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secondhand-trash · 3 years

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A/N: it’s been a long time without any new bentos but its back uwu I know we usually clown osamu a lot in this series but this one is kinda where we give him the appreciation he deserves hehe also its winter and I just have to write about something winter related so enjoy ouo

Warning: sickness, Osamu being baby

Word count: 2375

(click here to see more of Osamu’s bento)

(taglist in the notes, please go to the link in my bio or send me an ask to be added to the bento taglist uwu)

Winter in Hyogo was lovely, by all accounts. Not too chilly, but cold enough for the gentle sunshine gracing on your skin to feel like a blessing from the universe when you walked on the streets.

It would have been a flawless season if you were to be given the luxury of staying underneath your thick, fluffy futon every morning after waking up until your body was sufficiently warmed up and the worst hours of the day had passed before you finally had to leave the comforting confines of your bed. But alas, you wouldn’t get paid for staying in bed and before the day that such a magical occupation becomes a reality, you still had no choice but to give up on the blissful warmth of your blankets at unholy hours in the morning before leaving for another day of sitting still in a cold office with nothing but lifeless documents as your company.

You let out a sigh as the blaring screech of your alarm kept ringing, shutting your eyes tight to relieve yourself of the soreness lingering behind your vision before turning it off in frustration. The room was still dark, and it would not be until you were ready to leave the door that any light would shine through the curtains.

That was winter work days for you, always making the offer of early retirement all the more tempting.

Rolling to your side, you sucked in a deep breath to brace the impact of what was to come before lifting up the corner of your futon that you would certainly miss throughout the day. The chilly air broke through the trapped heat within the layers. You shivered as you hastily searched for you cardigan that draped at your bed side table, slipping your toes that were numb from the cold into your room slippers. Osamu shifted in his sleep at the sudden evasion to his warm little bubble, curling up uncontrollably at the sudden loss of his heat source as you left the bed.

Wait, Osamu?

“Samu?” you called out for him gently, putting your hand on top of his body that was wrapped up by the blanket that he now occupied entirely.

“Hm...”

There was a whimper that came from beneath the layers, hoarse and muffled as the man barely moved.

No wonder why it was so quiet this morning. Osamu was rarely up later than you, always out of the bed at the first alarm to start preparing for the day. You had taken being woke up to the smell of warm breakfast and the sound of pan sizzling for granted with it being one of the few motivations you had to actually open your eyes.

But right now, he was still in bed with seemingly no intention of waking up. You walked to his side of the bed, clutching your cardigan closer to your body as you bent down to push down the blanket that was covering his face just a little. His brows furrowed at the miniature, a bead of sweat appearing on his forehead as he clenched his jaw. His face was flushed but his lips looked dangerously chapped, the few strands of his bangs that had fallen down matted to his forehead.

“What time is it?” he asked groggily, the clear nasal in his voice making it sound like there was something stuck at the back of his throat as he spoke.

“8:30.” You replied, rubbing your hand along his arm as you took in his expression.

He shuddered at the time, kicking away the blanket but seemed more tangled up by it under his attempt as he shifted and tried to get up. “Shit... that’s so late. Why did I miss the alarm?”

You did not miss the way he nearly fumbled the moment his feet touched the ground, leaping forward to hold him by the shoulders before he could fall.

You had expected it when you saw that he didn’t get up. Osamu rarely misses his alarm, and the number of times this had happened as a careless mistake on his part was near none after he had the responsibility of Onigiri Miya on his shoulders.

But you knew your guess was correct when you pressed your forehead against his as he slumped over you. He was burning up, his face and his entire body as it laid on yours despite it being difficult for you to hold up his much larger frame. However, the person who was basically a human furnace in your hold was still struggling to stand back up straight as you held him there.

“Osamu,” you said, patting his back and trying to urge him to lay down, “go back to bed.”

“No...” he replied stubbornly, but ended up sounding more like a child who was trying to sound serious with his voice coming out weak and shaky.

“You are sick, I won’t let you get up like this,” you peeled off his hand that was latched onto your forearm, the lines between your brows deepening when you felt how he was sweating from his palms.

“But-”

“Miya Osamu.”

He let out a defeated whine, succumbing to the way you coerced him back onto the mattress as the dizziness weighing on his head finally took over. He was still mumbling about all the things he needed to do today under his breath as you tucked him back under the covers, reminding you to contact the staff that was supposed to come to work this morning as you reassured him again and again that you would get it figured out for him.

He spoke slower and slower as you fixed the pillow underneath his head, words melting into near incoherent slurs before he finally closed his eyes back up.

You did not move away until you saw the heavy breathing returned to a steady pace, even though the loud inhales indicated that he was still having a hard time. Sighing as you relaxed your hands that had curled into fists at your side when you hadn’t paid attention, you pressed your finger to your own forehead where it felt like his heat was still lingering on your own skin.

You had gone back to work as usual after spending too long pacing around that morning to call for a day off completely, but managed to file in to leave early. Just the thought of a sick Osamu being alone at home had you shifting in your seat. What if he woke up while you were gone and tried to force his wobbly body to handle chores? You had never packed up your things as quickly as you did when the clock finally strike at the hour when you were allowed to leave, dashing out near immediately the moment you finished off the work at hand.

Osamu was still deep in sleep by the time you got back, much to your relieve. He seemed slightly more at ease now than he was when you left the house, the cooling pad on his forehead sufficiently absorbing the heat emitting from him. It had been a long while since you last saw him so vulnerable, his lashes fluttering at his eyelids jumped at the way your finger brushed against his cheek when you reached to check his temperature.

“Mm...you’re home,” he fought his eyes open when he sensed you moving away under his half-woken state.

“Don’t go...”

You forgot how needy he always was when he was feeling unwell and how weak you were against his glassy eyes. Patting the back of his head, you tried to appease him as you cooed, “Let’s try to get you something to eat first, I’ll be back soon. Ok?”

He did not seem to be happy about the suggestion of you leaving his side, but still, let you go with a whine. Grey eyes stared at you from behind hooded lids, his cheeks squishing against the pillow as his hands curled and released at the corner of the futon he was grabbing onto. “Ok...”

When was the last time you ever stood in front of a stove? You were not completely useless in the kitchen by all means, but the long period of having all your meals being taken cared of by someone who not only knew what they were doing but found so much love in doing so had reduced you to nothing but a clueless cloud as you stared at contents in the fridge. There sat the jelly you had got for Osamu, which apparently was recommended to feed to patients for increasing appetite and reducing heat according to the articles you looked up on your way home. But other than that, it was a territory of unknown to you.

There were several Tupperwares labeled with different dates in Osamu’s scribbles. He had always been smart when it comes to domesticities, making sure that the best before was always marked clearly on the package of everything he bought. The drinks and soda cans were always refilled, which you had clearly taken for granted because the suddenly empty space stood out to you more than ever before. There were a few plates stacked up at the corner with sticky notes on the side and you felt a hollowness in your chest when you saw what it said.

“Monday’s bento.”

Oh baby boy...

You clasped your hand together as you gathered your thoughts, not giving yourself the room to stand around doing nothing. There’s a patient waiting for you in bed, and you couldn’t just let him suffer through a fever with an empty stomach.

You rolled your sleeves up, bracing the winter cold that graced against your arm, before searching in your sea of memories of all the times someone had taken care of you when you were sick.

The sweet smell of rice gathered in the steam, warming up your body with each inhale. You lifted up the lid tentatively and was pleased to see the all the grains had already melted together into a soft, fluffy cloud. The strings of egg added a tint of flavour to the otherwise bland congee. It was all starting to come together, and you let out a relieved sigh to know that at least he wouldn’t have to starve. The mess around the counter was evidence that you had to stumble through each step, the ingredients that you choppily diced up still lingering around the cutting board.

You thought of the way Osamu always out so much effort into making sure you were well fed each day and all the thoughts he had put into each bento.

The sheer cheesiness and absolute embarrassment that followed what popped up in your head made you shiver. Since when were you the type of person who could even think of things like that? But still, your hand moved to pick up the knife that was put to the side with the other reaching for the scraps that were left from the cooking.

He would probably like this a lot.

You hope he would like this a lot.

“Samu? Are you awake?”

The creek of the door was met with a soft whimper. The man on the bed swung his arm over to the side so his still heavy body could move with him, a small smile crawling onto his face when he saw you.

“Took you long enough...”

“Sorry, it’s been a while since I cooked anything,” the wooden tray landed on the bedside table with a clank. He tried to get up on his own, but the shaking of his arm had you rushing to help him at once. He looked sheepish as you lifted the cover of the pot, mixing everything together with the spoon before handing it to him.

Osamu was always touched by food, but maybe the lack of taste in his mouth all day had done a number on him when he had to choke back the urge to sob when he smelt the warm steam filling his nostrils the moment you opened the lid.

“Is that a heart?” he was grinning ear to ear as he pushed around the congee with the spoon.

“Yes,” you huffed with a defeated laugh under his knowing stare, “now hurry up or it’ll get cold.”

He looked up at you, and your heart nearly skipped a beat when he pouted.

“Feed me,” he demanded, his voice sweet and like a kid as he held out the spoon in his hand.

You knew he would be all over it. You let out a soft tsk as you took the spoon back in your hand, sitting on the small space next to him on the bed as you scooped up some of the rice.

Osamu felt a warm swell in his chest at the way you carefully blew against the congee, one hand cupping beneath the spoon before bringing it to his lips. His head was still pounding, and the dryness felt nearly painful as he had his first bite of real food of the day but he loved, simply loved the way your eyes never left him for even just a second.

The congee warmed him from within, and he indulged in the leisure of laying against your shoulder while you babied him.

He latched on you when you were about to move away, rubbing his face against you as he whined. “It’s cold without you.”

“I need to get this in the sink or else it’ll be hard to clean up-”

“Nooooooo,” he held out for the last note of his voice, burying his face at the crook of your neck, “do it later...”

“You’re such a child when you are sick,” you joked, pushing away his bangs and caressed his jaw with your thumb.

“Yeah?” he muttered, leaning into your touch, “Good thing I have you here to take care of me then...”

You sighed, knowing that there was no way you could win when he was acting all clingy and cute like this. He let out a satisfied hum when you climbed under the covers, wrapping your arm around his waist while tugging his head against your shoulder.

“Get well soon, you big baby.”

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu imagines #miya osamu imagine #miya osamu x reader #miya x reader

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zmediaoutlet · 5 years

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conjecture

post-episode, s13e22: Exodus

(AO3)

The bunker's—full. Really full, people bursting out of every doorway. It's weird but it feels—good, too. Kind of good. That first night, Sam and Dean take the Impala into town and buy all the beer that'll fit in the Impala's trunk, and about all of the bread and cheese and bologna at Ladow's, and they stand there leaning against the car in the cool evening in plain, safe, regular Kansas, and Dean's shoulder is crushed up just underneath Sam's, so close against him that their shadow under the streetlamp looks like one long monstrous body. Sam doesn't move away. It hurts, it feels right. He's still wearing the filthy borrowed pullover. It covers the stains on his waistband, and it's warm. Not quite as warm as Dean, who for once in his life seems to be putting out bodyheat like a furnace. "Ready?" he says, finally, and Sam nods. Dean claps him on the shoulder, squeezes it.

They drive home. They distribute beer, and a couple of the refugees start up a sandwich-making station in the kitchen, and Sam talks to who he needs to talk to. Rowena, Cas. Jack, a little, but Jack's quiet. They open up the spare bedrooms, and make up pallets on the floors with spare blankets and sheets and pillows, and one of the women bursts into tears as she sits on the thin, hard mattress in room fourteen. When Sam touches her shoulder she says, barely understandable, "I'm pregnant," and the other woman with her covers her mouth and then wraps her up in a hug, and Sam stands up and moves away, gives them privacy. She's still crying, but he thinks—he thinks, for the first time, clearly, that they did a good thing.

He meets Dean in the hall outside the shower room. "Okay?" Dean says, and Sam looks at him, bone-tired but with his eyes clear, looking up into Sam's, and Sam smiles and says, "Yeah," and it's not true but it's not as much of a lie as it has been, other times. Dean nods, and then tugs Sam in, quick. A hug, again. His cheek a sandpaper scrape against Sam's, his hands curling into Sam's borrowed sweater. Sam sighs, leans into it. More doesn't really need to be said, between the two of them.

"You reek," Dean says, eventually, and Sam huffs. Dean pulls back, and claps Sam's cheek—Sam shoves his hand away, shoves his shoulder, and Dean grins and heads down the hall to his room.

The bunker's full but the noise is quieting down. A long day, a scary day, and with real food (more or less) and alcohol in their bellies the refugees are going to sleep hard. They'll have nightmares, probably, but they'll sleep anyway. Sam's well familiar with those kind of nights.

Finally alone. He turns on the shower, farthest left, the one he always picks. His shampoo, his soap. They're going to have to get more supplies, if everyone stays here. While it hisses down he peels off the sweater, kicks off his boots, shucks his blood-stained jeans, his boxers that are blood-stained worse. A lost cause. His blood, at least. He's never been sure if that's better than the alternative. Under the shower he stands there with it coming down nearly boiling, scalding his shoulders, his muscles at first seizing under the pain of it but then relaxing all at once, so quick he almost falls over. God. It has been a—a long, long day.

He sleeps. He has nightmares, and wakes up, and walks in circles around his bedroom. Dean wouldn't hear of anyone bunking down on the floor in their rooms and Sam wanted to—but he didn't want to, really, and Dean was right. He lays down again, and sleeps, and wakes up. Cavelike, in his room. He turns on his lamp and it doesn't feel much better. He gets a drink of water, and gulps it down, his feet bare and solid against the cool concrete. Porcelain sink. His eyes, in the mirror. His un-torn-out throat.

There's something that won't stop prickling between his shoulder blades. It's always like that, after Lucifer. That feeling of something watching. It isn't as bad, this time. Sam hopes Michael killed him. He hopes, god, he really hopes that's true. Trapped on the other side of impenetrable air, that look on his face—surprise, somehow, that after everything, Sam wouldn't fold. Where has he been, Sam wants to say, and he can't because he doesn't talk to Lucifer when he's not there. He stopped that, a long time ago.

Still, the prickle. He wipes his face, shoves his hair back into place. Changes, into clean jeans, into a t-shirt that isn't bloody, a flannel shirt that's his, that smells right. He'll have Dean turn that pullover into kindling. Out, into the bunker, and he walks extra-quiet through the halls because people are sleeping on the floors of the library, of the map room, in the gym even, and Sam gets into the kitchen to make the coffee—and there's, oh, his mom. Mom. Sitting, with a mug in front of her already, and it takes her a few seconds to look up at him and then a second after that before she smiles and says, "Hey, Sam."

He might never be used to this. The face from the pictures, moving. Here. Sometimes here, anyway. She gestures at the coffeepot, as though he doesn't know where it is, and he goes and pours himself a mug and then sits down across from her, sighing as he does it.

"Couldn't sleep?" she says. Almost bright.

"I got a few hours," he says, with a shrug. He smiles at her, but it falls off pretty quick. Hers did, too. It usually does. He rubs his thumb over the red lip of the mug, and watches her take a quick sip. "You?"

"Few hours," she says, and shrugs, and that time the smile's more sidelong, sly, and feels a lot more real than the one she points at him and Dean when she's trying to be reassuring. She's not great at it.

She only turned on the lights above the island and it's dim in here, shadowy. Caves, Sam thinks, and the prickle between his shoulderblades crawls in an instant down his spine and up his scalp and he shudders, hard, his skin and muscles all rebelling at once. Mom frowns, touches his wrist, and he shakes his head. "Sorry," he says. "It's just—I guess I should be used to it, now." She's still frowning. He licks his lips, and picks up his mug, her cool fingers slipping away from his skin. "Lucifer," he says, and he says it light, too. Like that's believable. "It's—I'm fine. It just, it takes me a while."

"He's trapped," she says. "Behind the door. He can't get out, right?"

Sam huffs. "That's what I thought last time," he says, and it's way more bitter than he meant it to be. Mom's eyes flicker, her lips parting, and he sits back. They haven't… talked, much. Not about anything too hard. It's been her, and memories of Dad, and baby stories about him and Dean—and then easy things, the hunts of here-and-now, the stuff right in front them. The past, the painful stuff, that's been skimmed over. No one needs details. Sam wouldn't tell Dean details and Dean knows the worst of it anyway; no way he's going to lay that on his mother.

She skims her fingertips over the table, little circles. He pauses, looks at the line between her eyebrows, her mouth turned down. "Mom," he says, and she looks up at him. "I didn't mean—yeah, I think he'll, he'll stay trapped. If Michael didn't kill him. You don't need to worry about him, not anymore."

"I'm not," she says, with a small quick smile. Another lie. That's one Sam knows like he knows his own face, or Dean's for that matter.

While they walked through the cold morning toward the camp, Lucifer wouldn't stop talking. He kept pace, two feet behind Sam's shoulder, and he wouldn't shut his fucking mouth. Nattering on, like the worst memories Sam has of that insanity-year. It's nice, he'd said, that we can have these talks. We never talk anymore, Sam. Soft and mocking. He always used to say he was the best boyfriend Sam would ever have—they just needed a little couple's counseling, is all.

Sam's skin ripples, again; he manages to keep it mostly subdued, this time. He didn't touch Sam, much, at least. Not after bringing him back, healing him. He leaned close, his lips too close to Sam's ear, but he didn't touch. Deal or not, dying again or not, seeing Dean one last time or not—Sam probably would've flipped, and Lucifer knew it. After everything, he at least knew Sam well enough for that. A long walk, either way, and all that goddamn talking. About Sam, and about Dean, and Jack, and about Mom, too. All those sly sidelong comments, trying to provoke. Like Sam didn't know better.

Still. He chews the inside of his lip. Mom's silent, hands wrapped around her mug. Dad's ring, dangling in the split v of her shirt. She kept it, somehow. The whole time.

"Mom," he says, again, and she doesn't look up this time. "What happened? After you fell through, back—right when Jack was born?"

"Got captured," she says. She sighs, and sits back, stretching out her arms, her shoulders round. "Have to say, Sam, they weren't very good hosts."

"Yeah," Sam says, dutifully turning up the corners of his mouth. Maybe this is where Dean gets it from. He sits up more, opens his mouth—closes it again. His scalp is crawling. "But—first, um. You were with, with Lucifer, right? For a while?"

She's frowning again. She takes a deep breath. Sam's vision flickers and she looks—entirely like a stranger, some refugee in his house, drinking his coffee—and then his brain clicks back and he sees her and she's Mom. Mary. "For a while, yeah," she says. "We, um. Traveled together. For a while."

He'd been so sure. She was alive, he knew it. He clung to it. If anyone in the world knew Lucifer's motives, it was Sam, and he was right. The thing is, he knows Lucifer. For a few seconds the thought's too big for him even to breathe.

"Gosh, it's—not even five in the morning," Mary says, breathy like it's something to laugh about. "I can't decide, to go to back to bed or just start the day."

She isn't meeting his eyes, looking over the kitchen like there's something there to be seen. Sam stares at her and in the back of his head is the smirking lips riding close against the back of his ear, barbed wire on his wrists, hot pain flashing up inside of him, and that awful constant voice all amused, saying, see? Aren't I nice? Couldn't you imagine something worse?

Sam can, now. He can. "Mom," he says, "when you—with Lucifer—"

He can picture it, is the worst part. He's seen Nick's body, standing next to Mary's. His hand on her wrist. He knows exactly what it would be like. He can't say it. He opens his mouth and the words literally close his throat. Anaphylactic shock.

She sighs. "Sam, it wasn't—it wasn't that bad. He wasn't, I mean. Of course, he was awful, but he was trying to keep me alive. Like you said. Could've been a lot worse."

"Yeah," Sam says, finally, and has to consciously unclench his hand from his coffee mug. They're old, delicate. He doesn't want to shatter it. "Lucky, I guess."

Mary gives him a tight-lipped, small smile. "Anyway," she says. She stands up. Her coffee's not even half-drunk. "Maybe I will try to get back to bed. Didn't do much sleeping the past couple months, I should try to make up for lost time."

Sam nods, and says, "Sleep tight," and doesn't flinch away from her small hand on his shoulder. A victory, there. His skin itches, like a real allergy. That image is stuck, behind his eyes. How many worse things there are, he thinks, than no longer being alive.

#spn #spn fic #sam winchester #sam/lucifer #rape mention #my writing #just thinking about those ways and windows #things that could've been said and not-said

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ginnyweatherby · 6 years

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Reflection

So awhile back @thestanfoubrew and I discussed the possibility of Stan developing a bit of a DadBod a few years into his marriage, so this is that fic.

This is supposed to be a Christmas present even if it isn’t a holiday story to her for being such a lovely friend, but if anyone else is in the mood for 3000+ words of Stanfou family fluff, this could be a present for you too. Hope you like it! :)

Stanley pulled his shirt over his head with a sigh. It had been a long day at work, only to come home to his sons arguing, and his daughters were still fighting off colds, making them whinier than they normally were.

Lefou had been a saint, as usual. He’d spent the day breaking up the boys fights, trying to keep the girls comfortable and rested, and still somehow managed to find the time to have dinner prepared when Stanley walked through the front door. Maybe Stanley should do something nice for his husband soon to thank him for all he put up with…

“Nice view,” Lefou’s voice startled Stanley out of his thoughts. He looked down and noticed he still hadn’t thrown on a pajama top, and his pants were riding lower than usual.

“I’m going to bed,” Stanley said, with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Lefou said. He grabbed a shirt from the chair next to the bed, gave it a quick sniff, and shrugged before pulling it on.

“You know we have a washing machine, right?” Stanley peeled the covers back on the bed, before climbing underneath.

“I’m going to bed,” Lefou echoed, as he joined Stanley on the mattress.

“Did they go down alright?” Stanley had made sure the boys brushed their teeth and went to sleep on time, while Lefou attempted to put the girls down.

“Well enough,” Lefou shrugged. “They were exhausted,”

“I hate seeing them so sick,” Stanley said, remembering how congested they both sounded, and Michelle’s lingering cough.

“Me too,” Lefou agreed. “Camille was acting much more like herself today, though,”

“That’s good,” Stanley said, reaching over to turn off the lamp on his bedside table.

“Well, at least tomorrow is Saturday,” Lefou said, burying himself deeper under the covers, scooting closer to Stanley. The man radiated heat like a furnace when he slept, but liked to fall asleep snuggled up, before kicking the blankets off somewhere in the middle of the night – leaving Stanley half frozen.

“Says the stay-at-home-dad,” Stanley teased, rolling onto his side to look at his partner.

“Exactly, it’s my day off,” Lefou chuckled.

“Fine, I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow,” Stanley said, as if he didn’t let Lefou sleep in every weekend.

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Lefou said, with a smile. In the darkness, Stanley could only just make out the little space between his teeth.

Stanley laughed, before he began to drift off. It was so easy to fall asleep when Lefou was playing with his hair like that…

“You need a haircut,” Lefou said after awhile, jolting Stanley back into consciousness.

“Mmph,” Stanley mumbled, nuzzling his face deeper into Lefou’s shoulder.

“I’ve never known you to go more than six weeks without a trim,” Lefou was being chatty tonight. “Are you growing it out?”

Stanley shook his head, his eyes still shut. “Haven’t had the time,” he mumbled.

“I could trim it,” Lefou suggested.

“Do you really want to relive the time you cut Barney’s hair?” Stanley asked, remembering the image of their poor son walking around with an uneven haircut for a week before Stanley took him to a professional to fix it.

“That’s different, his hair is curlier than yours,” Lefou said.

“I’ll get it cut tomorrow if it bothers you so much,” Stanley said.

“Oh, no,” Lefou said, still running his fingers through Stanley’s locks. “It’s growing on me, actually,”

“Mmhm,” Stanley hummed, not convinced.

“Your sideburns could use a little work, though,”

“Goodnight, Lefou,” Stanley rolled over to face the wall, pulling the blankets with him.

“Night, babe,” Lefou said. Stanley could practically hear the fond smile in his voice.

The next morning, Stanley kept his promise of letting Lefou sleep in. He rolled out of the bed, careful not to disturb his snoring lover, even though he knew Lefou would probably sleep through a plane crashing through the ceiling.

He could hear Camille babbling to herself in the next room, and knew it wasn’t likely she would fall back asleep.

“G’morning, honey,” Stanley softly greeted as he pushed her bedroom door open. Michelle was drooling on her pillow on the adjacent bed.

“HI DADDY!” Camille shouted.

“Shh, let’s let Michelle sleep a little more, okay?” Stanley carried his youngest daughter out of the room, softly closing the door behind them.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, brushing some of Camille’s hair away from her eyes.

“I AM!” Came a yell from across the hall.

Stanley sighed. So much for letting the others sleep.

“Bartholomew, hush, it’s still early,”

Barney turned the corner from his bedroom, skidding across the floor in his socks.

“But I’m starving,” Barney whined, tugging on the bottom of Stanley’s shirt.

“I hardly think you’re starving,” Stanley rolled his eyes, lowering Camille into her favorite seat at the head of the table.

“It’s true, Daddy,” Barney continued, draping himself across one of the kitchen chairs.

Stanley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at his son’s dramatics. The boy was more like Lefou every day.

“Well, what are you starving for, then?” Stanley asked, as he fixed Camille a cup of juice.

“Breakfast,” Barney said, simply.

Stanley sighed. Eggs it was, then.

By the time he had sausage sizzling in the pan, the rest of his family had wandered into the kitchen. It was amazing how the smell of breakfast was the only thing that seemed to be able to get Emilien out of bed at a decent hour.

“Do you need help with anything?” Lefou asked with a yawn, as Michelle crawled onto his lap.

“Nearly done,” Stanley said, moving the plate of sausage onto the table. “Michelle, are you going to sit on your own chair?”

Michelle shook her head, nuzzling her face into Lefou’s neck. At four years old, Stanley had given up hope that she might become a morning person like himself.

Stanley fell into his chair, and helped the kids fill their plates, before he loaded up his own.

“Whoa, Dad, that’s a lot of eggs,” Barney said, now sporting a milk mustache.

“I’m bigger than you are,” Stanley said, passing the boy a napkin, which he ignored in favor of his sleeve.

“Uncle Gaston eats a lot of eggs,” Emilien said.

“Rumor has it he eats five dozen of them,” Lefou commented, giving Michelle a bite from his fork.

The boys made little noises of awe, causing their parents to laugh.

Stanley began pushing his food around his plate, suddenly feeling a bit sluggish. Perhaps his eyes were bigger than his stomach that morning. He had been eating a bit more than usual, lately, but he and Lefou were decent enough cooks, and they did order takeout more often than they probably should…

“… You feeling okay, babe?” Lefou asked, his face painted with concern.

Stanley snapped out of his reverie before he could let his train of thought go any farther.

“I’m great,”

In his younger years, Stanley made it a point to hit the gym at least every other day, but as of late, he was lucky to go once a week. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to stay fit, but his life had gotten so busy between the boys’ school activities, or his work schedule, or whatever family outings Lefou had planned for their weekends.

The inactivity was making today’s workout session a bit more strenuous than usual.

He huffed as he upped his speed on the treadmill, his favorite workout playlist blasting through his headphones. It felt good to exercise, even if he was getting a little winded. He paused to take a drink from his water bottle. Just a few more miles and he would head home. He really was getting old.

After a quick shower in the gym locker room, Stanley caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. His too-long hair was still wet, dripping down his shoulders, and his face flushed from overexertion. He’d also neglected to shave that morning, and now his face was covered in short, scruffy hairs. Ten years ago he would have scoffed at his sloppy appearance.

With a last shrug at his reflection, he threw his gym bag over his shoulder and exited the locker room.

“Dad, do you have any pictures from when I was a baby?” Emilien asked, throwing his backpack haphazardly on the floor.

“I do,” Stanley said, picking up the bag, and handing it back to him. “Do you know why we keep hooks by the door?”

Emilien scowled, but put the bag in its proper place.

“What do you need pictures for?” Stanley asked, as Barney darted past him, headed for the kitchen. After-school snacks were very important to the younger boy.

“It’s for school,” Emilien said. “We have to make a family tree, and I think it would be cool if I used baby pictures instead of newer ones,”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Stanley said. “We’ll have to dig out some of my old baby pictures,”

“I bet there’s dinosaurs in the background,”

“Just how old do you think I am, kid?” Stanley narrowed his eyes.

Emilien paused for a moment, thinking it over.

“Don’t answer that,” Stanley stopped him, before lowering his voice. “Just remember, Papa is even older than me,”

“He must be ancient, then,” Emilien giggled.

“What’s ancient?” Lefou asked, as he passed by, a snoozing Camille on his shoulder.

“Nothing, darling,” Stanley said, throwing a wink in Emilien’s direction.

Stanley watched as Lefou lifted a heavy box from the top shelf of the hall closest. “And here I thought I took a lot of pictures,”

Lefou rolled his eyes. “What can I say? Barney was a cute baby,”

“Are any of your baby pictures hiding in this box?” Stanley asked, as Lefou handed it to him.

“A few. I think there’s some of my sister in there too,”

“Did your parents make you two dress alike too, or was that just mine?” Stanley carried the box into the living room. The boys were at school, and Stanley had promised to have a good assortment of baby pictures for Emilien to choose from when they got home.

“No, our parents let us be individuals,” Lefou teased, as they sat on the floor, and he lifted the lid from the box.

“The tragedies of having sisters who are triplets, I suppose,”

“Ohh, look at him,” Lefou cooed, as he displayed a picture of a little baby in a car seat, the tiniest patch of red hair on his head. “This was when I first got to bring him home,”

Stanley smiled. He’d looked at baby pictures of Barney before, but he knew there were still ones he hadn’t seen.

Stanley rooted through the box, before he emerged with a photo of Barney, a few months older. “Was this his first birthday?”

“Can’t you tell from the frosting beard?” Lefou laughed, taking the picture from him. “Who’s that, Michelle?”

Michelle climbed onto his lap, and inspected the picture. “Camille,”

“No, darling, that’s Barney!” Lefou said.

Michelle laughed at the thought of her older brother as a baby.

“I bet I have some of you as a baby,” Lefou said. He rummaged through the box, before pulling out a copy of one of Stanley’s favorite pictures.

“Is that Camille?” Michelle said, pointing at it.

“That’s Camille, yes,” Lefou said, moving her finger, “but that’s you,”

Stanley didn’t have to look at the picture to know they were looking at the moment Michelle first met her sister. Camille was in Stanley’s arms, while a five-month-old Michelle balanced in Lefou’s lap. She was looking intently at the little bundle Stanley was holding, one hand stuck in her mouth, the other reaching for her new sister.

Michelle continued to look with them for a few more pictures before she got bored and wandered off.

“Oh, I forgot this one was in here,” Lefou breathed, as he found another photo. Stanley looked closer and felt his heart tighten. It was a picture of Lefou holding another little baby – this one with his same dark hair and eyes.

“Emilien won’t be able to use this one, I suppose,” Lefou said, with a watery smile.

“We’ll tell him about her soon, don’t worry,” Stanley squeezed Lefou’s hand, and opened his mouth to continue when he heard Camille wailing from her room. She had been taking a nap, and rarely woke up from one in a good mood.

“I’ll get her,” Stanley said, standing up. “See if you can find any embarrassing pictures of you. I’m sure the boys would love to see them,”

Lefou nodded, gently placing the treasured picture next to him. “I’ll keep looking,”

By the time the boys returned home, Stanley and Lefou had managed to make a decent sized stack of baby pictures to choose from. They didn’t know if Emilien would want silly pictures or more serious pictures, so they picked a few of each, which he and Barney were now going through.

“Is that Emilien, Daddy?” Barney asked, pointing at a picture his brother was holding.

“That’s him,” Stanley nodded. It was one taken shortly after he adopted Emilien, the proud smile of a new father on his face, as his sisters crowded around.

“Dad, you were so skinny,” Emilien noted, after they’d gone through most of the stack.

Stanley frowned. He hadn’t noticed much of a change in his body type over the years. He took the picture from his son and his frown deepened. He did look thinner. And younger. Granted, the picture was taken about decade ago, when he only had one child to chase after, but still.

Stanley looked down at himself, a little self-consciously. He was still relatively fit, but he knew he’d gained a few pounds, mainly in the middle region. He supposed his steady diet of fast food and their hearty home cooking was catching up with him.

Barney giggled, as he took out another picture. “Look at Michelle’s hair in this one!”

Stanley smiled as Barney pointed at his sister’s bedhead, forcing his negative thoughts aside.

“Stanley, are you alright?” Lefou asked, as he walked in their bedroom to find Stanley staring at himself in the full-length mirror. “You look… concerned,”

“Am I still attractive?” Stanley asked, looking at Lefou in the reflection.

Lefou snorted. “Is the sky blue?”

“I’m being serious,”

He watched as Lefou’s smile faded away, a confused pout taking its place. “What’s this about?”

Stanley sighed. “Have I let myself go?”

Lefou walked up to him and squeezed him from behind. “If you have, I need better glasses,”

“Emilien pointed out that in those old pictures, I look so much thinner… and my hair was always done… and I always bothered to shave, unless I was going for facial hair,”

“… did you ever go for facial hair?” Lefou asked, resting his chin on Stanley’s shoulder.

“Find the pictures from when Emilien was about two,” Stanley said. “I had a beard and everything,”

“I’ll be on the lookout,” Lefou said. “But honestly, you still look amazing, all the time. I’m a little jealous how you can wear sweats and still look hot, while I have to wear a three-piece suit to even begin to look presentable,”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Stanley turned his head, and pressed a kiss to Lefou’s forehead. “Although I have been wearing sweats a lot, lately,”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”

Stanley sighed, but smiled. “Maybe it’s midlife crisis creeping in,”

“If you’re already midlife, I don’t want to know what that says about me,” Lefou released Stanley’s middle, and they made their way to the bed.

“I know I shouldn’t feel bad,” Stanley said, draping the blankets over them, “because I’m really happy. With you. With the kids. With everything,”

“We all have low moments, babe,” Lefou said, with a yawn. “You think I’m always Monsieur Confidence?”

“You always seem to be,” Stanley said, honestly. His husband never really seemed to care what others thought of him, as long as he was happy.

“Most of the time, I’m happy with myself, and the way I look,” Lefou admitted, “but then I catch sight of my profile, or the stretch marks on my thighs and wonder what I’d look like if I were different,”

“I wouldn’t recognize my own husband,” Stanley said. “You know I love the way you are,”

“And I you, dear,” Lefou said. “That’s exactly my point,”

Stanley nodded, reaching over to turn off the lamp, even though he was far from tired.

“Night,” Lefou said, snuggling closer into Stanley side, wrapping an arm around him.

Stanley squeezed his partner, before closing his eyes. He had some things to think about.

“Barney, where’s your reading homework?”

“Emilien, do you have your family tree project?”

“In my backpack!”

“I’ve got it here, Dad!”

It was a few weeks later, and life had moved on as usual. Stanley still felt self-conscious on occasion, but he supposed that was human nature.

Even though as a teen and young adult, he tended to lean more towards the vain side, he supposed it didn’t really matter now. He was healthy, he was happy, and he had more important things to worry about than if he had to go up a size in trousers, or if his hair was a little messy. He didn’t want his kids to grow up worrying about their appearance or being unhappy with themselves. He wanted to be a good role model for them.

So, he’d thought about it a lot. He considered going to the gym more regularly, and cutting back on the fried foods. While he probably still would, it would be more in an effort to stay healthy, rather than for vanity.

He had a husband, and four wonderful children who loved him just the way he was, and that should be enough. That was enough.

“Bye, Papa, love you,” Emilien leaned up and gave Lefou a kiss on his cheek.

“Bye, Dad, love you,” He echoed, reaching up to kiss Stanley’s face, but before he could, Stanley fell to his knees and squeezed his son, maybe a little tighter than usual.

“I love you, kid,” Stanley murmured. “No matter what,”

Emilien allowed the hug to continue a moment more before complaining about missing the bus.

Stanley laughed as he released, giving Barney a hug, as well, before the boys dashed out of the house.

“… you alright?” Lefou asked, after the door slammed behind Barney. “That was… unusual,”

Stanley turned to look at his husband. “I’m fine,”

As he watched the boys’ bus pull away, and heard his daughters playing together behind them, Stanley draped an arm around Lefou’s shoulder, and his smile widened. “Actually, I’m perfect,”

#BET YOU WEREN'T EXPECTING ANGST #still mostly fluff though #i haven't written stanley's pov in awhile omg #i couldn't remember if Charlotte existed in this universe but i added her anyway #i originally had this take place when the girls were about a year old #but i figured Stan should be a little older in this story #so if it reads weird it's because i quickly had to re-edit some things #so emilien is 10 barney is 8 and the girls are 4 #disney #beauty and the beast #stafou fan fiction #lefou #stanley #stanfou #stafou #random ramblings #weatherby writes #i like queue for who you are

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bazypitchandsimonsnow · 7 years

Text

Warmth

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1233

Summary: Baz wakes up very cold. Based on "steamy kiss" from Askfic Kiss Meme.

Read on AO3

AN: Alright so I reblogged a kiss fic request and this was one of them. If you wanna request from it, the list is on my blog here

Baz

I shiver as I wake up. A cool breeze is coming in from the open windows. Slowly, my sleep bleary eyes adjust to my surroundings. The hardwood floor is covered in clothes and various other bits of junk. I’m on a bed with Spider Man bed sheets. The thin fleece blanket is bunched up at my feet. Ah, I know where I am. Simon and I had a late night studying, so he let me crash at his flat. It’s no wonder I’m freezing, then. Snow has kicked off my only defence against the cold.

I turn over so I can face the other side. Simon is on his front, head buried in the pillow and drooling with his mouth open (mouth breather). His bronze curls are messy with all the rolling around he does in his sleep. He doesn’t have a shirt on as always, his wings pulled against his back. I can feel the heat radiating off of him. Even without his ever burning magic, he’s still a walking furnace. Especially compared to me.

With a bit of wriggling, I shift closer to him. I throw my arm over his bare skin and nuzzle his neck with my nose. Simon still smells something I’d gladly eat, but I’m not scared I’m going biting him. That temptation has faded away in favour of just wanting to be close together. Can’t very well do that if I drink all his blood. My fingers trace around the base of his wings. I feel him shudder slightly.

“What are you doing?” he mutters.

“Trying to get warm,” I say. “ Someone kicked the blanket off.”

He frowns slightly. It’s adorable. “It was too hot.”

��Not all of us are living fireballs, Snow.”

“Well, you did call me the sun once.”

I roll my eyes. “That was in a very different context.”

Simon rolls on his side to face me. His eyes slowly open. I’m greeted by that gorgeous blue gaze, as I have been for many mornings. But it still makes my chest flutter. He reaches out to pet my hair, a lazy smile on his face.

“Good morning, darling,” he whispers.

I lightly squeeze his side. “Morning, love.”

“Have a nice sleep?”

“M-hm. Until I woke up shivering.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“No. It’s a grave a injustice.”

Snow’s face breaks out in a devilish grin. He tangles his fingers in my hair, hauling me closer. “Then let me make it up to you.”

His hot lips crash onto mine. I gasp a bit, pulling back enough so our teeth don’t knock. Warmth most certainly spreads through me. I smile into the kiss and push back. My hand slides across his skin. Our bodies are practically lined up against each other from head to toe. It’s magical.

The sweet kissing quickly turns into full blown snogging. (What a way to wake up.) Our heads move side to side, looking for the best angle. Simon’s tongue traces along the seam of my lips. I open to him, and groan as he moves inside my mouth. He explores anywhere he can with characteristic eagarness. I reach out hold his face, running my thumb along his cheek.

“Baz,” he sighs. My stomach does somersaults when he says my name like that.

“Simon,” I reply, pulling him closer.

He gets on top of me, throwing a leg over my hips. He kisses me like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning for years. I bury my hands in his infuriatingly beautiful messy hair. I don’t want a single bit of room between us. My nails scrape along his scalp. I feel him moan into my mouth, vibrations causing me to shiver. He runs his hands up and down my sides, eliciting embarrassing sounds from me with every touch. Under my half lidded eyes I see Simon’s wings spread out above us. It’s his way of protecting us, protecting me. Even while we’re making out he still wants me to be safe. Crowley, I love him.

I work my hands under his shorts, digging my fingers into his thighs. He giggles and responds by pushing up my shirt and running a finger across my stomach. I hook my thumbs in his waistband, slowly inching them down.

That is, until the bedroom door bursts open.

“Hey boys, do you- Merlin and Morgana! My eyes!”

“Penny!” Snow shouts.

“Bunce!” I add in an equally pissed off tone.

Simon hastily jumps off me and pulls up the blanket to hide our... obvious arousal. Bunce is covering her eyes while shaking her head.

“I could’ve gone all my life without seeing that,” she whines.

I growl slightly. “Well that’ll teach you to bloody knock.”

Snow elbows my side. “Be nice, Baz.”

“She busted in on us!”

“Well excuse me for not assuming that you two would be canoodling at 10 AM a Sunday!”

“Well, you keep telling us not to ‘canoodle’ on the couch, so excuse us for doing it in the room where we’re supposed to.”

Simon elbows me again, and adds in a glare, first at me then at Bunce. “Be nice, both of you. Now what was it you wanted to ask, Penny?”

“I was wondering if you two wanted any coffee. I’m making some.”

“Sure. Lots of sugar, please.”

“Baz?”

“No thank you. I’ll make my own.” I turn over so my back is to the door. It’s beyond petty, but Bunce ruined my fun, so I don’t feel bad at all.

I hear her sigh with an annoyed tone. “Very well. I am sorry about bursting in, guys.”

Simon rubs my shoulder. “Just knock next time, alright?”

“Will do. Promise.”

I hear her walk away and close the door. Snow slides down so we’re laying next to each other again. He runs a hand along my neck, a comforting motion he knows I love.

“You alright, love?”

I scowl a bit. “What do you think?”

“It was an accident.”

“She should’ve just knocked in the first place.”

Snow sighs and nods. “Yeah, I know. But at least she apologised and promised to knock, right?”

My pissed off expression falters. “Yeah.”

He snuggles in closer, until our noses are touching and I can feel his hot morning breath on my face. His smile is like a sunbeam. “Did I at least warm you up?”

The corner of my mouth tugs upwards slightly. “A bit.”

“A bit?!” He sounds taken aback, but there’s a smile on his face. “Well I can do much better that.”

“I don’t know, Snow.” I cock an eyebrow. “Can you?”

He leans towards me again. I move forward, hoping to close the small distance. But the bastard pulls away. He’s grinning ear to ear.

“Coffee first, then snogging.”

I groan and fall onto my back. “You’re an awful tease, Simon Snow.”

“You’re one to talk, you goading git.” He stands up, stretching his thin arms high above his head. The muscles in his back move beautifully. I resist every urge to tackle him onto the mattress.

He throws on a backless shirt for some semblance of decency. I make one last huff and emerge from the blankets myself. As we walk out the door, Simon slips his hand into mine, our fingers lacing together like that’s all they’re meant to do.

That’s all I really need to feel warm.

AN: Hope you all liked it. More kiss fics to come! :D

#snowbaz #carry on fanfiction #simon snow #baz pitch #penelope bunce #fluff #fic request #mysnowbazfic

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dans-les-fleures · 6 years

Text

The Stork

Car rides tend to be what calms most infants down, but you don’t have a car. You have your legs, and public transportation, and a park just down the way that holds a bench by a lake where you can just hear the soft music of the carousel nearby humming over the babbling of the ducks. They’re almost always nibbling at bread and toting around their own offspring (though theirs follow them in messy, zig-zagged lines while your own little bundle is less agile, more soft fussy lump kept cradled in a wrap).

She likes those sounds for some reason. Maybe if you find some cheap cassettes with fairgrounds music you won’t have to make the sojourn every time she refuses to nap but, in the meantime, you don’t mind so much.

It’s peaceful here.

It’s so peaceful that when someone else walks by with a head of lettuce, summoning all the birds, you scarcely notice they’ve even spoke to you.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you there, I wouldn’t have brought the zoo running.”

The voice is bashful and a little low; you almost didn’t hear it, and stir from your rapture at rocking your mumbling daughter against your chest when you realize the words are directed at you.

“Wha? Oh! Don’t worry, we’re fine,” you smiled back awkwardly, eyes adjusting to the sunlight glinting off the water after gazing down at the shadowy blanket for so long. When the values of the world all line up, your expression flickers with quiet surprise.

The owner of the voice looks like a prince. Royalty. Soft hair and blinking, mirthful eyes and a succulent face. His clothes are comfortable and clean and there’s something – something incredible about his mouth, the way his lips fill in his magazine-worthy smile.

For the first time in weeks, a flicker of something stirs in your belly, burning a tiny hole in the tiredness that had permeated your bones for months, it seemed.

“She – she likes the ducks, anyhow,” you tack on, a little breathless.

The stranger looks terribly happy to hear that, and stares longer than necessary. You dreadfully hope you’re not leaking, because that’s your worst nightmare, but then a beak latches onto his pant leg and he makes a strangled noise, kicking away at the fowl.

“Well,” he says brightly, fumbling with his lettuce, “maybe when she gets older I’ll bring her something green to share with them. If I haven’t killed them yet.”

The idea, in all its ridiculousness, is so charming that you can’t help but grin at him anyway.

“Sounds good,” you beam, nodding.

The carousel continues in the distance – a disembodied lullaby of candy horses and gilded trim on the cool breeze of springtime. The stranger – Jin, his name is, Seokjin, but Jin for short – tosses the leaves far off in the water, to keep the birds astray from your safe place on the worn wooden bench, and when his hands are empty and the hungry are full you can’t help but offer him a place beside you.

He doesn’t hesitate before accepting; he just lets his gaze linger on your happily dozing bundle in your arms a few seconds longer before he joins you.

“She’s very sweet,” he murmurs not even five seconds after sitting. His head tilts, and his chocolate eyes never leave her peaceful face. “What’s her name?”

“Vi, like the letter ‘V’,” you answer in a half-whisper to match his own; best not to wake her. “I love her so much.”

Jin looks up at you after that statement. Something in his face makes your own skin feel warm and flushed, and gosh, it must be the weather – it’s a beautiful day out today, and the pleasant feeling has naught to do with the tenderness of his smile or the sincere curve of his eyes.

“I can see why.”

–

Coming to the lakeside becomes far less of a chore, suddenly. You’re certain it’s the weather improving and not at all the sudden acquisition of company to the mix.

Company that brings an extra set of tea – a post-natal mix good for breastfeeding, he makes sure to clarify, and you can only respond with a deadpan “I didn’t know you were breastfeeding” – and biscuits and blanket, just in case your back hurts and you want to lay down instead.

You choose to do that more often than you’d think. And sometimes, with Vi snoozing against your breast and the sunshine warm and the quilt smelling good in an uncommonly masculine and faint sort of way, you doze off, too, for a much-needed nap. A month ago, if someone had asked you if you’d be able to fall asleep on the ground at the park nearby with a male stranger you’d mostly just met, you would have laughed yourself into hysterics.

But you wake up a bit less than an hour later, and Jin is still there – just sitting on the bench like some sort of Greek statue, wistfully admiring the lake and not minding the wind that ruffles his kempt hair. And you feel safe.

“Morning,” he says by way of a joke after he notices you blinking sleepily, a little flustered. It’s almost three in the afternoon. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you mumble back, struggling to decide between sitting up for your own benefit or laying down for Vi’s. She’s still out like a light, drooling on your shirt. “I actually did. You’re kind of a saint, Kim.”

Jin rolls his eyes at that, and plucks a biscuit from his plastic baggie. “You obviously don’t know me well enough. Here, eat.”

And he leans over and pops the treat in your mouth before you can say no. You hadn’t even realized how hungry you were, and sigh through closed lips as your eyes shut at how good it is.

“More?” he quips, eyebrow raised.

You try not to smile – you really, really do – but your cheeks feel warm when you nod and give in. “More.”

Needless to say, you don’t sit up. But you are hand-fed for the next few minutes, and the world is a beautiful place in those moments.

Your internal clock knows your child will be rousing shortly. You don’t want to go; you want time to stop and keep you here, safe and serene in this place untouched by the rest of your life. There is no small, drafty apartment; no absent father, no lonely mother that lives across the country, no bills to be paid.

You are just a mom with a new friend in a place that makes you feel at home.

–

Vi doesn’t always cooperate, but such is life when you have a newborn.

“I wish, sometimes, that I, too, could scream and cry in public,” Jin says loftily, and you snort tiredly despite the exhaustion burrowing in your soul. Your daughter wails and hiccups and fusses to no end, and no amount of rocking and cooing and shushing helps to any avail. The pacifier does nothing for her, nor does the shade, or swaddling, or rubbing her back.

“I hope she’s not sick,” you muse out loud, though she isn’t feverish or anything of the sort. You know you are patently blessed that she’s been the paragon of health since conception, but you never know when your luck or good graces will run out.

“Is she hungry?” Jin hovers nearby, but not too close. He never wants to invade on your personal space, even though you’ve offered to let him hold her half a dozen times. It almost hurts that he declines – he looks at her with such raw adoration that you can only wish he has a child of his own one day to bask in that kind of care. If he wants to love on Vi, you would be happy to let him.

Nevertheless.

“Um,” you start to say, brow furrowing. You had tried to nurse her before you let the house, but she’d wanted nothing of it. The second problem arises in the fact that if she now was in the mood, that would mean nursing in front… of Jin… which was fine, absolutely fine. Perfectly fine.

You can feel the blush creeping up your throat, and can’t quite make eye contact as your voice gives out. “I suppose she might be.”

“Would you like me to go?”

The question takes you by surprise. Despite all your doubtful thoughts crowding your head, it’s even more surprising that the one that cuts through them all is a resounding no. No – you do not want him to go, at all, remotely, actually.

Shaking your head, you resign yourself to plopping on the well-worn bench and gritting your teeth as you begin the wriggling out of your bra cup and adjusting the tied-up blanket nicely to hold her and cover you.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” you sort of manage to say, ears ringing with the disjointed quacking sounds coming from your baby. “But if – if she’s giving you a headache or you need to go–”

“I have nowhere else I want to be,” Jin interrupts instantly, and it’s firm and careful enough that you look up with wide, stunned eyes, because something in the way he speaks to you sometimes makes you feel…

Doused in a cottony feeling that stuffs up your chest, you can only gape at him, wide-eyed and unable to articulate a thing. Jin just smiles back before looking a little pink-cheeked and glancing away, and of course Vi latches on as soon as she can and the crying ceases right after.

You settle in on the bench, relief smothering you as nothing but the sound of carousel music and ducks conversating and the leaves rustling in the trees above takes over.

“Mind if I sit?”

Jin’s bravery shows up in unexpected ways.

“Of course, dummy,” you tease, and Jin just sighs dramatically as he takes his place. You can tell he’s careful about averting his gaze, but it’s difficult trying to think straight when you’re sleepy and an abnormally attractive, generous man is staring you right in the face.

“Isn’t it weird having a conversation while a tiny human is drinking from your mammary?” He says after a beat, and you have to actively stop yourself from bursting into snorting laughter.

You flump your head back instead, shoulders shaking quietly as you giggle. The truth slips out a tad too easily: “Never with you. Nothing’s ever weird with you.”

That’s the first day he invades your personal space – he laughs, too, but it’s more of a hum that goes straight to your heart. At some point he shifts a little closer, until your shoulders are touching and he’s a welcome furnace at your right.

Waking up an hour later to your head lolled comfortably on aforementioned shoulder and Vi babbling and drooling contentedly, excitedly even at Jin, who is still dutifully ignoring your exposed breast and just entertaining your infant in hushed whispers and silly expressions is, unquestionably, embarrassing at an eleven out of ten. But Jin doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. He just mentions that you looked like you needed the rest, and comments on nothing else.

Later that night, in your creaky bed with curtains that need to be replaced, you roll over on your pillows and wonder why you can’t get comfortable. Vi is out of the night, hopefully, just beside you, and hasn’t made any complaint since her dinner. But you can’t sleep.

Not for the first time, you wish Jin was there and not wherever he was actually.

–

Today is one of the first days, though, that you try to regain a semblance of your old life.

There is something comfortingly familiar about pulling out your makeup bag that hasn’t been touched in the longest it’s ever been untouched, and an unsureness in picking a pretty blouse. You had been avoiding those out of paranoia of leaking through your bra, considering you had enough milk to supply a small country. Comfortable tights and slip-ons remain, though. You didn’t think you’d even attempt jeans for another month at least.

If Jin notices anything different, he doesn’t say anything. Part of you mires in disappointment. You have to be honest with yourself – you are not only nursing a child, but also a small crush on this man who hosts online cooking shows from his apartment. It explained why the snacks he brought were always unrealistically good and why he could always make time to see you, at least.

But even if Jin doesn’t say anything, there is something off. Odd pauses in his sentences. Moments where you catch him staring, dumbstruck. He looks dry-mouthed and tense when your discussion on maternity leave winds down and you’re nursing Vi easily, no more shyness with him involved.

You’re about to ask if he’s feeling under the weather when he suddenly blurts out, “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

You are positive you look like a moron – a breastfeeding, single mother moron with hot cheeks and a wholly self-conscious and stupid smile when you stammer and hem and haw before forcing your head to make a nodding motion. “Yes,” you say, flustered. “Please.” Iwouldlovenothingmore.

Jin’s your friend, so it’s not a date. But he seems to practically melt with pleasure.

“Great. I’ll cook.”

–

Kim Seokjin lives downtown. He hails a taxi, less you have to walk decently father than your usual few blocks, and keeps up a steady stream of chatter about what you’re craving and what your favourites are. Your newfound love of artichoke is interesting, but peanuts now make you throw up almost on command. Your sweet-tooth has stolidly remained, and you will never say no to a good cut of meat.

You will probably never say no to Jin’s cooking, either.

As it turns out, Jin lives downtown, in a very nice apartment.

After scanning a card and entering a gate and getting rung in, you can only watch in awe as the elevator takes you up and up and up, til you come to a floor with perfectly vacuumed carpets and polished doors. Jin unlocks his, and invites you in with a gentlemanly bow and gesture.

It’s like something out of a movie. An entire wall, the one overlooking town, is just nothing but tall and pristine windows, and the whole place is an elegant, cozy but not crowded mix of monochromes and wood and plants. Lots of potted, green things, sprouting up everywhere.

“Jin,” you begin seriously, still gaping at his home. “This is beautiful. This is insane.”

“You are beautiful and this is just an apartment. Sit wherever you want.”

You obey, regardless, somehow not managing to melt from his off-handed comment. You spread out the usual blanket on the floor and line it with pillows for Vi to flop about on safely, and tentatively go for the remote. Jin, however, has his own in the kitchen, and merely rolls his eyes before turning the TV for you.

“You can put on anything but the news,” he warns half-jokingly, but you don’t need to be told twice. Conveniently, the first thing on is the cooking channel and you sink into the plush couch with Vi in your periphery as the aroma of sauteed vegetables and meat browning permeates the space.

Part of you wants to nap on the couch – precious stolen moments, after all – but you force yourself to keep your eyes open. You’re glad you do, because at some point the show changes and Jin has more than a few things to say about the contestants on the cooking competition. He’s seen this episode before, it turns out, and your usual amicable, dry-humored friend turns into someone bitter and cynical and utterly stomach-hurting hilarious as he says the foulest things you have ever heard in your life at a television screen. He does all of it with a smile. Every nasty remark is pleasant and jovial and brimming with sarcasm until there are tears streaming down your face and you’re begging him to stop before you vomit.

The timing works out, thankfully, and the table is set and plated despite your insistence that you help. He won’t let you. He doesn’t trust you to set it perfectly yet – and yet is the operative word, because he also promises to teach you if you’d ever like to learn.

And then there are steaming entrees placed before two chairs flawlessly, and your mouth is watering more than it ever has before. You don’t know the name of what he’s made, but the the colours are vibrant and rich and the sauce runs along the corners artfully and you’re in the seat gawking at it before you even realize you’ve gotten up from the couch.

“Oh,” you croak out, “my god.”

Jin’s entire face scrunches with pride.

“That’s what I like to hear. Now eat.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You entire universe becomes that four-course dinner, and from the first bite you’re certain you would give up almost anything to just marry him and never have to eat any other food again. Nothing is undercooked, nothing is dry, the seasoning is measured and delicious and you think it’s possible to die of happiness.

Jin just watches you. From his seat across from yours, he observes keenly, hawklike eyes on every bite and measuring your reaction to every single sampling. He has never cared about someone’s response to his cooking as much as he has in this single moment, and his emotions are fervent tangle of kid-in-a-candy-store and very subtly turned on by all the expressions of pleasure your face can wear.

“Would it be weird if I said it’s great watching you eat?”

Maybe the quality of the cooking has possessed you. Jin’s question is light, teasing, and you toy with the fork against your plate mildly before glancing up from under your eyelashes.

“I told you already,” you warble, twirling the fork, “nothing’s ever weird with you.”

You can see how Jin’s throat bobs and he inhales slowly, patiently, something fragile and dark and mysterious lighting up behind his eyes. A slow, seductive smile plays on his lips, but he doesn’t comment any further than, “Silly me. How could I forget.”

When he cleans up afterwards, he lingers and stands closer than the usual. But it doesn’t feel wrong or intimidating – your heart misses a few beats and hurries to catch up again, and you thank him a million times for the meal and offer to repay him soon.

“The only way you’ll repay me is by letting me cook for you more,” he counters without pausing to even breathe. The dishes clink in the sink and you want to wash them out of good manners, but a hard look from his end keeps you pouting and seated.

“Fine,” you harrumph. “But if you teach me how to set tables, I get to teach you how to change a diaper.”

The expression on Jin’s face at those words haunts you that night, and the next day. It was like his whole aura softened, melted butter in the microwave, marshmallows in a pot; a man crumbling a little under the weight of his own love and hopes. Part of you wonders if he really, really cares about Vi that much. Or if he just has a diaper fetish.

You fall asleep wondering at all the expressions his beautiful face has to offer.

–

There are many things to love about Kim Seokjin.

He’s never late, for one. If he says he’ll be at the park at 2:30, he’ll be there at 2:20. He’s funny in a way you never see in people often anymore, and he’s very easy on the eyes. He’s not stupid – he’s mature, and insightful, and has an endless well of patience. He teaches cooking classes on the side, and he swears that is why he is as tired and patient as he is. He’s a good listener, but an even better storyteller. His cooking is unbelievable, and he learns how to change diapers without a single complaint.

He somehow always knows what not to say.

Jin has never once asked about Vi’s father. You have no intentions of bringing it up; as far as you’re concerned, the stork brought her, like it probably did many other babies in similar situations to yours.

Somewhere along the line dinners and visits become the norm. He’s yet to come to your house – fine by you, considering it’s a dump – and the moment of truth arrives when you get to the park fifteen minutes late and frazzled and realizing you forgot the diaper bag even though you left it by the front door so you wouldn’t forget.

“Today has been a day,” you croak out, very badly wanting to cry. Vi slept terribly the night before, ergo you just didn’t sleep, and your feet were sore from pacing and the only thing getting you through the day was the prospect of seeing Jin and having a homecooked meal and sitting somewhere that didn’t remind you of the fact that your savings weren’t going to last much longer.

Jin frowns. Without a sound, he removes his jacket and swaddles it around you, and tucks your hair back behind your ears and out of your way.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, “it’s okay. It happens. We can pick it up. We can stay there instead if you want us to.”

You’re too fatigued to argue, and the taxi driver doesn’t blink at only driving a few short blocks. You’re still in a daze when you unlock your door and enter, searching for the bag.

“This is your apartment?”

Jin’s voice startles you – you forgot he was there. Blushing, you grimace and wish you hadn’t invited him in unintentionally.

“Um, yeah,” you answer, self-conscious. Jin looks apologetic at his initial remark, and quickly grabs Vi’s baby bag to sling over his shoulder with a gentle smile.

“It’s just… more minimalist than I expected. You seem like the sort to keep lots of flowers and lamps.”

He’s not wrong. You laugh at the sentiment anyway, and wish you had the money for such nice things.

“Maybe one day,” you muse instead of giving him a real response.

Jin is quieter than usual on the ride back to his place. He sits on his phone, consumed by whatever it is he’s looking at – you think, from a peek, he’s online shopping – and by the time you’re at his place you feel like you might just fall over.

“May I hold her?”

You’re standing in the living room when he asks, and you almost forget to be shocked.

“What? Oh, I– yes. Please. Do you know how to hold babies?”

This is the most you and he have ever touched. Jin towers over you like a knight without any armor except a disarming smile and clean clothes, and every touch is certain and delicate when you angle and order his arms and hands into the perfect cradle. Vi seems even smaller in his grasp despite the fact that she’s been growing like a weed – a pretty weed with tufts of hair, though – and she doesn’t fuss for a single second.

“There you go,” you whisper, smiling stupidly. “Right as rain.”

Jin looks embarrassed, but his eyes are bright and he might be glowing a little.

“Great,” he says, voice cracking. You have the decency not to laugh.

The man is a natural with her. You knew this, of course, but it’s surreal to see him carry her around with one arm securely while he directs you off to the guest bedroom – “The bedding is clean, I promise” – and orders you to take a nap while he prepares dinner.

The only scary part is that you have never left Vi alone with anyone. Something in you still panics, wants to snatch her back and hide, but reason kicks in and you force yourself to wave them off kindly as you enter the other room in the hall.

The guest room seems like something out of a hotel suite, and you think at first you won’t be able to fall asleep somewhere so nice.

(You’re halfway to dreamland by the time your head hits the pillow.)

–

Jin’s preoccupation with his phone makes sense three days later. Dinner is a gorgeous, presumably expensive mix of fruits and cheeses and crackers – to go easy on your stomach, he insists after you mentioned it aching earlier – but the real surprise comes from realizing there is a foldable crib in the living room and a chest carrier hanging from the coat rack. Later, you’ll find a changing station in the guest bedroom, already packed with fresh diapers and wipes and powder and cream.

“I-I hope you don’t mind,” Jin speaks up, voice trembling just a notch. It’s one of the only times you have ever truly seen him nervous. “I just thought it would be better for her to have some things here, too. For comfort. I’m not–”

Jin is cut off by you forcibly hugging him. Vi is smushed carefully between you and him, and you’ll never know why this is what broke the dam. After months of rotting away and being a new mom to the most perfect thing that had ever been made, pretending the stork was real, accidentally befriending the second most perfect thing that had ever existed, your heart couldn’t take it anymore. You did not think you could love anymore than Vi. Your heart was only so big.

But Kim Seokjin existed, and your heart grew bigger.

“Jin,” you cry, muffled into his shirt. “Seokjin. I love you. I love you so much. Thank you.”

Strong, warm arms wrap around you like the thick rope tied to an old anchor. Jin smells like mint and shallots and his soap, and mixed with the nice baby smell of Vi you can only cry harder because it all just smells like home.

Wet drops on your head make you grin ridiculously against his chest, sniffling and laughing and not sure what do with yourself anymore.

“You…” Jin starts to say, and you think he might be laughing, too. “You are… Really something.”

–

This time, for dinner, Jin pulls his chair beside yours and feeds you himself while Vi rolls around in her new crib with her old blanket – the one he’s always brought to the park for her. He politely points out that you are, in fact, leaking. Maybe all the crying did it. You make a strangled moan of embarrassment but he just giggles and mentions it’s really such a waste of something good.

And then he kisses your cheek in the midst of you cleaning yourself up.

“Maybe you can try it sometime,” you suggest playfully, flushing from your neck to your ears and ignoring the heart palpitations.

Jin looks at you with grave seriousness. “I love you.”

Kim Seokjin is no stork, but maybe things will work out after all.

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