam starts bringing little treats to Bucky throughout the day. It’s finals season again. He needed them to keep his spirits up.

Steve follows his lead.

They fall into a routine.

Natasha can’t take their stupidity eventually. She bluntly prints out an article on feedism, perfectly titled Feedism for Dummies, and hands one copy to both Sam and Steve. Somehow she knows they’ve talked about it, but haven’t talked to Bucky. She tells them they have to talk to him about it. It’s spooky, embarrassing, and very helpful.

They talk.

Steve and Sam.

Steve, Sam, and Bucky.

Bucky doesn’t want it to stop. He… he likes it as much as they do.

This makes for such wonderful occurrences as:

Bucky waking up in his bottom bunk

(he seems like a bottom bunk kinda guy, Steve is on the top of their bunk, and Sam is in his own bunk bed on the top bed. Steve and Bucky volunteered to share at the beginning of the year because Sam was new)

and being told to just sit up slightly. Looking so soft and so fat. Sam and Steve then take turns feeding Bucky breakfast in bed. They got way too much from the dining hall as soon as it opened. All of it is going to go into Bucky. Their growing little pet.

Bucky is too big for one of the other fully grown men to climb into his twin bunk bed with him, so it’s one at a time. Sam will feed him and rub his tummy, teasing him. Then, Steve will feed him and rub his tummy, cooing at him. By the time they’re done, Bucky is groaning and holding his belly together himself, moaning about how he’s never going to make it to his afternoon classes today. They’re going to have to roll him out of his bunk.

The bed creaks so much that Sam says they had better take him up on the offer now before he breaks his little bed. Not designed with all of him in mind.

Later, Sam does get Bucky in the center seat of his truck. It’s a sandwich with Bucky as the filling and the filling is getting filled. They go through one Drive-Thru after another. It’s their entire Saturday. Sam driving. Steve riding passenger. Bucky in the middle.

By the time evening falls and Bucky is whimpering his way through dinner, stuffed before they already began, they’re all so horny they feel a little crazy with it. They are alone - parked in the city park with the sun setting and no one around them - but they’re also not really alone. They’re in a public place still. Sitting in Sam’s truck.

So… they can’t do anything about their too close, too much horny. Even though Bucky’s fat is rubbing against Steve and Sam and it’s making them all insane. Bucky’s wedged in. Sam is whispering to him, low and dirty, how by the time summer rolls around, they’re gonna have to toss him in the bed of the truck to get him anywhere. He won’t fit in the truck cab. He’ll be too big. Steve playfully argues that instead, they’ll have to buy a bigger truck. A whole new one. One that Bucky can fit in. Sam shoots back that there’s no point in that because they’re gonna work together to make Bucky outgrow any truck anyway. Might as well start putting him in the bed anyway, so he can get used to it.

Extra kinky, but… they would all fucking love double penetration. I’m not talking spit-roasting with Bucky taking one of their cocks in his ass and the other’s cock in his mouth at the same time. No, I’m talking true DP.

Both of their cocks in Bucky’s ass at once.

It would have to wait until they have their own space - their own shared apartment off campus with a bed big enough for all three of them.

(Throughout the time they’re in the dorms, they often end up fucking on the floor, even when it’s just two of them, not all three, because Bucky’s ass (and everything) is too big for a twin mattress.)

Bucky is on his hands and knees, shoving handfuls of cake into his mouth, while Sam and Steve take him from behind. Splitting his fat ass open wide with both of their cocks. He’s moaning like crazy. Loving every fucking second of this. It’s so good. Everything his gluttonous heart wants. And...

Steve can’t stop panting and moaning and gasping, telling Bucky he’s being so good, taking so much. Sam is keeping a running commentary over Steve’s sounds and nearly incoherent words, he’s swearing up a storm and telling Bucky how spoiled he is - taking both their cocks and eating an entire fucking cake after a huge dinner. He’s getting so fat. He’s so good for them. So big and greedy. So sweet, so hot and tight.

I hope you enjoyed that ❤️

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #steve rogers #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sambuckysteve #chubby bucky #fat bucky #stuffing #weight gain #writerkenna

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gatheringfiki · 2 years ago

Text

The following ficlet was written by @metztlilua based on this photoset.

Britchell, Teen.

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3. :)

I know things...

---

Many things are appealing about Anders Johnson

His hair

His eyes

His dimples

His lips...or more specific the way he bites on the lower one...

At first, Mitchell tries to deny it because he's just a kid; and Mitchell is his (substitute) teacher, he CANT find him appealing at all

But as much as he tries his best to be decent and not expand the list of crimes he's committed, he can't help but sneak glances at him, the way he chuckles discretely to himself when he reads; or the way his long fingers hold the pen. Sometimes Mitchell has to remind himself to not indulge into a fantasy for long; he made that mistake once and had to see his students out of the classroom while pushing himself in his wheely chair; he's not sure if Anders could tell the amount of power he had, of course he knew he was handsome; and even if his classmates couldn't see past the black eyes and the food stamps, Anders was absolutely too dangerous for Mitchell.

So, when the blonde walks into his makeshift office after school hours, lip worried in between his teeth and his ~dainty~ hands toying with the hem of his sweater

He knows something's bound to go wrong.

Anders looks up from his feet, finally walking thru the door and making sure to close (and lock) it behind him; he's sure he can hear Mitchell swallow hard but ignores that so he can sit down on the leather couch (this office used to be the school counselors but she got fired and it was given to Mitchell for the year). Silence rules for a few minutes before the blonde finally sighs, there really is no reason for him to be there right now (that Mitchell can help with anyway), his grades are good, his attendance could use improving but nothing that will get him in trouble and Mitchell probably will not believe he needs tutoring; Anders, tho, it's terribly good at lying and has a plan for staying inside his office a little longer.

His brain brings back a memory of a certain red head kid who was already twice his size and had said something along the lines of "will rip your head off, Johnson"

He shivers. He needs to thinks of something and fast

-how can I help you...?- Mitchell's voice is raspy but kind and it triggers something hungry inside of Anders

-My brother didn't come get me...- Mitchell makes some sort of distressed noise that he supposes is from him being the last of the faculty remaining on the premises and he doesn't want to stay longer than he must

-what about the bus?- Anders fights every nerve inside his body to keep his eyes from rolling he sighs, the bus was possibly the worse option for him, with so many bullies around and his house being the last on the line; plus clearly the bus was at least half an hour long gone. Mitchell seems to rethink his phrase, he's seen what kids this age can do

-how about you call him? And I'll wait with you until he's here

Anders makes a victory dance inside his mind, but makes the fake call, because Mike doesn't answer his phone, specially if Anders's name shows up on the screen, Mitchell pushes again and he leaves a ~message~

"Mike, when you get this please come get me, you forgot and I missed the bus, I can't walk home it's over 15miles"

-he shouldn't take...too long - Anders says even if it's a big lie, if they were to wait for Mike to come pick him up he would never show.

He means no harm to his growlingly nervous literature teacher, it's just survival of the fittest in high school. he'll just ride out the clock until he's sure no one will jump him and then walk home.

-you don't have to stay here you know? I could wait for my brother in your office then close up for you!

Mitchell chuckles lightly at the offering; if he was smarter (or dumber, however you wanna see it) he would accept, but since he isn't he just slides a Tupperware with a sandwich he knows he doesn't need to eat in the direction of the blonde

-and leave your unsupervised, 16 year old self here in my office, no thank you, eat up, it's late - Anders frowns in an almost offended manner before correcting him with the screechy typical voice of a teenager

-I'm almost 18 and I don't need you to feed me- but he takes the Tupperware after several pushes from Micthell who doesn't even bother to look up from his test grading.

Ten minutes pass an Anders has finished the sandwich, a juice box and some pieces of candy that Mitchell has to give to his class when they're particularly annoying; a full stomach is a strange feeling for him but he doesn't complain; he looks out the window to look for his attacker but no trace; he still rather wait it out, he knows that trick

Twenty minutes and Mitchell is done grading tests, he goes for essays from Anders's class which gets him a very interested "can I help?" "No, Anders" "ah! Cmon mr. Mitchell, I won't tell, you'd be surprised what I've kept secret"

Micthell gets past that sexual (was it sexual or is he just imagining things?!?) innuendo with a "this isn't about secrecy, it's my job" followed by "I know things..." Anders leans in close then something like hunger flashes thru his eyes "well at least you read the book" and they're quiet again, Mitchell almost sighs in relief when the blonde turns his attention elsewhere.

It's been forty minutes and "Mike" still hasn't shown up (he won't, of course); the black haired man seems genuinely concerned, tho by now he's figured out that's probably not the reason for Anders to hang back in his office, he can't have him in here all afternoon, specifically him. Blonde, blue wide eyed, red lipped, side smiling; unknowingly seductive Anders Johnson

And he can't help but suggest to give ~MIKE~ another call or riffle thru the security sheets and find his parents phone number

Anders laughs quietly "my parents won't come" and they both share a moment of silence that Mitchell finally breaks "is it someone from your class or older?"

It catches Anders by surprise, he can see in the way his breath hitches and he slumps back in the chair in defeat

He knew all this time?

-younger...actually but uh...I'm pretty sure he has his brother with him

Mitchell tries to remember all the names of younger kids with brother that could hurt Anders; the truth being, it's a long list considering the blonde has a considerably thin and short body and not many friends. He frowns, trying to figure a plan out when he sighs

-it's ok mr. Mitchell I'm sure I'll be fine...- he sounds convinced as he stands up, grabbing his back pack and making his way to the door and the vampire knows this kid has been thru enough shit and he won't let it keep happening, he lounges to the side to catch Anders's arm in his hand, careful not to actually grab him hard or hurt him

-stay anyway? - there's a tint of actual truth to what he asks; even tho Mitchell is having trouble concentrating, he'd rather have Anders here even if it makes his jeans uncomfortable to wear and not out there getting beat up

-you don't need to do that

-I want to...

Once again; Anders seems to be taken aback by Mitchell's words; he's definitely getting in trouble for this if someone saw him come in but he doesn't seem to care, he offers him a comfortable place to wait out his bullies and the protection of an adult in case they run into trouble, his brothers cross his mind, then again, the memory of a circle of guys in variations of age between 16-19 beating the shit out of him is not a good plan for him. He sighs, then puts his backpack back down, making his way back and closer to Mitchell's desk, he manages to pull of his (hand-me-down) sweater and throw it next to his stuff before squeezing himself in between Mitchell and his desk

-well in that case- he lowers to his knees, placing his hand on Mitchell's for leverage -let me do something for you

Anders's finger are quick as they make their way up Mitchell's legs and into his belt

-what are you doing...?- the black haired man feels his voice waver as Anders undoes his button and unzips his pants; he's in too much of a trance to react when glazed eyes look up at him cautiously, cold hands inside his pants look for his waking member; Anders pulls it out thru the hole in his boxers and stares at it for a second, Mitchell curses himself for wearing the easy access underwear an not the skin tight briefs he usually goes with but it goes away when he feels the (much) younger man taking him on his mouth, his fingers fly to get tangled in blonde hair and he has to fight the urge to push in merciless inside wet heat; he lets Anders take control of the situation fully, panting and gasping as he speeds up then reduces the pace over an over again; his mouth makes the obscene slurping sounds as he takes Mitchell deep into his throat pulling a loud moan out of him, Anders speeds up the pace once again, lightly grazing the bottom of his member with his teeth.

Heat starts to build up on Mitchell's lower stomach; he has the brief coherence to ask himself how is Anders so good at this, but he makes the mistake of looking down in between his legs and is greeted with the image of blonde curls falling lightly on pale skin, blue eyes look up at him as best as possible with his dick inside the blondes mouth; his lips look about a shade darker and he hums some sort of ininteligible variation of ~Mitchell~ when the older yanks his hair; finally making him loose all control and emptying himself inside Anders's mouth.

A few seconds pass where Mitchell can't quite move, then he goes to get a tissue out of his desk; Anders swallows his cum and gives him a side smile from his place on the floor; that alone almost has him ready to go again; he chuckles worriedly. Now that the adrenaline has worn off he can see the fragile kid who wanted to hide from a bully and he feels his heart sink

-shit Anders I'm sorry - he scrambles to tuck himself back into his pants and pull Anders up from the ground, mumbling "sorrysorrysorrysorry" pulling him close to him -I shouldn’t have let that happen I just got carried away it’s you and I…

He sighs, Anders doesn’t look like he’s following in on his words, he stares back at Mitchell with a puzzled look and then smiles and returns the hug

-I’ve known for a while…I told you I know things

-yes but…- Mitchell mumbles into the worn out shirt, cutting himself off before he says something inappropriate (even more)

-I’m not exactly an uncorrupted soul if that’s what worries you…

He chuckles and something calls for Mitchell to sweep Anders off the floor and so he does; sitting him on his lap carefully, facing away from the window to avoid any (highly unlikely at this hour) colateral damage

-well talk after I know your safe. Ok?

Anders seems to doubt the whole situation for a second but nods nonetheless

-alright

#Gathering 12 Days 2022 #Britchell #Anders/Mitchell #The Almighty Johnsons #Being Human (UK)

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sugarcoated-lame · 9 months ago

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Oh my goodness, Vee… where do I even begin, like I adored absolutely every single thing about this!

I’m honestly going thru it a bit at the moment and was in some desperate need of fluff and comfort, and boy did this sweet story hit the spot! 🥹

Putting this under a cut bc I have so many things I need to scream about 🧡

First of all, Joel internally freaking out but trying to be strong for you and Ellie during the labor, and his concern for both her and the baby during and after the birth was just so sweet

‘At about four pounds, eleven ounces, Rosemary was the tiniest thing you’d ever seen and somehow even tinier when Joel would cradle her in the palms of his large hands. Despite the fact that you’d been reassured that’

And the image of Joel holding a tiny baby in his big arms !!! My heart is melting 🥺

I just love this little family unit so much, the bond they both share with Ellie and the fact that she wanted to be there for the birth. Also Ellie already being the best big sister and getting Rosemary her stuffed bunny !! Its so sweet I wanna cry!

‘Even holding her in his hands for the first time had been something of a battle. Hands that once snapped necks and slit throats didn’t deserve to hold something so pure and innocent.’

This just - beautiful!!!!

The second he feels Rosie’s soft skin on his, there’s a shift.

It’s similar to the one he felt when he first felt her move in your belly.

His chest and stomach are littered with several scars. Rough, raised patches of skin that serve as reminders of a brutal past he doesn’t want her finding out about, not for as long as he can fucking help it.

Rosemary deserves to be wrapped up in softness.

You broke my heart a little bit with this glimpse into Joel’s insecurities, but seeing that shift in him absolutely put it back together

he catches a glimpse of the prominent dimple in her left cheek—the same dimple Sarah had inherited from him, Rosemary had inherited too. There’s a dull ache in his chest, but somehow, he still smiles as she peers up at him with sleepy eyes.

ALSO THIS??? HOW DARE YOU 😭😭 stop it right now (don’t, I love it)

I just think you do such an incredible job of capturing the essence of Joel’s character, and all of the that guilt that he would inevitably feel because of who he’s been in his past, his coming terms with being a father again, and all of the insecurities and worries that come along with it because he feels he doesn’t deserve this kind of happiness or to be able to be a part of something so pure ☹️

ALSO ROSIE POSIE ????!??! Oh I’m done for. Anything with girl dad Joel just gets me, but him saying ‘Rosie posie’ ??? I’m sobbing (but in a good way)

Vee, you really know how to tug on my heartstrings!!! this story had just the perfect dash of angst and then the sweetest fluff. I love it, I love dad Joel and you and your beautiful writing so so much 🥰💗💗

softness

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: Joel’s a little unsure of doing skin to skin with his newborn daughter.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. established relationship. (TW) PREGNANCY. mentions of premature birth, minor descriptions of childbirth, mentions of birth weight, it is implied that reader is breastfeeding her baby, semi accurate medical journal research, girldad! Joel, mentions of scars (Joel), mentions of insecurities and anxieties, if i missed anything, please let me know! NO MENTION OF READER’S AGE. NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER. no physical description of child except for her hair color/type. very minimal editing.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: i had this outline sitting in my drafts and i decided to finally just write it out and post it. it ain’t much, but it’s honest work. it is part of the safe and sound universe.

She’d made her entrance into the world early.

About four or five weeks, the commune’s doctor thinks.

Without ultrasounds, it’d been a guessing game.

And a fucking terrifying guessing game at that.

For several months, all you could do was hope.

Hope for a smooth pregnancy.

Hope for a safe labor and delivery.

Hope for a strong, healthy baby.

When you went into labor earlier than the doctor had predicted you would, all of your hopes shattered, the pieces falling around you like shards of broken glass you couldn’t put back together even if you tried.

“No! No, it’s too soon! It’s too fucking soon!” you’d cried out, the sheer panic setting in and seeping into your bones as a warm, clear liquid dripped down the insides of your legs and pooled around your bare feet. You had been in the kitchen making Ellie breakfast and packing her lunch for school—one second you’re standing there in front of the food pantry debating with yourself on what vegetable to throw into the kid’s lunch bag with her sandwich and the next you’re calling out for help as an intense pressure nestled itself between your hips. It wasn’t until you heard a faint popping sound and then felt the gush of fluid between your thighs that you’d realized what was happening. An unmistakable first sign of labor, you’d experienced your water breaking. “This can’t be happening, it’s not time yet!”

Joel, who by some stroke of sheer stupid luck had the morning off from patrol duty, instructed Ellie to run upstairs and gather some clean clothes along with a pair of boots and the warmest coat you owned that still fit. November had brought along the first snowfall of the season—the frigid temperatures outside were anything but kind and the clinic was on the opposite side of the commune, a fifteen minute walk he wished you didn’t have to make in your condition. “I know this is real fuckin’ scary darlin’ but y’need to stay calm. I need you to stay as calm as possible. Y’think that you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

He’d been just as terrified, but he masked it well.

On the outside, he kept a calm, collected composure for your sake and for Ellie’s too, shoved aside his own fears so he could be the support you both needed, act as the glue that held yours and his little family unit together should anything were to happen. But on the inside, he was scared shitless, to say the least. He couldn’t be certain he would have the strength to hold himself together if something went wrong, if he lost you—or his unborn child.

Admittedly, it had taken him a few months to come to terms with the fact that he was going to be a father again at this stage in his life. The thought of him changing diapers at his age was one he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around—but the moment he felt that first little flutter of movement one night as you lay curled up against his side fast asleep, something shifted. That night, he had stayed wide awake, his large hand splayed over your bare belly in hopes he would feel that little flutter again.

“Joel, I’m really fucking scared. What if it’s too early—”

“Baby, look at me.” He reached up and gently took your chin, holding it between his thumb and index finger as he coaxed your gaze to meet his own. “S’gonna be okay,” he’d assured you, softly. “If this is happenin’ now, it’s because she’s ready, alright?”

For a split second, that panic had ceased.

“She?”

Confused, Joel’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“You just referred to the baby as a she, Joel.”

“I did?”

“Yeah—just now.” You’d stared at him with curiosity and took a step back, cradling your belly in both of your hands. “Do you think we’re having a girl?”

Sheepishly, he had shaken his head at you.

“No, I just—m’sorry. I ain’t all too sure why I said that.”

He truly, honestly hadn’t.

It’d slipped before he could even think about it.

But his accidental slip had been right.

After thirteen hours of grueling labor in Jackson’s small clinic, you’d given birth to a little girl, the sound of her loud wailing filling the whole room like a sweet melody eliciting a sob of joy from you and a shaky sigh of relief from Joel.

“Holy shit, she’s here! She’s actually fucking here,” Ellie breathed, her eyes going wide. Her arms were still wrapped around one of your legs—despite you warning the teenager about what she would see, it hadn’t stopped her from volunteering her assistance in the childbirth process. She watched on in a mix of both fascination and disgust as Dr. Porter, a woman in her sixties who served as Jackson’s sole physician, lifted the infant and immediately placed her onto your bare chest to clean her off. “This has gotta be the grossest, most amazing fucking thing I have ever fucking seen in my life.” Gently, she set your leg down onto the bed before walking around it to stand beside Joel. His hand was stroking your hair, his dark eyes trained on his crying newborn daughter. It was the perfect moment for Ellie to run her mouth and tease, “You’re not gonna cry, are you, Joel? I’d think you’re a lot fucking tougher than that, old man.”

“Shut up,” he’d muttered under his breath, putting an arm around her and pulling her against his side. He almost couldn’t believe this was now his life—a life he would have never even known if he hadn’t flinched twenty years ago when he had pulled the trigger.

Though she’d been born a few weeks prematurely, Rosemary Miller was deemed to be healthy—a tad underweight, but nothing to be worried about just yet, according to Jackie, the commune’s nurse. At about four pounds, eleven ounces, Rosemary was the tiniest thing you’d ever seen and somehow even tinier when Joel would cradle her in the palms of his large hands. Despite the fact that you’d been reassured that the baby’s low birth weight was nothing to be alarmed about, you and Joel had been advised it was best if you didn’t take her home until she gained a few more ounces and tipped the a scale at what the books state is a normal birth weight of five pounds, eight ounces.

“We just would feel better if she were here at the clinic where we can closely monitor her weight,” Jackie had said upon seeing the crestfallen look on your face. “Besides, you tore a little and you need time to heal as well, you know.”

Left with very little choice, you’d agreed to it.

“I’m losing it,” you say with an exasperated sigh as you stare up at the drab, gray ceiling. It’s been three days since you had given birth and all you want to do is take your daughter home. In an effort to lift your spirits, Maria had tried to warm the place up and make it feel more comfortable for you. She had swapped out the rough, scratchy bedsheet the clinic provided for you with a soft, knitted blanket she had made herself. She also took it upon herself to pack you a bag with your own clothes, a couple of books to read, and your favorite polaroids of Joel and Ellie. While it had been incredibly sweet of her to do for you, you still wanted out of that clinic sooner rather than later. “I miss our house. I miss our bed. I miss our kid.”

Joel, who’s sitting in an old, worn leather armchair tucked over in a corner of your room next to the frosted window, raises an eyebrow at you and then juts his chin towards Rosemary, who is swaddled up and sleeping soundly in the plastic bassinet beside your bed.

“Our kid’s right there, darlin’.”

You lift your head off your pillow and glare at him.

“I’m talking about Ellie, Joel.”

He chuckles and leans forward in his chair. Next to him sits a brown stuffed bunny rabbit—Ellie had traded a precious comic book for it and gifted it to the baby the same afternoon she was born.

“She’s been comin’ to visit every day after school.”

“It’s not the same,” you pout, shaking your head.

Joel sighs and glances at the cot that he had been sleeping on for the last few days—truth be told, he misses the house too. His back certainly misses the bed. “It ain’t the same,” he agrees, tiredly. His face is worn with exhaustion. Despite you insisting that he go home and get some proper rest, he’s too stubborn to listen and only leaves the clinic to take a shower and change his clothes—and to check on Ellie, who’s got a bad habit of not doing her homework unless you or Joel nag her to get it done. “M’real sorry, darlin’. But you heard what they said. Baby’s gotta gain a little more weight before we can take her home.”

Even from where he’s sitting, he can see your eyes glaze over with tears of frustration. Since the baby was born, you’ve been very sensitive, more so than when you’d been pregnant—something he didn’t think was even possible.

“If she keeps on eatin’ the way she’s eatin’ we’ll be home by the end of the week,” Joel adds in an effort to cheer you up. “Besides, you need to heal before we make that long walk across town and back to the house, sweetheart. S’not like I can just pull up the fuckin’ minivan and drive you girls home like back in the day, y’know?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Ew, Joel. We would not have a fucking minivan.” Dabbing at your eyes with the back of your hand, you can’t help but laugh at the thought of Joel Miller behind the wheel of one of those things. Then, you realize how endearing it would be to watch as he’s loading up Rosemary’s car seat into the van, the muscles of his broad back flexing underneath his shirt as he pulled on the straps to make sure it was safe and secure. You’d climb into the backseat with her and on the way home, you would ask Joel to swing through the nearest burger joint drive through because you’re fucking starving and in need of a proper meal after being subjected to boring, bland hospital food. You shoot him a small smile. “On second thought, that doesn’t sound all that bad. Maybe we would.”

Suddenly, there’s a light knock at the door.

“Come in,” you call, careful not to be too loud.

Dr. Porter walks into the room.

She had been a primary care physician prior to the world ending, according to Maria, who a couple of months ago had given birth to her son while under Dr. Porter’s care. Maria had assured you that, even though the woman never trained in obstetrics, she always went above and beyond for all the mothers to be in the commune. She dedicated her spare time to studying, lost herself in medical books she found on the shelves of the town’s library—kind of like the one that’s currently tucked underneath her arm.

“Hi there mama,” she greets, her eyes shining brightly behind her coke-bottle glasses. Wearing jeans and a sweater, she doesn’t quite look the part—maybe she’d worn a white coat once in her life, but now it was only the old, silver metal stethoscope she had draped around her neck that gave her profession away. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I’m okay,” you say with a shrug. “Can’t complain.”

Over in his corner, Joel can’t help but snort.

Ignoring him, you add, “Bleeding’s slowing down.”

“Good, that’s good,” Dr. Porter tells you. “And how about this sweet little girl?” She smiles and makes her way over to the bassinet, keeping her voice low. “She eating well?”

“She is. Her last feed was about two hours ago.”

“How’s she sleeping?”

“Like a rock.”

“And you’ve been doing skin to skin as well?”

You nod. “Yes, before and after her feedings.”

“That’s perfect.” Dr. Porter beams at you with pride. “Keep it up and do it as often as possible. There are a ton of benefits of doing skin to skin with her. It’s one of the most incredible things that a mother can do for her baby. Actually—” She pauses for a moment and pulls the book out from under her arm. “I have been doing a bit of research and as it turns out, there are also benefits if dad does skin to skin with baby as well.”

Joel stiffens slightly in his chair. “S’cuse me?”

“I found this book in the library. It talks about all of the benefits of fathers doing skin to skin with their newborn. It was written some time in the nineties and studies were still being conducted, but I really believe they were onto something.” She hands you the book. “For being preterm, Rosemary’s healthy, but it doesn’t do any harm to try whatever you can to make sure that she builds up that immune system and stays healthy, especially now that winter’s here.” Flashing you a smile, she informs you, “I went ahead and folded the pages for you and made some notes. There’s a few benefits in it for Joel as well. Could be worth a try.”

After telling you she’ll be back in a couple hours to check on you and to weigh the baby, Dr. Porter excuses herself from your room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Curiously, you open the book to the first page that she’d folded for you and start reading the first passage out loud.

“Ongoing studies have found skin to skin between father and child have similar benefits to those that come from skin to skin between mother and child. It regulates the baby's body temperature, blood sugar, and stress levels.” You pause and look over at Joel, who appears thoroughly unimpressed. “It also helps to regulate the baby’s heart rate and breathing rate. Joel, this is incredible! I think you should—”

“No.”

Joel winces. He doesn’t mean to sound so curt.

Your face falls. “Why not?”

“That’s for mothers,” he grumbles. “Y’know, for feedin’ the baby.”

“It’s for much more than just that.” You shake your head and flip over to the next page, scanning both the text as well as Dr. Porter’s notes. “It says here that it also helps the baby pick up their father’s natural scent and promotes bonding.”

“Sweetheart, I can bond with her just fine with my fuckin’ shirt on, there ain’t no need for me to—what in the world are you doin’?” Perturbed, Joel watches you as you take a handful of your blanket, throwing it off yourself. He jumps up to his feet the second he realizes that you’re about to get out of bed. “Don’t—”

“Oh relax, Joel. I should be moving more anyway,” you say, wincing as you sit up and swing both legs over the side of the bed. It isn’t so much pain as it is discomfort—everything had been shoved up and out of place for months, after all. As soon as you stand, Joel’s there at your side, one hand on your arm and the other on your back, trying to guide you back onto the bed. You lightly swat him away with your hand. “Joel, stop fussing over me! I’m fine!”

“Baby, y’need to lie down right now—”

“Take off your shirt.”

His hands fall away from you and his eyes widen.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt and go sit down in the chair.”

The blood drains from his face and he pales.

It’s not that Joel doesn’t want to do it. He does.

He’ll do anything if it’s for his daughter’s benefit.

Still.

The idea of laying his innocent little baby girl on him without his shirt on—it’s uncomfortable. His chest and stomach are littered with several scars. Rough, raised patches of skin that serve as reminders of a brutal past he doesn’t want her finding out about, not for as long as he can fucking help it.

Rosemary deserves to be wrapped up in softness.

The softness of your smooth, blemish free skin.

The softness of the blankets you’d knitted for her.

The softness of the stuffed bunny Ellie had given her.

Joel?

He isn’t soft.

Nothing about him is soft.

Even holding her in his hands for the first time had been something of a battle. Hands that once snapped necks and slit throats didn’t deserve to hold something so pure and innocent.

“This sounds really promising, Joel.” Slowly, you make your way over to the plastic bassinet, ignoring the dull ache between your thighs. With your back to him, you carefully begin to unswaddle the baby. You try not to wake her as you peel off her warm, knitted onesie and matching socks, leaving her in nothing but her teeny, tiny cloth diaper. Gingerly, you pick her up and turn around to face him. “If Dr. Porter thinks we should try it, then it’s for a good reason, don’t you think so?”

Joel swallows harshly.

“What is it?”

“S’just that I—I’ve got scars everywhere, y’know?”

Your expression instantly softens for him. “Joel, you’re her daddy,” you remind him, gently. “She’s not going to care about things like that.” Pausing, it suddenly occurs to you that it’s not just about his scars. It’s about something else, something that runs so much deeper for Joel. He’d done what he had done in order to survive, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t live with the shame—the guilt and the regret. Rosemary begins to fuss awake and you lightly bounce her in your arms as you assure him, “She isn’t going to care about your past or what you’ve done. Her love for you is going to be as unconditional as yours is for her. She’s going to love you no matter what, Joel. I can promise you that.”

His jaw clenches and his lips press into a tight line.

Rosemary starts to cry—she’s cold, no doubt.

The old heater in the clinic hardly runs.

And when it does, it breaks down.

“Joel, please,” you beg over her wails. “Just try it? For me? For her?”

Sighing in defeat, Joel shrugs out of his jacket and he tosses it aside. With trembling fingers, he begins to unbutton his green flannel shirt—his long sleeved thermal henley comes off next and then he takes off the cotton t-shirt he wears underneath for an added layer of warmth during the winter season. As he stands there shirtless, he shivers and his flesh erupts with goosebumps. “Wait,” he mutters as he watches you take a step forward. He drags the armchair away from the window. He then sits down, his heart racing and the anxiety flaring as he gives you a subtle nod of his head. “Okay.”

You walk over to him and place her on his bare chest.

The second he feels Rosie’s soft skin on his, there’s a shift.

It’s similar to the one he felt when he first felt her move in your belly.

He calms and his heart slows—his nerves dissipate.

And Rosemary stops crying.

She scrunches, curls up on his chest, and yawns.

Grimacing, you lean over and pick up his flannel shirt. “Here,” you say, draping it over them as a makeshift blanket. “How’s that feel?”

“Think she likes it, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, his fingers delicately brushing over her soft tufts of dark brown hair. His touch causes the newborn’s lip to curl and he catches a glimpse of the prominent dimple in her left cheek—the same dimple Sarah had inherited from him, Rosemary had inherited too. There’s a dull ache in his chest, but somehow, he still smiles as she peers up at him with sleepy eyes. “Hi, Rosie Posie. S’me, babygirl. Your daddy.”

Rolling your lip between your teeth, you stifle a giggle.

“What?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at you.

“She’s not the only one who seems to like it.”

Joel chuckles, admitting, “S’pretty relaxin’.” He presses his nose into his daughter’s curls and inhales deeply, relishing in the warm, sweet milky scent of her. After a minute, his smile falters slightly. “Baby?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really believe it?”

Your brow furrows. “Believe what?”

“That she’s gonna love me no matter what.”

“Of course I do.”

“How can you be so sure ‘bout it?”

Carefully, you perch yourself on the arm of the chair and press a gentle kiss against his right temple, your lips brushing over his scar. “Because I just am, Joel.”

Somehow, he believes it—he believes you.

Joel tilts his head back, puckering his lips.

Grinning, you give him a chaste kiss before standing. “I’m going to see if I can get a nap in before her next feed,” you tell him, padding back over to the bed. “Do you think you’ll be okay with her for a while, just the two of you?”

“I think we’ll be just fine,” he murmurs, gingerly stroking Rosemary’s silky cheek with his finger. “Yeah. We’ll be just fine, won’t we, babygirl?”

divider credit to @saradika-graphics 🤎

#joel miller #dad Joel #fic recs #faves #went from sad crying to happy crying after reading this thank you vee <3 #so excited to read safe and sound too !!

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getmemymicroscope · 1 year ago

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Simply put, this does not live up to the fun of the sequel. I mean, yes, we get Dr. Ghungroo (Paresh Rawal) and Uday (Nata Patekar) and Majnu (Anil Kapoor) back, and they were most of the fun in the first one. But still, Akshay and Katrina's comic timing was *just slightly better* than John Abraham's (and I guess Shruti Hassan's too, though she had a very minimal role after the first song of hers). Like, I get John was in his stretch of 'gangster' type roles (is he still in that?), but like, part of what made the first movie fun was that you sort of sympathized with Akshay as he got stuck in unwinnable situation after unwinnable situation.

This time around though, John's not that helpless loser - as he proves when the totally destroys the already broken engagement party. Suddenly, he's the one in complete control of everything (until the end), and they go from making Uday and Majnu the sorta-in-control to the hapless losers. Which, I mean, we get some fun scenes out of it (the graveyard, for example), but also just like, it's not the Uday and Majnu that really made the first one click. Sure, they immediately go back to the 'unlucky in love' bit, but by this point, you almost want something to go right for them. And in this movie, absolutely nothing does. And when you mix that in with John's "in control" as composed to Akshay's "hapless loser," the entire dynamic just changes and that plays off in the movie just being less funny overall.

Speaking of which, the 'Bachke Rehna Re Baba" side-plot (that's a absolutely horrific movie with Rehka and, more connected to this series, Paresh Rawal and Mallika Sherawat; the movie is based on the Hollywood movie Heartbreakers) with Dimple and the other actress is clearly used to re-introduce Uday and Majnu as our loveless, unloavable losers, but like, it just hams after about 15 seconds. And it's so clear they're being played, especially after everything they went thru in the first movie, you just have to wonder how they don't pick up on it at all.

The 'main' love story here is clearly secondary to these 3 main/repeat characters - which is problematic, because they seem to know it to, so there's very little effort put into it. The whole 'they fall in love' misunderstanding thing is so, so overdone in Bollywood that it never clicks, and that it just immediately turns into love (to the point where he, just minutes later, breaks someone's back after the engagement falls through) is unbelievable. Not that I'm hearing looking for a truly believable story, but come on. And that she sees him go ham on all these people, and insult her brothers, and is still like "no, this is the only person I'll marry" is just... what.

Of course, the movie is already too long, so it's not like they could've focused more on that. Maybe if they'd cut out the Heartbreakers stuff. When they move towards the climax stuff and get to the island - there's still an hour left! Which is insane. Thankfully it goes kinda fast, right up until the ending, aided (again mentioned, as it might be the best scene in the movie) by that graveyard sequence.

The 'cliffhanger' ending is, well, dumb, in a movie like this, but on the other hand, you don't really walk away caring about any of the characters except Uday and Majnu, so the fact that there are no real "happy endings" is perfectly fine. None of them really deserve it - not the Heartbreakers, not Wanted Bhai or his son Honey, not Ajju or even really Dr. Ghungroo (well, maybe; but on the other hand, he's present with his step-son, but his wife/Ajju's mother disappears almost as soon as she shows up, which seems odd since she's the reason for their connection); again, Shruti's character is so not-there the whole movie, that whether she deserves a happy ending or not seems completely up in the air (from the little we know, sure, maybe; but there's so much we don't know).

Even Uday and Majnu's henchmen, so much fun in the last movie, get sorta relegated here as part of the "we already know you, so we're just going to have your around as part of the aesthetic" aesthetic.

I guess on the plus side, even with the stupid cliffhanger thing, the ending is still overall better than that back-and-forth in the house that we got in the first movie. On the minus side, the songs in the first movie were so, so, so much better than the nonsense here (Tutti Bole Wedding Di might be the only passable one).

The name might be Welcome Back, but there's really nothing welcoming about it. Probably just better to stick with the songs and comedy scenes from the first one.

#movies #gmmm does bollywood #movieblr #gmmm does movies

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cherrytarot · 2 years ago

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Hiiiiiii I hope you’re having a good dayyyy

I’m a new follower and I saw your post for free readings open for the questions you put below so I was wondering if I could request it, if it’s closed my bad you can just ignore this 😅

My sun sign is Taurus, my name/initials are N.Z (but B.Z from a nickname I use a lot which is bella :) )

A trait about me is I really like daydreaming and I have many birthmarks or beauty marks also idk if this counts as a dimple tbh but like something like that comes and goes in my cheek when I smile (I probably just have very chubby cheeks then tbh)

The questions I pickeddd (thru many consideration 😤) was

Who’s been talking about me?

And if you allow another question it would be “what does my future hold” as that’s a good thing to get clarity about 😭

Overall whether u answer this or not thank u sm for reading it 🙏🏽 have an amazing day

i am getting a lot of negative energy. someone you think highly of is judging you and you need to leave that situation immediately.

#cullenstarot #free tarot reading #free tarot #free tarot readings

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v1ci0us · 2 years ago

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no joke i just saw this and got excited i was like omg my girl tara!!! btw i’m halfway thru the movie. i have no doubt this drabble will be perfect 😘

It was one of those mornings where getting out of bed feels like a punishment and no matter how many layers of clothing you put on, it still feels like you were standing outside only in your pajamas as your bare feet disappear between the snow.

i love the cold tho and wearing multiple layers. then coming back inside and instantly getting warm under blankets 😍 and when u can feel the cold in ur fingertips and it’s bordering on the edge of pain—makes u feel alive fr and it’s so nice altho it’s biting freezing shi

Love does weird things to people; it makes taking a fifteen-minute walk holding your jacket close to your body as snowflakes kiss your cheeks feel like no trouble at all. Because inside, you're as warm as ever. That's how Tara made you feel; warm. Even in the coldest weather.

oh my god that’s so cute. u described the notion of love perfectly, like warmth and safe and home. just imagining tara being that for us and vice versa.. heart eyes already esther, once again u are WAY too good with words, perfect interpretation ever

. . . she was sitting there, cross-legged and wearing a fluffy coat with an even fluffier scarf around her neck as her hair fell in waves over it.

she is so baby girl 😍😍😍😘😘😘

Tara perked up as soon as she laid eyes on you, her cheeks and nose a deep red from the cold made the dimples on her smile stand out all the more, eyes twinkling at the sight of you. She got up and opened her arms for you in a silent invitation.

the fact the first thing on their minds are finding each other and when they do it’s like u can literally feel that they’re in love. ur romance makes me want to fall in love—it feels like a taylor swift song (best compliment ever btw)

Tara sneaked her hands under your jacket — she'd always been like this, wanting, needing to be as physically close as possible as if she had to remind herself daily that you were actually real. You could feel the coldness of her fingers through your shirt, it raised goosebumps all over your skin and made you squirm in her hold.

bro i love clingy affectionate characters / love stories bcs it’s so.. heart warming, yanno? just imagining this makes me smile all goofy

It was something out of your favorite fairy tale; her dark messy hair contrasting with the white background, her pink cheeks, and her eyes crinkling on the sides because you made her smile.

ur writing is something out of my favorite fairy tale. if love isn’t like esther’s writing, i don’t want it. also she sounds like a dream, genuinely the prettiest girl fr

Sometimes it was painful. It hurt just how much you loved her, but it was that kind of pain one can't have enough of. Especially when you could see that same love right in those gentle eyes of hers.

u put it perfectly?!! like literally—loving somebody so much that it pains u to the point it’s almost unbearable but so addicting and worthwhile . having ur heart full of someone <3

Tara's cheeks became rosier, if that was even possible; she had an endearing grin on her lips, her nose scrunching adorably because of it. She sheepishly looked down, flexing her fingers to feel the new fabric around them.

perfect couple 😍 also ur writing romance in winter time is astounding. i read the wednesday drabble of taking a walk in the snow—i think u set the scene immaculately, and it’s ur kinda thing bcs there honestly is nothing more ethereal than the white of the snow and warmth contrasting the cold of the weather. i’m just saying, ur meant for the romance genre

she’s so cute it hurts i wanna eat her and squish her cheeks while i kiss all over her face 😍

Yes, that's what love was all about; her pink cheeks and dark eyes shining under the dim yellow lights of the cafeteria, your gloves on her hands when she intertwined her fingers with yours.

no words. none at all i am speechless, which is how ur fics always leave me. dizzy and in love with words cus of u

ughhhh u are unable to comprehend how much i adore u and ur writing. like i am so thankful for getting interested in this random fic that popped up abt wednesday being jealous bcs now i constantly refresh ur page to see anything at all. literally ur number one fan ☝️ love u sm bae u keep slaying 😘

warmth in winter

Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: You meet with Tara on a cold day. She keeps you warm.

A/N: A very random drabble to distract my mind from the bigger projects a little. <3

Masterlist

New York was covered in a white blanket. Temperatures were frigid outside, the horizon with a soft white fog that didn't allow you to see much far.

To put it simpler; it was cold, and it was snowing. And you had to go to class.

Truthfully though, it wasn't your chance at a better future that made you brave the unkind weather. It was the fact that, in that same university, you would see her.

As you walked the stone path on campus, blowing hot breath into your gloved hands, your eyes roamed around in search of her. And you found her sitting on a bench, the one that stood under a huge tree — otherwise adorning vivid green leaves, now was all naked branches and fresh snow — she was sitting there, cross-legged and wearing a fluffy coat with an even fluffier scarf around her neck as her hair fell in waves over it.

You were smiling before you knew it.

Your feet might be freezing, but your heart melted. You enveloped her in a hug that was arguably cozier than your bed; squeezing her into you and burying your nose in the fabric of her scarf.

"Coldest hands ever," you mumbled against her.

Tara chuckled and you were able to feel the heavenly sound all over your body, feel the shape of her smile.

"I don't have gloves," she told you, pulling away just enough to look you in the eyes.

It was something out of your favorite fairy tale; her dark messy hair contrasting with the white background, her pink cheeks, and her eyes crinkling on the sides because you made her smile.

Sometimes it was painful. It hurt just how much you loved her, but it was that kind of pain one can't have enough of. Especially when you could see that same love right in those gentle eyes of hers.

You reached for her hands until you could hold them in your own, the fabric of your gloves closing around her palms. You leaned down to place a kiss on her knuckles, feeling the cold skin there on your lips.

Tara took the opportunity then to cup your cheeks and pull you closer. She pecked your lips with her own, leaving traces of strawberry chapstick on the corner of your mouth. "Let's go inside before we catch a cold," she spoke before stealing another kiss.

You hummed, taking off your gloves, "give me your hands."

"It's okay, you don't have to," Tara shook her head softly, but extended her hands to you anyway.

Taking hold of her hands, you gently put your gloves on her, "I want to, I'm warm enough."

She took your hand in hers with a strong grip as you started walking towards the university. Her heart overflowing with a familiar warmth.

Needless to say, you didn't get your gloves back. Even if it was a bit harder to write with them, Tara didn't take them off during class, or when you went to grab a bite to eat in the cafeteria. And you were gifted with the adorable sight of Tara holding a coffee cup with both hands so it wouldn't slip her grasp as she tentatively took a sip of the hot beverage.

It was certainly worthy of a picture, so you took one, and every time you turned on your phone you felt that same burst of happiness. Love does weird things to people, but mainly, it teaches them to see the beauty in small moments that would otherwise go unappreciated.

You were snapped back to reality when a coffee cup was placed in front of you on the table.

Tara was smiling when she pulled her chair closer to yours to huddle for warmth, "got your favorite," she told you, her shoulder bumping yours.

Yes, that's what love was all about; her pink cheeks and dark eyes shining under the dim yellow lights of the cafeteria, your gloves on her hands when she intertwined her fingers with yours.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

Tara’s taglist: @milkiane @v1ci0us @alexkolax

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